travel – I like to write junk…

POSTCARD PEOPLE

“I just don’t like the idea of someone going through our mail and then writing a story about what they found.”

A while back, I started compiling vintage postcards and then researching the people who had sent them, including those on the receiving end. My goal was to dissect 50 postcards and then stop, which I did. Since stopping—I’ve been asked to continue my work with a book offer on the table.

There are postcard books out there, yet none that I’ve found where the book author went so far as to do background searches on people mentioned in the cards. “Postcard People,” as I call them. I’m sure someone will come along and do exactly that, but it won’t be me.

I get more satisfaction out of people reading my discoveries for free rather than trying to make an extra dollar hawking this material. Folks read my blog by the thousands, with payment being a like, thumbs up, or nice comment. Those gestures alone keep me writing.

The pressure of compiling another book turns me off more than anything, especially with book marketing almost non-existent for the little guy or gal. “Who you know” plays a big part in the literary field just as it does in music.

Some celebrities, sports stars, and politicians hawk their latest books on late-night television, although the finished product might stink. That global marketing reaches millions of people and sells tons of books.

A best seller doesn’t always mean it’s a good read—only that it was well promoted. I’ve purchased a couple of expensive best-sellers and stopped reading them less than halfway through. With that said, it’s time to get back to talking postcards, or is that postcards talking?

The act of sending postcards has long been a cherished tradition around the world. From the late 19th century to the present day, postcards have captured moments, shared stories, and connected people across distances. I’ll lightly touch upon how postcards evolved from simple pieces of mail into treasured keepsakes that reflect social, cultural, and technological changes throughout the years.

The concept of the postcard emerged in the mid-1800s as postal services expanded and literacy rates increased. The first known postcard was sent in 1840 by writer Theodore Hook in London, but it was not until 1869 that the Austrian postal service officially introduced the “Correspondenz-Karte.” This innovation offered a cheap, convenient way for people to send short messages without the need for an envelope, revolutionizing personal communication.

The idea quickly spread across Europe and beyond. By the 1870s and 1880s, countries such as Germany, France, and the United States had adopted postcards as part of their postal systems. Early postcards were typically plain, but soon, decorative illustrations and photographs appeared, turning them into miniature works of art. The Golden Age of Postcards, spanning from the 1890s to the 1910s, saw millions of postcards exchanged annually, capturing travel scenes, local landmarks, holidays, and personal messages.

Postcards played an important role in social life, offering a quick and accessible method for people to stay in touch. Travelers sent postcards to family and friends as souvenirs or updates from their journeys. Soldiers used them to communicate with loved ones during wartime, providing comfort and maintaining connections across great distances. Postcards also became tools for advertising, political campaigns, and public service announcements.

The rise of telephones and, later, digital communication methods such as email and messaging apps led to a decline in postcard usage. However, postcards remain popular among collectors and enthusiasts, and many people still send them as a personal touch from travels or on special occasions. The advent of customizable and digital postcards has allowed the tradition to persist in new forms, blending nostalgia with modern convenience.

Sending postcards has become more than just a way to convey information; it represents a unique intersection of art, culture, and personal expression. Collectors prize vintage postcards for their historical value and design, while contemporary aficionados appreciate the tangible connection they provide in an increasingly digital world. Count me in with that group.

Postcards continue to serve as artifacts of social history, capturing snapshots of everyday life and commemorating important events.

The history of sending postcards reveals a fascinating journey from simple cards to beloved keepsakes. While the way people communicate has changed dramatically, the postcard endures as a symbol of connection, creativity, and shared experience—reminding us of the enduring value of a personal message sent across the miles.

Mom and her two sisters loved to send postcards when they went on trips. My brother did as well. Joleen and I sent postcards, but over the past 20 years, we’ve mailed very few.

Some of the cards that Mother sent, I still possess, including several from other folks. I’ll hang onto them and make sure they don’t go public or are sold on eBay. Not that there’s anything shady lurking in my family’s past, that I know of, but I just don’t like the idea of some writer going through our mail and then composing stories about what they uncovered. There should be a law against it, or perhaps there already is 😊

ROLL THE DICE

“With the name of Lucksley, Virginia’s husband should’ve also been on that Vegas trip.”

Las Vegas, a city celebrated for its neon-lit nights, high-stakes glamour, and ceaseless entertainment, owes much of its iconic identity to one particular establishment: the Flamingo Hotel. Steeped in both glitz and intrigue, the Flamingo was more than just a hotel—it was a turning point in the transformation of Las Vegas from a dusty railroad town into the entertainment capital of the world.

The story of the Flamingo Hotel begins in the mid-1940s. At that time, Las Vegas was a modest settlement with a handful of casinos clustered in its downtown area. The seeds of expansion, however, had been planted by several visionaries, among whom Billy Wilkerson stood out.

Wilkerson, publisher of The Hollywood Reporter, dreamed of building an opulent resort outside the city limits on a stretch of highway that would become the world-famous Las Vegas Strip. He envisioned a luxury hotel with fine dining, lavish entertainment, and a casino that catered to Hollywood’s elite.

Construction on Wilkerson’s dream began in 1945, but he soon ran into financial trouble. It was at this critical juncture that the infamous Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel entered the picture. Siegel, a notorious figure in the world of organized crime, saw the potential in Wilkerson’s project. Backed by mob syndicate funding, Siegel took over the construction and poured money into the venture, determined to create the most dazzling resort Las Vegas had ever seen.

The Flamingo Hotel and Casino officially opened its doors on December 26, 1946. The opening was anything but smooth. Construction delays, budget overruns—reportedly ballooning to $6 million, a staggering sum at the time—and a rainstorm that dampened opening night festivities made for a rocky start. The unfinished hotel failed to impress its celebrity guests, and the casino lost money in its first few months.

Despite these setbacks, the Flamingo was a marvel of its time. It boasted luxurious accommodations, lush gardens, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and a showroom that would host some of the biggest names in entertainment. The hotel’s pink neon sign and tropical motif set it apart from the Western saloons and low-slung casinos of downtown. Siegel was determined to make the Flamingo succeed and spent lavishly to cement its reputation as the finest resort in Las Vegas.

However, the financial troubles continued. By June 1947, the Flamingo still had not turned a profit. The mob investors grew impatient, and on June 20, 1947, Siegel was assassinated in Los Angeles. With Siegel’s death, Gus Greenbaum took over management, and the Flamingo finally began to thrive.

The Flamingo’s success reshaped the Las Vegas landscape. Its location—a couple of miles south of downtown along Highway 91—became the blueprint for future resort developments. Soon, other lavish hotels followed: the Desert Inn, the Sands, the Sahara. The Las Vegas Strip was born, and the Flamingo stood as its glamorous pioneer.

Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, the Flamingo played host to a who’s who of entertainers: Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., and Judy Garland graced its stage. The hotel became synonymous with high-class entertainment, drawing crowds from across the country. Its casino was the playground of gamblers and celebrities alike, and its poolside gardens became the ultimate symbol of postwar leisure.

Over the decades, the Flamingo underwent numerous expansions and renovations. The original low-rise wings were demolished in the 1960s to make way for larger towers, as the hotel adapted to the boom in Las Vegas tourism. The property changed hands several times—first to Kirk Kerkorian, who acquired it in the late 1960s, and then to Hilton Hotels Corporation in the 1970s. Each new owner invested in upgrades, ensuring the Flamingo remained competitive with newer resorts.

By the late 20th century, the Flamingo had become a sprawling complex, with over 3,600 rooms, sprawling gardens, and one of the largest casinos on the Strip. However, it always maintained its signature pink and tropical theme, a nod to Siegel’s original vision.

In the 1990s, the Flamingo became part of the Hilton chain, and later, following a series of mergers, was operated by Caesars Entertainment. The resort continued to reinvent itself to meet changing tastes, introducing new restaurants, nightclubs, and entertainment options.

One of the Flamingo’s most charming features is its famous wildlife habitat—a lush sanctuary filled with Chilean flamingos, swans, ducks, koi, and turtles. This tranquil oasis offers a refreshing contrast to the bustling casino floor and continues to delight visitors today.

The Flamingo’s entertainment legacy lives on, now featuring successful residencies and shows such as Donny and Marie Osmond, RuPaul’s Drag Race Live!, and other acclaimed productions. Its wedding chapel remains a popular choice for couples seeking a touch of Vegas glamour on their special day.

The Flamingo occupies a unique place in the cultural imagination. Its beginnings are entwined with the lore of the American mob, the glamour of Hollywood, and the rise of Las Vegas itself. While the building itself has been replaced and expanded many times over the decades, its name is a direct link to the city’s storied past.

In film and television, the Flamingo has appeared as a backdrop to countless stories—its neon sign a beacon in the desert night. Its association with Bugsy Siegel and the mob has been immortalized in movies such as “Bugsy” (1991) and in numerous books and documentaries about Las Vegas.

Today, the Flamingo stands as both a monument to the past and a vibrant part of Las Vegas’s present. While new mega-resorts have risen on the Strip, the Flamingo remains a favorite for those seeking the nostalgia and charm of classic Las Vegas. Its pink facade, iconic signage, and tropical grounds continue to invite guests into a world of fun, fantasy, and history.

More than seven decades after its opening, the Flamingo Hotel and Casino has seen triumph and tragedy, reinvention and renewal. Its history is the history of Las Vegas itself—a story of visionaries, risk-takers, and dreamers who turned a patch of desert into a playground for the world. As long as the neon lights shine on the Strip, the Flamingo’s legacy will endure, a symbol of glamour, resilience, and the ever-evolving magic of Las Vegas.

On August 26, 1958, Alma May Gray, of Idaho Falls, Idaho, visited Las Vegas for perhaps the first time. Only two years prior, on May 8, 1956, she’d lost her husband, Charles Thaddeus Gray. The couple had been married for 33 years.

I can only speculate here. Friends and family undoubtedly told Alma after Charles died that she needed to get out of the house more often, “Take a trip!” they said. Finding a good deal on a bus excursion from Idaho Falls to Las Vegas, she did just that. Alma’s postcard to Mrs. L.F. Collins described what she found once she got there.

“We arrived at 8:30 this morning, and this is where we are staying. It is real hot here but our rooms are air conditioned. Will see you when I return. Alma Gray.”

The person Alma wrote to, Mrs. L.F. Collins, was Virginia Grahame Parsons Collins. She went by her husband, Lucksley F. Collins, initials as many women did back in the day. With the name of Lucksley, Virginia’s husband should’ve also been on that Vegas trip.

Alma Mae Gray lived to be 91, passing away on June 26, 1989. Hopefully, she got to see more of the country before getting too old to travel. Her friend, Mrs. L.F. Collins, made it to 94, dying on July 30, 1980. It’s possible that Alma Gray and Virginia Collins eventually went on bus tours together, with Virginia’s husband, Lucksley, passing away in 1964.

On a bright note, the Flamingo Hotel still stands, a popular stopping off point for tour buses, automobiles, and air travelers from throughout the world.

The former Collins house in Idaho Falls, Idaho, is now undergoing new siding replacement

MRS. STEINHARDT

“When Mrs. Steinhardt sent that card in 1949 to someone she either personally knew or met, the woman and her husband were finishing up a three-week cruise to Alaska.”

If I had a dollar for every time someone called me Michael Hawkins, I’d be a rich man. I stopped correcting folks on the pronunciation during my earliest days. While in school, if a teacher from another class said, “The Hawkins boy did it! — I knew immediately they were talking about me.

I believe the Hawkins name has a good ring to it, although I didn’t learn until much later that John Hawkins, the pirate, was also a slave trader.

Throughout the year, someone will write my wife and accidentally spell her first name, Jolene, when in fact the correct spelling is Joleen. It sometimes perturbs her, but I always say, at least they’re thinking of you. The analytic way to look at this is that they had a 50-50 chance at spelling things correctly, yet still got it wrong.

Alaska and Arizona names are perhaps the trickiest to spell or pronounce, with me often having to look online or in my old, 1964, “Dictionary of Alaska Placenames.” Yes, I have an original such book, and it’s one of my prized possessions. Speaking of dictionaries, what are those companies that print dictionaries doing now?

There’s a big push to change easy-to-pronounce town and geographical names of Native origin. The Inupiaq name for Barrow is Uqtiagvik. I doubt the younger Inupiaq population can even pronounce it, let alone me.

Kasilof is an Alaskan name of Russian origin. It’s supposed to be pronounced “kuh-SEE-lof,” but I’ve heard pioneer Alaskans say, “ka-SEAL-off.” It makes no difference to me because I know what they’re talking about.

Chemehuevi is an Arizona Indian tribe, and I often get tongue-tied trying to say it, with a street here in town named that. The correct way to pronounce it is “cheh-mih-WAY-vee.

The Hualapai Mountains are near Kingman, Arizona, and instead of me trying to remember this, let alone butcher the spelling or pronunciation, I often say to people, “Those mountains near Kingman.” Folks know what I’m talking about.

Mt. McKinley has been called Mt. McKinley going back to 1896. That’s the name I was taught throughout school. History shows it was called Buishale or Bulshaira before then, with it being named that by Russian explorers. Some will tell you that it was called Denali going way back.

Neither the Inuapiq nor the Koyukun Athabascan Indians nor any other Alaska and Canadian tribes had a written language. They did have a word for it in their language, meaning tall mountain. Somewhere along the way, in the latter stages of history, the sound uttered by Indigenous people was interpreted by European translators to be Denali.

I’ve found the Buishale or Bulsharia names in old newspaper articles going way back and documented them. The often-used newspaper term, “It’s here in black and white,” is hard to dispute.

President Obama officially changed McKinley to Denali in 2015. Trump officially changed it back to McKinley in 2025. It makes no difference to me what it’s called, Buishale, McKinley, or Denali. I’ll know what you’re talking about.

A vintage postcard from the 1940s has a picture labeled Mt. McKinley on the front. These days, that same postcard would undoubtedly be printed with Denali.

The short note inside with both sender and recipient names caught my attention. I wasn’t expecting to find anything unusual about either person. Initially, I misinterpreted one name to be Steinholdt when in fact it was Steinhardt. That made a big difference.

Mrs. Steinhardt sent the card from Ocean Falls, British Columbia, on August 19, 1949, to Mrs. Abigail Huber in Salida, Colorado. The one-cent and two-cent stamps are Canadian in origin. A short message written in perfect cursive says,

“8/18/49

Greetings & best wishes from Mrs. Steinhardt.”

Mrs. Abigail Leffingwell Huber lived a normal life, it seems, passing away in 1967 at the age of 87 in California. I make this assumption, finding nothing controversial or outrageous written about the woman in newspaper articles.

Abigail was born in Vermont in 1880, marrying Jacob Manley Huber in 1901. They lived in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Due to Jacob’s ill health, the family moved to Colorado in hopes that it would help. That’s where Jacob died in 1914.

J.M. was a partner in Huber Brother Manufacturing Company. The family was quite wealthy. They made washing machines and powered wagons, along with farm implements. Abigail continued to reside in Minneapolis before relocating to Colorado, and then on to California in 1954 to live with a daughter. After Mrs. Huber passed away, her remains were shipped back to Minneapolis to be interred next to her husband.

When Mrs. Steinhardt sent that card in 1949 to Mrs. Huber, Dulcie Steinhardt and her husband and daughter were finishing up a three-week cruise to Alaska. Their ship, the Canadian National Steamship SS Prince George, was only commissioned for service in 1947. It regularly stopped in Ocean Falls, British Columbia, Canada, where the postcard was mailed. It seems reasonable that she sent out quite a few cards from there.

Laurence Adolph Steinhardt was the United States Ambassador to Canada at that time, and his wife, Dulcie Cecile Steinhardt, along with the couple’s 24-year-old daughter, Dulcie Ann, made that trip. A newspaper article from July 19, 1949, substantiates the Alaska vacation. Mr. Steinhardt had previously been ambassador to Peru, Turkey, Russia, and Czechslovokia. The family was well accustomed to traveling.

On March 28, 1950, only 7 months after their Alaska adventure, sadly, Ambassador Laurence Adolph Steinhardt perished in an airplane crash in Ramsay, Ontario, Canada.

This was big news, making all the newspapers, as Mr. Steinhardt was a prestigious man, well-liked in political and military circles, and a Nobel Peace Prize recipient. Steinhardt is buried in Arlington Cemetery. Six months later, his daughter married Allan Arthur Sherlock, a distinguished pilot during WWII.

Mrs. Steinhardt (Dulcie Cecile Hofmann Steinhardt) eventually remarried, but when she died in 1974, she too was laid to rest in Arlington beside her first husband.

Ocean Falls is a water or seaplane accessible town in British Columbia built by the Crown Zellerbach Paper Company in 1906. The company provided residences for its employees and even had a company store, barber shop, hospital, school, and post office. At one time, 3,900 people lived there.

When it became too costly to keep the pulp mill running, Crown Zellerbach shut things down in 1973. Buildings were left as is, and over time, succumbed to the constant rain.

Many of the structures were removed, with others now rotting away. It’s estimated that a few dozen people currently live there year-round, with the post office remarkably still open. It’s now as close to being a ghost town as a town can get!

Laurence, Dulcie Cecille, And Dulcie Ann Steinhardt

SS Prince George outside Ocean Falls, B.C. – 1949

SS Prince George final demise in 1995.
The vessel sank as it was being towed to Hong Kong for scrap.

Huber Manufacturing (Huber Brothers) – 1942

SMILE AND WAVE

“How many of you have watched someone attempt to pull a large boat through a drive-thru?”

Boat trailer hitting the curb at Starbucks

It’s almost time for RVers to start rolling through town. For some folks, the “er” in RVers simply means “Errrr!,” as in being upset. I’m not one of those people. Even though I don’t own a business, I still view RVs as a boost to the local economy.

These RV owners, depending on the size of the rig they drive or tow, toss cash out to retail establishments like Santa Claus does candy in a parade, with Lake Havasu City no exception. If fast food joints in town had larger parking lots, you’d see them patronizing these places more.

During the summer months, trucks pulling boats would do the same, which brings me to this question. How many of you have watched someone attempt to pull a large boat through a drive-thru? It happens more than you think.

My wife and I sat in the Del Taco parking lot one day, eating our In-N-Out burgers, when a young fellow from California attempted such a stunt. He shut that drive-thru down for close to an hour, trying to maneuver his way back out. It was only after someone else took the wheel that they were successful.

Back to RVs, I watch to see how many side-by-sides and boats these vehicles can pull. Some of the rigs tow two trailers. In the 18-wheeler world, this is called a “double.” Many truckers hate RVs with a passion. I know this because I’m a member of a trucking group on Facebook, having joined a bunch of groups, 305 to be exact, just because they asked me to.

I’m a member of the Professional Trucker’s Group, Newbie And Fulltime RVers Group, Checker Cab Group, Hardy Boys Fan Club, Oilfield Professionals, Hondo Boats, Canadian Things, Hellcat Community, Kansas Barns, Life In Alabama, The Official Leave It To Beaver Fanclub, Old Junkyards, AZ Jeep Junkies, Historic Route 66, Sweet Home Alaska, to name a few.

The comments left in the Professional Trucker’s Group are how I know they have a disdain for RVs and especially RV drivers. Most of the complaints revolve around them having to maintain a CDL driver’s license, while the driver of a million-dollar Prevost coach pulling a trailer full of off-road vehicles doesn’t. Griping seems to be an inherent trait for some people, with truckers no exception.

Getting back to RVs wheeling through Havasu, headed to Quartzite, Bouse, and Yuma. I watch to see what states they’re from, and try to read the many decals dotting the backsides of their vehicles. Good Sam Club is seen on a good many. I attempted to join a Good Sam Club on Facebook to see what they’re all about, but this particular club had disbanded.

Searching online, I found that Good Sam was founded in 1966 to foster camaraderie and mutual assistance amongst RVers. It’s now the world’s largest RV club, offering places to camp, fuel discounts, products, and services with substantial savings. It was started by a guy named Art Rouse, and I can only assume that Sam was his dog.

My wife and I have an old RV that we use for road trips. I looked to see what it costs to join the Good Sam Club, and for no more than we stay in designated RV parks, it’d be better to just buy a decal off eBay and act like we belong. Taking time to look through the website, eBay has many different types of RV and trucking decals for sale.

I saw one that’d be perfect for that guy attempting to back out of Del Taco. For only $5, he can have a yellow and black sticker that says: Caution – Driver Does Not Know Which Direction Trailer Will Go When Backing Up.

I’ll be watching for that snowbird caravan as it winds its way back through town. Rather than give it the middle finger salute like so many folks, I’ll just smile and wave like Skipper the Penguin does from the cartoon movie, “Madagascar.”

CHOICES

“Joleen and I were told years ago that this eatery was a well-kept secret, and we eventually found out why.”

There are plenty of good places to eat in Lake Havasu —with my wife and I patronizing a good many. Some might say there’s absolutely no reason to drive out of town to dine out, yet sometimes it’s nice to leave paradise behind and check out nearby towns.

On occasion, we journey west on I-40 across the border to California and eat at the Wagon Wheel Restaurant in Needles. I was first taken there by the late John Ballard for a Lion’s Club meeting. It was lunchtime, and John recommended their pot roast sandwich.

There’s nothing close to it here in Havasu, as the restaurant has been making this acclaimed delicacy with their secret recipe since 1955. When friends are in town, Wagon Wheel is one of our stops. The history of the business goes back to Route 66 days when diners would turn off The Mother Road just to eat there.

Chicken fried steak for breakfast is a once-a-month delight for me, and the best I’ve found out of all eateries is at Crossroads Café in Parker, Arizona. Their steaks are tenderized and hand-breaded each morning, with one steak filling a large plate. I’ve never been able to finish one. For the most part, they’re tender enough to not need a knife.

We were told of this place by Jim and Pat Brownfield ten years go. The Brownfield and their river friends have been eating there since the mid-70s. Several restaurants in Havasu have tasty country-style breakfast steaks, yet nothing quite tops Crossroads, where my taste buds are concerned. The drive to and from Parker along the Colorado River adds a bit of ambiance to such a meal.

I love eating at airports, and Hanger 24 in Havasu is a great place for lunch. You just never know what airplanes or helicopters you’ll see while there. Private jets are often parked on the tarmac, with my often checking N numbers to try and find out who owns them.

Many of them are registered under corporations, thus, it takes a bit of sleuthing to uncover their owners, most often with me failing. Military aircraft are always unique to see at Lake Havasu City Airport, with the Boeing V-22 Osprey combination helicopter/airplane being my favorite.

Last on my list, and our favorite place to journey to for breakfast or lunch at least once a month, is the Airport Café in Kingman. Joleen and I were told years ago that this eatery was a well-kept secret, and we eventually found out why. Their food is tops — and the price is right.

The scenery outside the cafe windows takes me back in time to when this airport was known as the Kingman Army Air Corp Base. Four-engine B-17 bombers once called this place home until they were cut up and sold as scrap aluminum

Locals in Kingman definitely know of it, and the smart ones travel there rather than go to Cracker Barrel. This café is decorated with all aviation memorabilia, including authentic WWII artifacts. A control tower out front dates to 1941. I’ve asked to go up the steps, but so far, no offers have been made. Perhaps one day I’ll succeed.

Pilots travel from throughout the west to Kingman Airport merely to have breakfast or lunch. I’ve talked to a good many of them, curiously wanting to know more about the airplanes and helicopters they flew than anything. All were very informative in their replies.

One fellow, owner of a heavy equipment manufacturing plant in Vegas, was piloting an amphibious turbine-powered airplane that was worth well over $2,000,000. The man was down-to-earth and more than happy to talk about his unique plane. I told him I’d seen several in Alaska, with him agreeing that was the place to definitely own one.

I love the selection of restaurants in our town, yet I also enjoy taking road trips to those eateries down the road. Poet William Cowper said in his poem, The Task, “Variety is the very spice of life, that gives it all its flavor!” William Cowper had to be definitely be talking about different places to eat!

A B-17 named “Alabama Gal” at Kingman in 1947 destined for scrap.

LIFE STORIES

“Bob said that he grabbed the other fellow and ripped his head clean off his shoulders before placing it on the counter.”

In my younger years, I worked with several great storytellers at different places of employment. They were generally much older men than me. Most of their tales revolved around workplace experiences, fishing, hunting, and youthful exploits, along with rehearsed or unintentional acts of mischief.

For the most part—I believed all their tales were true—except for one bizarre story told to a group of us during morning break.

Robert Nelson was a parts expeditor for the State of Alaska. I’m not sure what his former background was because he was a “man of mystery” with little known of his past by coworkers. Bob was in his 70s when I first met the guy. I was told he drank a lot over the weekends and that his accent drastically changed when he did so.

At break one Monday morning, in what appeared to be Irish undertones, the man bragged of being at a tavern years ago when a fight broke out between him and another bar patron. Bob said that he grabbed the other fellow and ripped his head clean off his shoulders before placing it on the counter.

We laughed hysterically believing it was a joke until Mr. Nelson became very angry. With his ears and forehead glowing cherry red, he yelled that his story was true and that we’d greatly offended him. The room turned totally quiet, with laughter returning once again, only after Bob Nelson stormed out the door.

Bob worked less than a year longer before he resigned. We were informed through the workplace grapevine, that he lost his driver’s license and had to leave because this job consisted of driving a state vehicle. That strange story of Nelson’s is probably still circulating in certain Alaskan circles. Undoubtedly, Bob Nelson created his tall tale while tanked up on agave juice. Tequila was his brew of choice.

Three men stand tall where “factual storytelling” is concerned. All of them had a lifetime of exciting adventures to share. I wish I could remember more of what they relayed over the years.

Reid Bowman served in the United States Navy during WWII, being at Iwo Jima during the heat of conflict at age 17. He saw battle on ships that I no longer recall the names of. Some of his observations while fighting the Japanese were quite graphic. I can still see tears coming from his eyes during one recollection of fellow sailors being killed when enemy fire struck their ship.

Reid had some great fishing stories as well. With him owning a beautiful cabin directly on the Kenai River near Soldotna, Alaska, there was no doubt they were true. The Kenai River has some of the best salmon fishing on the Kenai Peninsula.

Martin Allen was a native Arizonian although he was born in Roswell, New Mexico, in 1920. He was a real cowboy during his younger years, riding horses and herding cattle like those cowboys seen in Western movies. He served in WWII as a Marine, and afterward, he worked in the mines of Bisbee for what I believe was close to 30 years.

This was at the same time that miners went on strike there, and a mining company Martin Allen worked for during those years, Phelps Dodge, was found to be irresponsible with pension money. Unbeknownst to the employees, the company had been dipping into these funds for operational purposes.

At the age of 68, Martin moved to Alaska and went to work as a mechanic for the State of Alaska. He spent several years in the villages of Bethel and Aniak, where he was dubbed “The Aniak Cowboy” by locals.

An avid fisherman, Martin was also good at flipping cars and trucks and made sizable money after retirement in doing so. Martin told great stories about his time cowboying, as well as working in the mines. With mining a dangerous occupation, he mentioned losing several friends from occupational accidents.

One story I remember most was actually a wisdom-filled fable if you can call it that. I can’t describe things using his exact words because they’re a bit salty for this family newspaper, but here goes:

Two bulls were standing on a hill watching a herd of cows grazing down below. One of the bulls, a youngster, said to the other, “Let’s run down there and make love to one of those heifers.”

The larger of the pair, much older and wiser than his immature partner, with a blade of grass stuck between both front teeth, slowly replied,

“Why don’t we walk down there and make love to all of them!”

Ron Kolbeck came to Alaska from Wisconsin. His family was involved in farming and that’s where he picked up some of his ability to work on all types of heavy equipment, along with being in the Air Force as an aircraft mechanic during the Korean War.

Ron worked on the Alaska Pipeline from start to finish and was able to sock away a significant amount of money. He spent several years at Prudhoe Bay as a mechanic. Most younger guys doing the same weren’t as savvy and spent their windfall on frivolous things like fancy trucks, cars, and toys. Ron and his wife, Helen, wisely invested theirs.

Oil pipeline work was dangerous with Kolbeck mentioning several accidents that took the lives of fellow workers. He told stories of enduring harsh weather 12 hours a day – 7 days a week to get the job done. I especially remember him talking about a welder he worked with who used an acetylene torch to cut up galvanized metal.

Ron warned the man about the hazards of doing such without an outside air supply and the guy didn’t listen. Galvanized steel heated to its melting point, gives off a deadly green gas. Ron told us that this fellow died of a serious lung infection before the summer was over.

I miss listening to Ron, Reid, and Martin share the exciting adventures they were a part of. Each man lived a relatively long life despite their hazardous occupations. One of my regrets is never thanking them for their military service.

I still enjoy chatting about the past with family, friends, and acquaintances who are now in their senior years. Not once have any of them mentioned taking someone’s head off and placing it on a bar counter. Without question, Robert Nelson set the bar sky-high for anyone to top that amazing feat!

THE JEEP WAVE

“So far no one has waved at us but in due time I suppose that’ll change.”

Over the years, I’ve had several friends along with in-laws who owned Jeeps. I believe Charlie Hart was the first followed by Gary Adair in the 1970s. Jeff Thimsen in Alaska eventually came to drive one and then Arizona friends, John Ballard, Tom Gildea, and Jim Brownfield.

Out of all of these names, Jim Brownfield is the only survivor where still owning and driving a Jeep is concerned. Riding with him one day I noticed a person in a decked-out Jeep Wrangler wave as he drove by. Asking if Jim knew the guy, my pal replied, “No, that was a Jeep Wave.” He went on to explain that Jeep owners much like motorcycle riders sometimes wave or acknowledge each other while on the road.

Not long after that, my wife and I purchased a Jeep Grand Cherokee. This model wasn’t four-wheel-drive with us figuring we wouldn’t need it. Our vehicle wasn’t a typical Jeep like the Wrangler or Gladiator either, and for 3 years, I can’t recall anyone waving at us. There were a few instances of receiving the middle finger after we placed a lifelike photo of Donald Trump on the rear window. A sufficient number of “thumbs up” also occurred.

With our little Jeep climbing up there in the mileage department, we decided that the time was ripe to trade it in. A fellow from Anderson Chrysler-Dodge-Jeep had been calling for several months asking if we might be interested in upgrading. They had some 2024 models with a nice rebate including an additional markdown.

On presidential election day, Joleen and I decided it might be a good time to roll the dice and take Brian Marazoni up on his offer. Finding what we wanted on their website first, I made an appointment with Brian to look things over. It only took us a few hours to be handed the keys. Our first stop was In-N-Out Burger on the way home for celebratory fries and a drink.

This Jeep is a bit taller than our old ride yet we knew that beforehand. Jim and Pat Brownfield’s Jeep Gladiator is much the same and we’d climbed in and out of it several times. Doing so is a great stretching exercise.

A couple of friends advised that we’d regret purchasing any type of vehicle sitting up high in our senior years, yet we ignored them. A set of mountable doorsteps was ordered and that took care of the problem like right now.

So far no one has given us the Jeep Wave but in due time I suppose that’ll change. If by chance we get ignored, I’ll order a Trump decal like the last one and place it on the passenger rear window. “The Donald” loved to ride in the back of our Grand Cherokee and I’m sure it’ll be the same with this new rig.

Just for grins, I might stick Kamala on the driver’s side rear window just to see if those two can now get along!

BAKED LAUGHLIN

“In the forty-ninth state, there’s a special dessert called Baked Alaska.”

I first visited Laughlin, Nevada, in 1979. My brother took my wife, son, and me to the Riverside Casino to try our hands at playing slot machines. We each took turns sitting in an air-conditioned truck watching one-year-old Gunnar, because there was no place inside the building for children back then.

The AC worked so well in Jim’s Chevrolet, that I’d have to step outside his vehicle every so often to warm up. Even on low, the Chevy cab would become a virtual refrigerator. A few minutes of sweltering Nevada heat helped immensely before getting back in.

When it was my turn to play, after perhaps 30 minutes of feeding large Eisenhower dollars into a slot machine, my pockets were bulging with winnings. Feeling proud of myself as I walked out of the place, I ended up with $100 more than I started.

Joleen and Jim came out ahead as well. My wife still has an unopened roll of Eisenhower silver dollars from that trip tucked away in a bedroom drawer. I don’t believe they’re totally made of silver as that practice stopped in 1964.

I purchased everyone’s dinner that night, telling anyone who’d listen that Don Laughlin was paying for things. The late Don Laughlin is the originator of Laughlin and owner of Riverside Casino.

Over the years we’ve gone back only to see Laughlin grow in leaps and bounds, and then slow down to a snail’s pace. New bridges have been built to make it easier to get across the Colorado River, but casino construction has all but ceased. The Colorado Belle casino closed down several years later.

Our reason to visit Laughlin these days isn’t to gamble, but to dine at a favorite Mexican Restaurant and check out the cars in Don Laughlin’s car museum. That museum has been in existence for quite some time with free admission.

I talked to a man overseeing the museum collection sometime in the 1990s. He told me that Don Laughlin would stealthily show up unannounced to inspect things. It wasn’t uncommon for him to climb inside an automobile and check it for dust and cleanliness. He’d then quietly disappear through a secret passageway.

I found that to be humorous because there’s been a story circulating around Lake Havasu City for many years, about Don flying his helicopter to a car show here in town, and landing on the golf course where all of the vehicles were parked. Dust, dirt, and debris went everywhere. Supposedly, he graciously paid for any damage to the cars and trucks.

Don Laughlin died on October 22, 2023, and was 92 years old. Laughlin as a city lost a great man, a visionary who was generous with his money in keeping the town alive. He did so many things where charity is concerned, that it’d take a book to list them all.

Just recently, we were back in Laughlin to visit his museum and grab a bite to eat. A longtime employee of one of the Laughlin businesses, who wishes to remain anonymous, told Joleen and me that Don still lived in the penthouse suite above the Riverside. With that bizarre statement being said and knowing that Don was deceased—we both raised our eyebrows.

The fellow then went on to explain that Don Laughlin made plans to have his body cryogenically frozen years before his death. Evidently, the wish was followed through by family members. He finished things off by saying, unconfirmed rumors had it that Don’s frozen remains were returned to Laughlin and now reside within the top floor of the casino.

I checked things out, finding that Don had been frozen as the fellow claimed. For rich folks having that process done, they do so in hopes somewhere down the road scientists will be able to bring them back to life. As a Christian, I know that isn’t possible using cryogenics alone. As far as the location of Laughlin’s body goes, I couldn’t substantiate that rumor.

In the forty-ninth state, there’s a special dessert called Baked Alaska. It consists of cake and ice cream. By following a prescribed recipe, the combination is baked in an oven without any ice cream melting. From a layman’s perspective, that’s how I view this cryogenic experiment.

Should scientists ever revive one of these frozen corpses, I suppose the first thing Don Laughlin would do after waking, besides grabbing a cup of hot coffee, would be to walk outside his casino for a blast of desert air.

Having aching bones myself whenever I get cold, a dose of Arizona or Nevada desert heat makes them hurt much less. I can only imagine how rejuvenated Don will feel after doing the same, with Baked Laughlin instantly coming to mind!

TIME PASSAGES

“Sadly, for so many of us seniors, that’s no longer possible.”

Quite often on Facebook, someone will post a photo of a place taken years ago, with a revisit to this exact location in a side-by-side comparison pic. Some of these “then-and-now” photographs can be funny or sad, others are touching, yet occasionally, a graphic one comes along.

The funny shots usually involve a group of guys or gals with old and new pictures. They try to replicate their exact look in the vintage photo, and in some cases, successfully pull it off except for being a bit more weathered in the face, arms, and legs.

An old black & white photo showed a family gathered around the Christmas tree with unopened presents. The children were small, with dad and mom in their late 20s or early 30s.

Four decades later they tried to duplicate things, but unfortunately, the artificial tree, professionally wrapped presents, and physical appearance of each individual didn’t cooperate. Even so, it was still a cute and touching comparison.

Another photo group I came across has a young couple standing in front of their recently purchased 1956 Chevrolet. In 2014, they still owned the vehicle, and some 60 years later, they reenacted the same pose with big smiles.

One of the most popular Facebook shots involves Main Street in Oatman, Arizona. I’ve encountered several 1920s scenes with Ford Model T and Model A vehicles coming and going, and recent ones having rows of shiny Harley Davidson motorcycles parked in front of stores. The unchanging Black Mountains are prominently in the background of each shot.

Al Stewart wrote a classic song in 1978 titled, “Time Passages.” It’s a tune about thinking back to the past while wanting to return home and hopefully relive things as they were. I have to assume he looked at a photograph album while writing this.

In his song, Al longs for Christmases of long ago and the associated memories. Sadly, for so many of us seniors, that’s no longer possible. A good number of those family and friends in our vintage pictures are no longer with us.

We can still return to the past though, because in so many photographs of the places we visited, things haven’t changed at all. A good example of this would be posing in front of the Grand Canyon 40 years ago for a photograph, and standing there now. Replicating such makes for a great comparison.

Ten years ago, I hiked up a hill near Sara Park In Lake Havasu City, with my wife in tow. The reason for this short expedition was to have Joleen snap a photo of me, with a picturesque background that could be used for writing projects. I especially needed an outdoor shot to go with my short writer’s biography. Now a decade later, I wanted to replicate that same photograph.

I still owned the original North Face backpack, the same hat, sunglasses, shirt, and Ocotillo walking stick used in the 2014 picture. The toughest part was for me to line up in the same position, with a specific mountain on each side of my head.

With the glaring sun above us, it was tough for Joleen to align things perfectly on our digital camera, but she pulled it off as best she could. What we couldn’t change no matter how many times we hiked up there was the lighting. It was always different.

Thankfully, nothing had changed geographically in the two images, yet my face is another story. As to be expected for someone who doesn’t use Oil of Olay for beautification purposes, there are more lines and wrinkles than 10 years ago.

Our goal is to hike back up there in 2034 and do it again. I recently placed my somewhat faded clothing and other items in a safe place just for that occasion. There’s nothing wrong with long-range goals, with this one perhaps keeping us above ground.

The one thing that I have no control over, is by that time, will city planning and zoning have allowed storage units and condos up there? If so, it won’t be quite the same posing in front of either!

BLAZO

“Toss a can of Blazo on a fire and you have an instant inferno.”

Over the past 40 years, I’ve written many “letters to the editor” for various newspapers. It wasn’t worth my time to sit down and write one unless it was somewhat controversial and would elicit a response.

I learned a lot about how to write newspaper letters by emulating a fellow named, Edward Boyd. The late Ed Boyd was a successful Anchorage businessman and a prolific writer. I decided to take the time and copy a few of my favorites just for grins.

Looking them over, after all these years, I still think pretty much the same as I did back then. I named this blog “Blazo” for a specific reason. Toss a can of Blazo on a fire and you have an instant inferno. I’ve learned that words can do the same where emotions are concerned.

I added a few rebuttals to make things interesting. The last letter of mine concerns welfare. Two people reading it in Homer and Talkeetna, quickly responded back, with them seemingly lacking reading comprehension skills.

I’ll be adding more to this fun project as time permits.