writing – 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 😊

SNAIL MAIL

“Lost mail always seems to end up in Limbo.”

I’ve used the United States Postal Service enough times over the past 50 years to observe this agency slowly go downhill. Stamps went from 8 cents in 1972 to 78 cents last July. Why don’t they just round things off to an even dollar—because that’s what they’re evidently aiming for.

Here’s another shocker. Priority Mail is no longer guaranteed to get there in 3 days or your money back. Why would I now want to spend the extra money for them to stick this red, white, and blue priority label on my package? It basically means nothing.

For over a century, a letter or parcel dropped off at your local post office had to be out of the building the same day. That rule doesn’t apply anymore. Sacks of mail can loiter around for as long as it takes for a truck driver to pick them up. Can you imagine a pizza place operating this way?

The humorous term “snail mail” has been used for decades. In some cases, that’s a disservice to the speed of snails. Before I harp on further, let me say that the postal clerks in Lake Havasu City do an exceptional job. My letter carrier is tops.

Part of the problem seems to lie with the USPS muckety-mucks in Washington, DC. There’s a popular statement regarding upper management that deals with too many chiefs, and not enough… I’ll stop at that point. Not all blame is administrative, though.

My brother-in-law has been a letter carrier for close to 40 years. He says that they can’t find good employees anymore, or people accustomed to actually working. Calvin recently told a story about a new hire coming on the job, and then a few days later, quitting, all because the work was too hard.

He said that some newbies never actually quit; they just don’t show up one day without explanation. I believe this isn’t just a postal employee problem, as business owners around town echo the same theme.

Returning to mail and delivery issues. I mentioned a while back that I was going to mail a box of candy to my grandchildren for Easter. It was sent First Class with tracking and was supposed to take 5 – 7 days to get from Havasu to Eden Prairie, Minnesota.

Three weeks later, it finally showed up, with the package full of ants. Somewhere along the line, they crawled in. I’m guessing Limbo, Mississippi. Lost mail always seems to end up in Limbo.

Christmas cards have become somewhat of a problem, with us now mailing them two weeks in advance just to make sure. Despite this extra time, there have been a few that haven’t shown up until the following year, generally the first week of January.

This year, our cards will go in the mailbox the day after Thanksgiving. They might get there a little early, but there’s no chiseled-in-stone rule on when to send them. Oddly enough, residents of West Jefferson, North Carolina, celebrate Christmas each year in July.

West Jefferson is the top Christmas tree producer in the US, so that might have something to do with it. Cards sent to that town would have to go out no later than the middle of June. No, you’d better change that to the end of May.

What should be done to improve the USPS? A couple of things come to mind. First of all, this agency should stop using the eagle as their symbol of expediency. Eagles, much like hawks, are fast and generally don’t mess around when they’re on a specific mission.

A bird more reminiscent of this new and improved USPS is the common feral pigeon. These comical birds like to wander in circles, stop, do some type of Tennessee strut, before flying off to their destinations.

The second and most important thing is to add an additional method of delivery besides Media Mail, First Class, and Priority. When I told my wife of my idea, she said that they already have such, although postal clerks don’t advertise it.

Joleen said this undisclosed service is called “Whenever.”

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

A CHRISTMAS POSTCARD

“I’ve been tempted to send Christmas cards in July, but thus far have resisted.”

Each Christmas, my wife takes the Christmas Cards we receive, opens and reads them, and then tapes them to a pantry door. My mother did the same, although she used a wall because we didn’t have a pantry.

After New Year’s is over, Joleen removes the cards and puts them back in their envelopes, so that she has a current address to mail ours the following year. People still change locations, so that’s an easy way to keep updated on their whereabouts.

There was a time we received close to 100 cars from friends, family, and businesses, but that number has slowly dwindled. I believe last year, in 2024, we got a total of 19. Some of the senders passed away, while others just don’t mail them anymore.

I recall my mom scratching her head, attempting to recall if so-and-so sent a card the previous year. With my wife keeping ours in a box, that’s no problem. Forty years ago, I came up with an idea so that people wouldn’t have that problem.

I took over the letter-writing department during Christmas, always making sure that our ‘form letter’ was bizarre and unforgettable. While Aunt Betty’s card and letter might not be remembered 30 days after getting them, I didn’t want that to happen with ours. I’ve had friends and family say that they think I’ve lost it, but at least they remember the card or letter. That’s what counts most!

We’ve sent out cards with our two parrots supposedly writing things, along with an attorney, a garbage collector, neighbors, a complete stranger, and firms that we supposedly paid to write because we were too busy. I even had a holiday form letter printed out with fill-in-the-blanks.

The phony lawyer’s office letter was 20 years ago, and I still recall the firm’s name: Bend, Ovar, and Takum. Another year, I had a rubber stamp made with our signatures in cursive, going on to let it be known the following year, in a Christmas form letter, that some folks were upset because we didn’t take time to sign them ourselves. It’s reminiscent of the Joe Biden autopen controversy.

The best cards we mailed were a select few that I took a propane torch to, scorching them just enough to make them look like they’d been in a fire. That card envelope was stamped, with me having to carefully draw black spiral lines across the stamps to make them appear as cancelled. I only addressed a certain number to family members.

A blackened card and envelope were then placed inside another plain brown envelope marked USPS, with an official-looking note inside, supposedly from the US Postal Service. The note said that the mail was damaged from being in a warehouse fire. We waited two months after Christmas to finally send them.

Family still talks about that, with a good majority believing that the warehouse fire actually took place. I suppose there is a question as to whether this act was legal, but the statute of limitations has long run out.

Back in the early 1900s, Christmas ‘postcards’ were quite common. I made my own one year, taking small 4×5 index cards and gluing a photo of Santa on the front, with him saying Merry Christmas.

There was little room to write a note on the back, with us just proclaiming, Happy New Year. I believe that’s the one we mailed right after Halloween. I’ve been tempted to send Christmas cards in July, but thus far have resisted.

Finding an early Christmas postcard from 1907 on eBay, the person receiving it was Mrs. Mildred Taylor, who lived in New Philadelphia, Ohio. Someone with the initials B.L. from Kokomo, Indiana, sent it with the following cryptic letter. I’ve left words as written.

“This is the 17th. I missed the mailman yesterday. I don’t know if this will be today or not. Accident if it happen.

Freeport, O.

December 16, 1907

Dear friend Mildred,

I thought I would drop you a few lines to let you know I am all O.K. and am having a pretty good time but it’s not Philla. How are you I can almost see you as I sit here writing was just looking at your picture and I bet you could not guess what mother said, I suppose not anything good, ha. She suffering lot. Hear from you soon. B.L.”

Mildred A. “Mary” Peacock Taylor spent her entire life in New Philadelphia, Ohio, along with her husband, Earl. Hopefully, Mildred interpreted what her friend was telling her because anyone else reading this note wouldn’t totally understand. I suppose that’s intentional on the writer’s part.

Nowhere is there mention of ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Happy New Year’, although the front of the Victorian-style Christmas postcard does say, ‘A Peaceful Christmas’. The photo of a frazzled Santa with a large bag of toys makes it appear he isn’t having one!

NUMBER PLEASE

“What seems so unreal is that I still remember part numbers from my days working at an automotive parts store.”

I’ve always had a good memory, remembering small things from long ago. I chalk it up to never being dependent on recreational drugs or alcohol. Lately, what I seem to forget more than anything else is connecting names with faces.

I’ll watch an old movie and when some well-known actor comes on scene, oftentimes his or her name is on the tip of my tongue yet I can’t spit it out. This can be irritating, with it having me wonder if I’m becoming senile.

Whenever this happens, I quietly ask myself, “What is the firing order of a Chevrolet V-8 engine. Thus far, I’ve been able to rattle off 1-8-4-3-6-5-7-2 without hesitation. Car guys and gals know what I’m talking about here. As long as I get those numbers right, I have to assume all is good upstairs.

Last winter, I was with some friends at the Desert Bar near Parker. The name of this place can be misleading for those who’ve never been there. The rustic establishment is built around a former gold and silver mine, and it’s totally off-grid. I view it as more of a ghost town with a live band. It’s definitely family-friendly.

There are antique cars and old rusty mining stuff to be seen, including an awesome replica western day church, complete with a steeple. Yes, weddings can be arranged. The food is good, and I always make sure to bring cash because they don’t take checks or credit cards. Beer is served, but for guys like me, they have soft drinks as well.

On this last trip, a fellow and his wife walked up and recognized me. They knew my name and started up a conversation. All during that time, my brain was going, “I know these folks, but for the life of me, I don’t recall their names.” Seeing that I was confused, they helped give my memory a jumpstart.

Walking back to our table and repeating their names over and over, wanting them to permanently sink in, I informed my wife about my memory lapse. I told her that I’d make sure to remember their names next time. I have been doing so for several months now, even writing them down on a piece of paper. That paper is now hiding somewhere, and I don’t recall where I put it. 1-8-4-3-6-5-7-2.

They’re a nice couple, much younger than us, snowbirds, they come from Minnesota each winter, owning a home here. I can remember almost the whole conversation we had over coffee at Bashas. We planned on getting together when they came back and going metal detecting.

What seems so unreal is that I still easily recall part numbers from my days working in an automotive parts store. That was 40 years ago. The Spicer number for a 1975 Chevrolet Blazer constant velocity centering joint is 210782X. The Standard ignition number for Chevy points is DR2270P. Ford points are FD8183V. I could go on and on.

Why is it that I can still relate numbers to parts, yet faces to names is now escaping me? How do older ministers handle this problem? I suppose calling everyone brother or sister works, at least for a while.

Taking the herb Ginkgo biloba is supposed to help in the memory department, or at least a friend told me that eons ago. I believe at this point it’d do little good, and besides, one of my doctors said it’s not good to take this if you’re on blood thinners. Mark that off my list.

They say AI technology can recognize facial features. The police and other protective agencies have been using such for years. I believe the answer for older folks like me is for everyone to have a barcode stamped on their forehead. Keeping a scanner in my back pocket, I could then scan and say without embarrassment, “Hello, Joe, how are you doing today?”

I’m only joking here, but in reality, the world could be coming to that!

SNAPSHOT

“My wife loves for us to drive through Havasu neighborhoods at night during the holidays and take in the colorful lights.”

The other morning in a restaurant I heard a customer remark, “That’s a Kodak moment for sure.” The short and often repeated statement simply means that some special life event has just occurred.

In this case, a male server dropped and broke a dish or cup. I suppose that happens quite often, so why this person designated it a Kodak moment still baffles me.

I’ve been one to take pictures going back to elementary school, and I’m glad I did. Those photos still exist for my kids and grandchildren to enjoy and hopefully preserve. I now keep them in a safe for safekeeping, no pun intended.

In high school, I took a graphic arts class, with part of the semester devoted to taking pictures and then developing the 35mm film. Our large classroom had a darkroom where we created negatives and printed them off.

A classmate, David Church, and I decided to use the school high-definition camera to take a snapshot of a one-dollar bill. It started out as a joke of sorts, with neither of us having viewed a movie where criminals counterfeited lowly George Washington bills.

We left the completed image in a copier before departing class on Friday afternoon, ready for it to be duplicated. With no intentions of going through with the ruse, we hoped that someone would find it and create a fuss. The following week, graphic arts had a special guest speaker—a special agent of the FBI.

This man emphasized to our class and to other classes throughout the day the serious implications of counterfeiting currency. Undoubtedly, he knew this was a cleverly planned joke, yet wanted to nip things in the bud before someone went further.

Dave and I were smart enough to keep our mouths shut, thus we suffered no serious consequences. We were light years ahead of other students throughout the whole semester, where legal creativity was concerned, and received A’s for our handiwork.

Just the other day my wife mentioned that a snapshot had been taken of me as I drove through a red light. She then mentioned all of the cameras placed at various intersections for drivers like myself. I told her a police camera would’ve vindicated me of the act as I knew that light was still yellow. Our debate ended in a draw.

Cameras throughout town capture our every move and for the most part, are a good thing. I do my best to obey the traffic laws but at times fail. Those cameras aren’t the only ones capturing me making mistakes. I have a tiny one on the vehicle dash that records such acts as well.

A couple of years ago, Joleen was searching for cheaper auto insurance and came across a company offering lower rates if we agreed to something called “Snapshot.” At first, I thought it was an onboard camera and wanted no part of the device.

After reading a pamphlet, Snapshot turned out to be a gadget that plugged into our vehicle computer, and after 90 days, the data would be analyzed for sudden stops, jackrabbit starts, excess speed, and erratic driving.

It seemed like a no-brainer to go through with things, not taking into consideration it was close to Christmas. My wife loves for us to drive through Havasu neighborhoods at night during the holidays and take in the colorful lights.

For those living in town, they’ll know what I mean. The street signs are mostly faded and hard to see in the dark. Following a newspaper map with all of the Christmas light locations made for a trying experience.

Our snapshot device went off numerous times, making a loud beep as I suddenly slowed down and made quick turns. I wanted to toss it out the window. All in all, Snapshot painted a picture of me as a bad driver after the results were tabulated.

With the holidays here, thankfully, Snapshot is a thing of the past. I now use a preprogrammed GPS to find those decorated homes. There’s a good chance I’ll still execute sudden stops and turns, yet the only indication of such will be a honk coming from behind.

I’ll return the gesture out of courtesy and wave to them while cheerfully saying out loud, “Merry Christmas, Jack. Next time, stay a little further back!”