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I did my fair share of “cruising” as a young person. I’m not sure kids even do this anymore. My friends and I would drive around in circles going nowhere in particular until it was time to go home. Sometimes, late at night or early in the morning, an impromptu drag race took place.

For several years this was cheap entertainment. Gas wasn’t as expensive back then—so the cost for an evening out was a couple of bucks or pocket change, depending on how long we cruised.

Eventually, marriage, kids, responsibility, and other such things came into play. Cruising was limited to taking the family to McDonald’s or Taco Bell. Now that the children are all grown, taking a drive to nowhere in particular has once again become fun.

Music listened to in the 70s while tooling around town amounted to whatever 8-track tapes we happened to have on hand. A favorite of mine was an album by Richard & Karen Carpenter, titled Now & Then. My friend, Jeff Thimsen, owned the tape, and we listened to it enough times that I could follow the words verbatim.

Sometimes we did obnoxiously sing out loud yet changed the lyrics on certain songs for humorous purposes. One of these songs was, “Dead Man’s Curve.” The correct lyrics go like this:

“The street was deserted late Friday night.

We were buggin’ each other while we sat out the light.

We both popped the clutch when the light turned green.

You should’ve heard the whine from my screamin’ machine.”

After listening to this tune countless times, it didn’t take long for Jeff to revise things.

“The street was deserted late Friday night.

We were buggin’ each other while we sat out the light.

We both popped the clutch when the light turned green.

You should’ve heard me scream when hot coffee hit my jeans.”

Another tape listened to was, The Beach Boy’s – Greatest Hits. Our favorite song on it was “Get Around.” The most easily remembered lyrics in this song are,

“I’m gettin’ bugged driving up and down the same old strip.

I gotta find a new place where the kids are hip.

My buddies and me are gettin’ real well known.

Yea, the bad guys know us, and they leave us alone.”

Jeff’s modified lyrics went something like this.

“We’re gettin’ bugged driving up and down the same old strip.

We gotta find a new place where the kids aren’t dips.

My buddies and I are gettin’ real well known.

The cops know our cars and they follow us home.”

Just recently, I found a Now & Then CD by the Carpenters on eBay. I plan on playing it the next time my wife and I take a long drive. Something tells me it won’t take long for the lyrics to rekindle a few forgotten memories.

Sometimes—music listened to back then can do that for a person over anything else!

I’ve wanted to write this piece for some time. I kept putting it off for one reason or another, the major one, being that skeptics would come out of the woodwork and be highly critical of my thoughts. Some folks like doing that just because they love to play Devil’s advocate. Regardless, something inside said to start typing anyway.

For those western movie fanatics out there, like me, almost every film has a scene where an American Indian is superior to the white man, when it comes to “tracking” or picking up the trail of a person or animal. Much of that skill has to do with them slowing down, and taking notice of minute signs, such as broken twigs on the ground, or something as simple as bent grass blades.

To most people, 911 signifies either an emergency, or reference to terrorists striking the World Trade Center in New York City. That infamous number represents an event much different to me. You see, my mother was born on 9/11. Each September 11 marks her birthday. Whenever I see the number 911, I think of her first instead of tragedy.

I tried doing stuff for Mom over the years, but she was a very independent woman until the very end. If anyone volunteered she’d generally refuse help. Most of the time, I’d perform things without even asking, like working on her vehicle and washing it as well. One thing my mother loved was a clean car.

On the day of Mom’s graveside service I decided our Chevrolet pickup needed cleaning. Even though the outside temperature was well below zero, and my truck door locks could easily freeze with moisture added to them, doing so seemed a priority. The vehicle’s white paint was exceedingly dirty with caked on brown mud, and I wanted it gone.

Driving to one of those automatic “touchless” washes, I waited patiently for a car in front of me to move on through. As I sat there thinking about what was yet to come that day, a white hearse pulled up at an adjoining stall. As it entered the wash bay, a coffin could be seen in back.  Surprised at this sight, I whispered out,

“Mom?”

Making note of the personalized vehicle license plate, LEGCY1, I couldn’t help believe this was more than ironic, because Legacy was the name of the funeral home we used. When I exited this carwash the hearse was long gone. Telling Joleen, my brother, Jim, and son, Gunnar, about it, they said we’d know in a couple of hours. The service was being held at Pioneer Cemetery in Palmer some 50 miles away.

Being the first ones to arrive, we remained inside the frosty truck to stay warm. Wind howling outside made the chill factor -30 degrees or colder. In a matter of minutes, a white hearse rolled up, and it slowly backed to the recently dug grave. I wasn’t surprised to see LEGCY1 on its rear license plate—at that point knowing it was a sign that all would be okay.

Mother lived in a small apartment. While under hospice care, her hospital bed was located in a bedroom—and that’s where she took her last breath. A few days after she was buried, my wife and I were cleaning this apartment before turning in keys to the landlord. That particular bedroom had an old style, roll up window shade. It’d been pulled down for several weeks while Mom lay there receiving care.

Just as we were preparing to leave that day, a strange noise come from the bedroom. This window shade had rolled back up on its own, revealing bright sunshine outside and snow covered trees. At that time, I didn’t take it as a sign, being more startled than anything. Weird stuff like that doesn’t always happen just in the movies as this event proved.

Since her passing, many interesting events have occurred regarding the number 911. The number pops up at opportune or inopportune times depending on how you look at it. Skeptics would say this is pure coincidence.

Joleen and I were contemplating the purchase of a home in Manhattan, Kansas. The old farm house, including huge limestone barn, was unique in it being one-hundred-ten years old. One thing that mother always chastised me about was my love of old stuff: especially cars and trucks.  She called them ‘money pits’.

I definitely wanted that house with Joleen not keen on the idea. Deciding to drive out for another look, we were stunned to find the home was located off Kansas County Road – 911. Neither of us had previously noticed this.

That made our decision an easy one—deciding not to buy the place. It was the right choice, because later on, we discovered the old limestone dwelling needed thousands of dollars in mechanical and foundation upgrades. Such repairs initially went unnoticed.

An antique Chevrolet truck I purchased in Kansas a year later turned out to have 911 connections. After buying the pickup and hauling it to Arizona, I seriously ruptured 3 vertebrae while dismantling the chassis.

Later on, after severely cutting my hand on rusted metal, I incurred several painful burns as well. On top of that, the initial estimate on getting it running quadrupled. Mom would’ve said something crass had she been alive about me even bringing it home. Joleen took over that task.

One evening, out in the garage, I took a long hard look at a rusty and faded license plate still attached to the Chevy’s cab. All of the plate’s glossy paint was long gone.  Barely legible through the rust were plate numbers, 2-911. At that point, I knew Mom was saying,

“I told you so!”

Miranda’s little dog, Dixie, was accidentally run over one morning outside their home by a school bus, with my daughter beside herself with grief. The next day, she heard barking in the back yard exactly like her lost dog. Looking outside, it was a raven sitting on a telephone line mimicking the deceased Pekingese. Raven’s are great mimickers. Miranda believed it was the same bird that liked to sit up there, playfully harassing Dixie. This happened quite often when the mostly black-in-color Pekingese was outside playing in its fenced yard.

A week later, Miranda was out running her favorite trail, hearing that familiar barking sound again. She glanced up, seeing it was a raven in a tree, undoubtedly the same one. For several mornings, she’d have a raven follow her while jogging, until one day it disappeared.

Jim Tweto was a popular Alaska bush pilot who just recently passed away on June 16, after a tragic plane crash. He was well known and loved throughout the world, having flown many famous people on fishing, hunting, and flightseeing expeditions. I recently read where his widow looked out her front window, on the morning his plane went down, spotting a large flock of ravens circling their house.

Not knowing at that time her husband was involved in an accident, and after getting the bad news, she immediately took the sighting of birds as a sign that all was going to be good. My daughter has no doubt the lone mimicking raven she observed several times, was trying to tell her the exact same thing regarding Dixie.

I’ve had family, friends, and complete strangers, tell me similar stories. One friend here in Lake Havasu City, saw a near perfect facial resemblance of a departed family member in the form of a cloud, not once, but several times. I’m no longer a doubter of such sightings as I might’ve been years ago.

Since I wrote this, another unusual experience can be added to my list—two of them to be exact. Our little Pekinese dog Simon left this world on December 27, 2023. He’d been with us 16 years. One thing Simon liked to do during that time was go for rides in the car or truck. His favorite things to observe, besides the drive-thru fast food restaurants, were birds and rabbits. I’m not sure he was so impressed with the wild animals—more curious than anything.

As I walked to the Lietz-Fraze Mortuary that sad day to make arrangements, a black bird and brownish bunny sat together just outside the entrance. I looked at them, believing they were those realistic stone creations seen in stores. Neither of them moved. Stopping to take a closer look, I saw they were real when their eyes finally blinked. Neither were afraid of me, standing perhaps 5 feet away. Right then and there, I knew this was a sign from God that all was going to be okay.

After going home that day, I went online and ordered an 8×10 photo of Simon from Walgreen’s. Picking it up on December 30, the photograph was mounted in a clear Lexan frame and placed on top of our entertainment-center for the time being, next to the grandchildren’s pictures. Joleen was going to make room for a permanent location.

The next morning, as I sat on the floor eating breakfast, a ray of light somehow came through a crack in our closed Venetian blinds, spotlighting on that one photo. Being it was so early, I sat there dumbfounded, until slowly realizing this too was a sign.

Deciding to take a picture, by the time I rounded up my camera, the light was just about gone. Opening the back door to look outside, there were clouds all over with no direct sun visible.

Wanting to see if this event happened again, today, January 1, 2024, I patiently sat in the same spot with camera in hand. I’d already glanced outside the window finding it just as cloudy as the day before. At exactly 8:27, the ray of light once again appeared. I did my best to snap a couple of shots without using a flash. The ray of light disappeared perhaps a minute later. Removing the SD card, I installed it on my computer to see what I captured. A bit fuzzy, nonetheless, they both came out quite good.

I firmly believe signs are placed there by God for various reasons, with a person merely having to slow down and observe them. I’d much rather think that way, than be a skeptic, chalking up these unique occurrences as mere coincidence.

I wasn’t born having patience and highly doubt very few people are. Patience is something that has to be developed over time, and now, with sixty-nine years under my belt, I’ve yet to totally master this moral virtue.

My first remembrance of not having patience goes back to grade school. Quite often, the class would take turns reading from a book. Generally, a student would read out loud several paragraphs before another classmate took over. I was a Dodge fast reader back then – while most kids were Ford slow. Unable to sit there and wait, I’d read ahead and quickly be done with the chapter, while little Timmy struggled through his first paragraph.

The problem with this—when my turn eventually arrived, I didn’t know where we were, with the teacher having to show me, or another student. I suspect a few instructors thought I’d been sleeping, which was probably right in some cases. In Lubbock, Texas, there was no air-conditioning in Reese Elementary, and a warm classroom, with a monotone classmate poking along attempting to read, was a recipe for entering La-La Land.

Employed for a short stint in a grocery store as a stocker and cashier, it was an enjoyable experience during my early years, and many good memories came of it. There’s one section of a grocery store that I never worked, and having no patience, I’m glad I didn’t. That special section I’m referring to is the deli.

A little over a year ago, I was the next customer in line at a popular grocery store deli, waiting for one young gal in front of me to get through her long list. She was badgering the deli worker to speed things up, letting it be known that her friends were outside in the parking lot with their boat, ready to hit the lake.

The employee waiting on her was a young man, and he was sweating not only from heat coming from their brick oven, but unneeded pressure from this customer as well. Another female employee walked up to help, and after looking my direction, seeing another five or so folks patiently standing behind me, she politely asked, “What can I help you with?”

Just as I started to say a fried chicken breast, the rude person already being helped abruptly cut in, saying that perhaps things could be speeded up with two workers helping with her order. Thankfully, the somewhat stunned employee totally ignored this gal, taking my order.

I heard one person behind me say, “She better not wait on that impatient____!” You fill in the blank here, because it’s unprintable. I had to chuckle hearing that, yet I’m sure the person it was directed to wasn’t laughing, although she didn’t say anything in retaliation.

The other day, in a different grocery store deli, I ended up behind four people, two of them were an older couple, while another man and woman were both middle-aged. My legs were tired that morning, and within minutes, I wished I’d brought along a folding chair like I do at the beach.

These two seniors, around my age, weren’t exactly sure what they wanted. The husband asked for sample after sample of not only salads, but slices of turkey and ham as well. Quickly running out of patience, I wanted to speak up, asking the deli worker to just give him two slices of bread, so the poor guy could make a sandwich. Still having some couth, I held back, trying to remain patient. Eight minutes later, I sensed the unwavering deli employee was glad to see them go, because I definitely was.

Thinking that I was going to be out of there soon, this next fellow took the prize for most inconsiderate customer of the week. Ordering a pound of coleslaw, and after it was weighed and handed to him, the man elected at this time to see if he liked it. Asking the deli worker for a fork, he removed the plastic lid and took a bite. Deciding that he didn’t quite like the flavor, he then asked for a pound of another salad.

You’d think this fellow would’ve taken them both, but he didn’t. That pound of slaw was tossed in the trash on his behalf just because he no longer wanted it. If my eyes were lasers, this guy would’ve had holes burned through the back of his head. Once again, I believe the deli worker was more than happy when another irritating customer went down the road.

Next in line, was a polite and nice looking lady. She definitely had her act together, asking for a pound of meatballs, and after getting them, thanked the worker and moved on. It happened so fast that I couldn’t believe I was now at the front.

Ordering two pounds of fruit and nut rotisserie chicken, when the deli worker dished it into a container, and then placed things on the scale, it came out a perfect two pounds. She looked at me, mentioning with a smile that it was a good day for both of us to buy a lotto ticket, because her hitting the asked-for-weight, spot on, rarely happens.

Taking this woman’s advice, I did exactly that. If by chance my ticket is a winner, this deli employee is going to get a portion of the winnings because she deserves it. All of them do for that matter. Where having patience in dealing with problem people is concerned, deli workers are the cream of the crop!