You Don't Know Squat!

By Michael Dexter Hankins

Four decades ago, a friend of the author remarked that a book should be written in honor of someone they both knew. The indiscreet nickname for this person is Squat. Up to speed on most all facets of life, Squat knew just enough to be dangerous, mainly to himself. When a problem arose, he found a solution, oftentimes causing more harm than good. The two pals quickly brainstormed and came up with a book title. All they needed was substance of some educational and entertainment value to place between covers. Flash ahead forty years. Sadly, the friend is no longer here. Having over six hundred articles, stories, and editorials published by various newspapers and periodicals at his disposal, author Michael Dexter Hankins had more than enough material to finally create such a testament. Going through a short yet lengthy editing process, You Don't Know Squat! came to life as an eclectic mix of 102 humorous and quirky tales. It's also an entertaining plethora of undeniable facts, hyperbole extraordinaire, outlandish thoughts, unsubstantiated information, life adventures, misadventures, irony, oxymoron, gossip, sarcasm, inflammatory opinions, uncalled-for advice, and secret innuendos. Literary scholars and bibliophobes alike will find the contents humorously enlightening.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886447453

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Preface

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Swap 'n' Sell

Signs

One Man's Trash

Rust in Peace

They Talk and I Listen

Learn Something New

Nuclear Soap Suds

Showtime

Patches

Poet Lariat

That Stuff Will Kill You!

A Story to Tell

Running Out of Time?

Senior Benefits

Helping Hand

My Christmas Story

Accolades and Compliments

Light My Fire

Assisted Living

Smiling Faces

Budget Vacation

This Old Chair

Money Cake

Righty Tighty—Lefty Loosey

My Resume

Iditarod Mystery

Neighbors

Car Guy

Where Are You Going?

Charmin' Angel

Fore

Grammar Police

Aunt Dora

Not Superman

Mephisto Worthy?

Bookworm

Juggy on a Cat Train

Shaker Plant Experts

Dead Man's Curve

No Pomp—All Circumstance

High School Crush

McCleary Bear Festival

A Good Pupil

Range War

Texas Fish Stories

Wafflestompers

Fake 'n' Bake

Nimble Thimble

Living the Dream

Red Devil Lye

Dream Big

Grandma's Fridge

Hawkins Island

The Book of John

Doggie in the Window

Paperboy

Reverse Aging

Smart Bird—Bad Bird

Fresher Than Fresh

At the Cross

Nameless Faces

Who's Who and Who's Not

Cuts Like a Knife

Kimberly Therese Herndon

Contorted Recess

Lord Trapper—Bill Devine

911

Perfect Father

Walter J. Hickel and Me

Pot Stickers

A Southern Thang

Grandview Roadhouse

J. C. Hankins

Outhouseholeaphobia

My First Car

Longer Arms

This Road Less Traveled

Old Man Simply Walking

A Job Well Dung

The Wrong Line

Superheroes

Black Cats, Cherry Bombs, M-80s, and Punks

Living in the Past

Meeting Famous People

Old-Age Stage

Simple Life

O' Mary

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

Cold Case McCarthy

Communication

The Same Herd

Cheap Sunglasses

Give It to Mikey

Escape from Selmont Baptist

Glue

Homeless Mike

Solar-Powered Dryers

Colon Cowboy

Flip of a Switch

Our House

The Offended Ward

Keep a Light On

Conclusion

About the Author

cover.jpg

You Don't Know Squat!

Michael Dexter Hankins

ISBN 979-8-88644-744-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88644-745-3 (Digital)

Copyright © 2023 Michael Dexter Hankins

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

To Uncle Joe and all the cats at Fryer Lake.

Preface

Four decades ago, a friend of the author's remarked that a book should be written in honor of someone they both knew. The indiscreet nickname for this person is Squat. Up to speed on most all facets of life, Squat knew just enough to be dangerous mainly to himself. When a problem arose, he found a solution, oftentimes causing more harm than good. The two pals quickly brainstormed and came up with a book title. All they needed was substance of some educational and entertainment value to place between covers. Flash ahead forty years. Sadly, the friend is no longer here. Having over six hundred articles, stories, and editorials published by various newspapers and periodicals at his disposal, author Michael Dexter Hankins had more than enough material to finally create such a testament. Going through a short yet lengthy editing process, You Don't Know Squat! came to life as an eclectic mix of 102 humorous and quirky tales. It's also an entertaining plethora of undeniable facts, hyperbole extraordinaire, outlandish thoughts, unsubstantiated information, life adventures, misadventures, irony, oxymoron, gossip, sarcasm, inflammatory opinions, uncalled-for advice, and secret innuendos. Literary scholars and bibliophobes alike will find the contents humorously enlightening.

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to especially thank Professor Sally Carricaburu and Professor Michael Burwell for helping him get started in this writing gig. Without their valuable assistance and tutoring, he would have never kept quill wet with ink. Deepest regards to the following friends and family: Mary Ostendorf, Bob and Regina Malone, Mykah Mae, Donna Lewis, Jeff Cloud, Nancy Carroll, Craig and Debbie Fitzgerald, Andrew Balthazore, Rod Steiner, Lawrence Everett, Brian Flaherty, Diann Sims, Dorothy Hardy, Fred and Mary Salter, Dennis Palmer, Jim and Patricia Hastings, Doug Buster, Adam Bluecloud, Denny Clyburn, Tom and Karen Doupe, Joe and Britt Behm, Robert and Glenda Turner, Apryl Maddox Phillips, Isaiah Lewis, Felipe Dagdag, Charlie and Sonja Hart, Jeff Maddox, Dick and Linda Crain, Buck Master, Joe and Pat Smith, Wava Schweitzer, Reece Lola Jean, Mario Torralba, Dale Myers, Jeff and Laura Thimsen, Paul and Diana Rotkis, Michelle Giroux, Pamela Painter-Jones, Biff Howard Tannen, Eddie Moon, Glen and Berneice Everest, Suzanne Knudsen, Doris Harris, Doug and Joy Harvey, Renee Barnhill, Diana Sanders, Tom and Dodie Gildea, Ted Sadler, Ed Moses, Ralph Maston, Tom Bomstead, Calvin Freeman, Larry and Jean Brooking, Larry and Denise Green, Mark Shepherd, Rich Thrall, Larelia Sadler, Steve and Bonnie Schmidt, Todd Mold, Bob Seger, Ron Claspill, Robert Bush, John and Suzannah Ballard, Ali Judd-Elder, Ted Cadman, Matt and Kim Stohr, Rod Stone, Keith Stone, Ima Phlumnutz, Ron Kolbeck, Danny Kunda, Ed Boyd, Gunnar and Kay Hankins, Ken Moon, Ed Torres, Randy Coggins, Janet Adams, Dennis and Miranda Stubbs, Michael Corbeil, Jimmy Hackenberger, George Faust, Kurt Rogers, Andy and June Handy, Rick Long, Jerry and Faith Warren, Decker Cruz, Leanne Mills, Aaron Hastings, James (Jim) Hankins, Grace Tallulah, Renee Reeves, Kevin Matthew, Jeremy Brooking, Patrick Durden, Jim and Pat Brownfield, Dee Linton, Jerry and Kathy Crowe, Roy Biffle, Brandon Bowers, Randall McDaniel, Phillip and Carline Miller, Mike and Cheryl Worthington, Cecil Sanders, Bernie Quayle, Ellas Otha Bates, Chuck and Linda Staley, Mario Luigi, Christine Simmons-Groske, Tim Nadreau, Gary Adair, David Bryson, Michael & Carla Knowles, Dave Rutz, Bill Yadlosky, and most especially his better half, Joleen, for her unwavering love and support through thick and thin.

Introduction

I don't have a bucket list entering the latter stage of my life like some people. I've pretty much mastered everything my old heart desired—or at least unsuccessfully tried. Flying or jumping out of airplanes never entered the picture.

A big thanks to loving parents that didn't rein me in too tight and a supportive wife allowing the same for forty-five years. I had freedom to go places and do exciting stuff early on that many guys only dream about. The one physical roadblock slowing me down now is a tired body. An adventurous mind and spirit still yank my carcass out of bed each morning, enabling me to sit and ponder one more adventure.

I've been a writer for most of my journey and didn't know it. Early on, I found it easier to get a point across through pen and paper than verbally. On several occasions, I offended friends and family by misuse of the English language, not realizing it until war drums sounded. I still remember getting dry mouth and the shakes while standing in front of a classroom. Over time, that anxiety seemed to pass although I find myself hurrying words when talking to people. My wife often says, Slow down! when I try explaining things to her.

Throughout my writing career, short story has been the pursued genre. I prefer composing them over long manuscripts where mega amounts of editing and work are required. A good short story is like a poem in that the message has to be orchestrated in as few words as possible.

This book is neither a biography nor an autobiography; it's more a personal narrative. I followed no specific time outline. Doing so made things enjoyable, and I write purely for enjoyment including peace of mind. Hopefully, you enjoy reading it as much as I did placing ink to paper.

Swap 'n' Sell

In the late 1950s and early 1960s, Grandmother Hankins turned the radio on each weekday morning to catch up on local news. The radio host would read off a list of people currently in the hospital including those released. This was early-day social media without the flak. When I say flak, I mean totally negative remarks. More about that in a few seconds.

Grandma generally recognized those folks mentioned because she was a longtime resident of Vernon, Alabama. She practically knew everyone in town. At the conclusion of the show, the DJ announced the names of recently deceased residents and where their funeral services were to be held. Hearing this news was depressing not only to Grandma but to me as well, and I didn't even know these people.

After this segment of the program was over, Swap 'n' Sell came on. That's when I tuned in with both ears. Residents called the radio station via rotary-dial telephones and tried to explain what they were selling with price. The disc jockey had to assist some callers through their spiel because they got stage fright being live on the air. I recall Grandma chuckling when that happened.

A seller would leave their phone number for interested parties to call. Seller and buyer could then hash things out in private, which is the way it's supposed to be done. Having a moderator helped things along.

I've never peddled anything on Swap 'n' Sell, but I have sold junk via online forums. Those can be a hassle because of flak from gadflies. A gadfly to me is nothing more than a person offering unwanted advice or criticism. There's generally a purpose behind them doing such. They are pros at using flak to intimidate sellers.

Several months ago, a woman was trying to unload a bassinet on a popular online Lake Havasu City, Arizona, sales site. She asked a reasonable $40. Right off the bat, a couple of gadflies announced to the group that the seller wanted too much money. I looked at their Facebook profile and immediately came to the obvious conclusion that these gals were long past childrearing years.

I suppose they wanted to steal the furniture and resell it for profit. Gadflies often work that way. I was happy to see this bassinet go in spite of efforts to cripple the sell. I'm hopeful the seller got full asking price.

Recently I listed a motorcycle on one of those same sites. Within minutes, I had comments from two fellows trashing my bike and another guy claiming it was way overpriced. I ignored them, which is the best thing to do. Don't feed the trolls!

A good friend of mine, Jim Brownfield, explained that sometimes buyers believe something's wrong with a car, motorcycle, or boat, when the price is low. Taking his advice, I cancelled my listing and waited a few weeks. I then relisted it for double the money. My Harley sold the next day without discount.

If Grandma Hankins were still alive, she'd have no use for gadflies and trolls on her computer. A troll is a gadfly possessing unlimited flak. They toss out insults merely for a response and nothing more.

If she could reach down from Heaven with a super-long flyswatter, she'd smack those folks upside the head with it.

If allowed by higher authority, I believe Grandma would start her own online sell group and moderate things from up there. Using that swatter as needed, she'd call her show Slap 'n' Sell.

Signs

It's that time of year when political signs sprout up like scorpion weed on street corners. Being that I'm the one driving, I see them; but then again, I don't. I'm generally watching out for crazies trying to run over our little car more than anything.

The other day, my wife, Joleen, said to me, Did you see so-and-so's sign back there? That's the first time she'd noticed this particular candidate. I told her I didn't have a chance to look because a lifted Dodge pickup suddenly changed lanes, almost knocking us into the left-side pocket like an eight-ball.

Folks are now complaining, as they always do, about election signs uglying up towns and cities. Webster's doesn't recognize the word uglying. They should. I use it all the time.

Personally, I have zero problem with political signs as long as they aren't blocking my view while driving or being some kind of visual hazard. I suppose in some countries like communist China and Russia, residents don't have to put up with them.

Political signs are similar to loud military aircraft and helicopters flying in and out of various airports. Some folks voice disapproval about those as well. They evidently don't view this noise as the sound of freedom.

Running for public office is a thankless task. Time taken away from family, friends, and hobbies to try and make things better for all citizens is a sacrifice. Just trying to get elected is an ordeal. Let candidates have their election signs for a few months. They're as American as apple pie and Chevrolet. I can deal with red-and-blue signs more than I can seeing trash and litter along a highway. Now that's something to fuss about.

In 1971, a song came out about signs performed by the Five Man Electrical Band. Starting lyrics are most memorable: And the sign said long-haired freaky people need not apply.

In sixty-eight years, I've never come across a sign dictating such. Something tells me the band made things up. These days, some businesses, especially fast food, would bend over backward to hire such people. Evidently, Five Man Electrical Band had no issue with political signs; otherwise, they would've mentioned them in their lyrics.

Some signs we don't need, but political signs we do. The moment those signs come down because they're labeled an eyesore will be a terrible day in the USA!

A picture containing text, vessel, bottle Description automatically generated

Extremely rare, Iditarod, Alaska medicine bottle.

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Jeff Thimsen holding rare, Dr. J.A. Baughman bottle he discovered in Knik, Alaska.

One Man's Trash

One man's trash is another man's treasure. There's definite truth to that statement. Where actual Alaska treasure is concerned, most people believe gold is king.

There's another Alaskan treasure most folks have never heard about. Because of their fragile nature, these precious relics are extremely rare. The treasure I refer to was considered trash at one time. I'm talking about discarded glass medicine bottles, specifically drug bottles with Alaskan towns and cities embossed on the front.

During Alaska's early years from 1890–1920, medicine bottles used by local druggists had no attached paper label. The name of the druggist or doctor was embossed in the glass. This was accomplished by blowing a bottle within the confines of a mold. The mold—whether it be wood or metal—added other specifics like business name and location. When molten glass was poured inside, the mold created an embossed impression much like a rubber stamp.

Drugstores ordered their bottles from several bottle-manufacturing companies. Somewhere around 1920, embossing was eliminated in favor of cheaper paper labels. Finding early-day Alaskan pharmaceutical bottles with embossed or paper labels can be challenging. I've been collecting these artifacts for years. Whether by boat, plane, or hiking, searching has taken me on many exciting adventures throughout the state. I've always made sure my excursions were on private property with permission of owner. How I came to be infatuated with medicine bottles occurred in a most unusual way.

Good friends Jeff Thimsen, Doug Harvey, and I were sitting on a bluff overlooking Knik Arm approximately thirty years ago, drinking coffee. It was unusually warm outside. The three of us had been hiking in the area, looking at property for sale. Quietly eating sandwiches, we reeled in scenery with our eyes.

Anchorage, in its modern splendor, was visible just across the water. Angry seagulls were squawking directly above us. Bloodthirsty mosquitoes were singing out loud for their dinner. A cool evening breeze off Cook Inlet was most welcome as it helped push the pests away.

Jeff was tugging at some scruff grass between his legs when out of the thick roots popped a small coffin-shaped bottle. As he brushed away dirt, letters began to appear. Using coffee from his cup, Jeff cleaned things just enough to reveal the following:

The German Doctor

J.A. Baughman, M.D.

Seward, Alaska

To say we were all excited is an understatement! How could a vintage Seward medicine bottle end up in this remote location? The Iditarod Trail immediately came to mind. At one time, it ran close to where we sat.

Research showed John Albert Baughman was one of Seward's first doctors. He moved to the area around 1905, staying there several years. Not only was Baughman in the medical field, but he also had interests in mining and game management as well. Before moving to Seward, Dr. Baughman practiced medicine in Skagway. Two of his children are buried near the gold rush town. Dr. Baughman died November 25, 1937, and the pioneer Alaska doctor is interned at Evergreen Cemetery in Juneau.

Perhaps the premier authority on Alaskan antiques is Dick Bradford of Palmer. In talking with Dick about early bottles, he mentioned an Iditarod specimen as being the rarest and hardest to find. Z. J. Loussac had a drugstore in Iditarod a few years before it burned. Dick knew of only a few specimens having survived. He said he'd owned one but sold it to a wealthy collector.

Most people know Zachariah Joshua Zack Loussac as being a former mayor of Anchorage. The Anchorage public library is appropriately named after him.

I began my search for the holy grail of Alaskan bottles after chatting with Dick. Along the arduous journey, I picked up embossed bottles from Nome, Petersburg, Skagway, Juneau, Cordova, Seward, Ketchikan, Valdez, Circle, Douglas, Wrangell, Fairbanks, and Anchorage. All this searching, yet no Iditarod specimen surfaced. Dick Bradford was right in saying they were extremely rare.

My son, Gunnar, traveled to Anchorage one summer during college break. Along with friends Doug and Jeff, the four of us flew to the Innoko River area near McGrath to do some fishing and exploring. Searching for bottles consists of taking a thin metal rod with rounded point and slowly penetrating the ground with it around old cabin or mining sites. If the probe hits glass, you can feel such through the handle. It takes learned skill to discriminate between rocks and glass.

Gunnar and I were probing in tundra near a stand of tall birch trees. There was nothing in the immediate area suggesting previous human habitation. An old cabin site was a fair distance away. Deciding to stick my metal rod under a tree, I felt the resonate ting of glass. That seemed unlikely.

Using a small hand trowel, I dug down a few feet. Within seconds, the broken neck of a whisky bottle appeared. In the meantime, Gunnar had removed a clump of dead roots and leaves and was methodically examining them. In a calm voice, my son called out, Dad, look at this.

Gunnar handed me a small dirty bottle I instantly recognized as an early pharmaceutical. Taking my shirt tail and carefully brushing away mud, the following words appeared:

City Drug Store

Z.J. Loussac—Prop.

Iditarod, Alaska

We looked at each other in amazement. If you were to say the discovery's akin to finding a needle in a haystack, you'd be underestimating things. The odds of this fragile relic having survived one hundred years without breaking is beyond explanation.

Each year a bottle remains buried in Alaska soil, the risk increases that additional moisture will get inside. When winters come and go and with enough water building up within, freezing will eventually destroy it. I've found more shattered bottles than whole ones because of this. Our Iditarod artifact was nearly full of water. One more winter, and perhaps it would've been a goner.

A sticky note is now attached to the artifact. Black lettering with felt-tipped pen boldly proclaims:

Iditarod Survivor—Found by Gunnar Hankins and Michael Hankins—August 11, 2000.

Antique Fordson tractor in a neighbor's front yard.

Rust in Peace

When I first came to Lake Havasu City, Arizona, in 1981, there were two things standing out above all others. Magnificent London Bridge being number one, the second jewel in the desert was discovered purely by accident.

We were driving around town, slowly looking at houses, hindering traffic at the same time when all of a sudden, an old push mower popped into view. It was sitting in a manicured gravel yard with a Rust in Peace sign hanging from the handle. I immediately jumped out of our rental car and snapped a picture.

To this day, I've never come upon that lawnmower again. I have no idea as to the street it was located nor what part of town. Havasu has a diverse mixture of road names, and unfortunately, I forgot this one.

Nonmotorized push mowers are something I'm well acquainted with. My brother and I cut lawns for a couple of years, pushing one of the labor-intensive contraptions. That's how we made money besides other enterprises such as collecting pop bottles and returning them to stores for nickel deposits.

Our mower worked fine on short grass, but add some length to the turf plus a little rain, and this chore became torture.

We learned how to adjust a circular blade for better mowing along with correctly filing it down when rocks dinged up the cutting edge. Keeping things clean and well lubricated was a necessity.

Seeing that old mower in Havasu put out to pasture gave me a laugh. I'm sure the machine my brother and I owned didn't fare so well as to end up in sunny Arizona. I believe we sold it at a Texas auction after purchasing a used gas-powered unit. No person, animal, or lawnmower should have to retire in Texas!

While living in Anchorage, Alaska, a good friend gave me a push mower. It was a Sears brand and had barely been used. I never intended on putting the thing to work, so in our shed it went for thirty years.

I eventually hauled the mower out and placed it for sale in a Penny Saver periodical. That's something akin to White Sheet or Nickel Saver in other locales.

A woman called right away and said it was exactly what she was looking for. Stopping by the house, she was in her early thirties and undoubtedly green. I say this respectfully because the lady mentioned wanting to get away from fossil-fuel-burning equipment.

She told me that her husband advised against buying one because she'd regret it later. Fortunately for me, the gal didn't listen to him. Stuffing $25 in my wallet, I happily loaded the lawnmower into a small SUV. It rains cats and dogs in Alaska, and grass grows fast. Without question, she soon returned to gas.

I've often wanted to add yard art to the front of our home much like that old lawnmower. A gentleman living around the corner has a vintage 1916 Fordson tractor parked in his. I love it! Wanting to be original with my project, replicating either mower or tractor is out of the question.

When we lived in Texas, there were devices called jack pumps throughout the state. A generic