Tom Palen,a broadcaster, pilot, writer, and our Guest Columnist! Archives
June 2024
Categories |
Back to Blog
Doubting Thomas6/19/2024 A school teacher, Carole Olsen, was in charge of religious education at Saint Mary’s church in Ottumwa. “You should be teaching a CCD class,” she told me. I was in my early twenties; I was not a teacher and knew nothing about teaching, so I told her no, but Carole didn’t give up.
“You don’t need a degree in education to be a teacher,” she said. “A teacher is someone from whom others learn. A degree just lets you get paid for teaching in the public schools.” “I wouldn’t know how to go about it or what to do,” I justified. “Thanks for the offer, but I won’t be teaching religious ed.” Carol wasn’t going to give up. “There is a book for the students and a teacher manual that goes with it,” Carol explained. “Everything you need is in the manual; lesson plans, projects, and such, and plenty of tips on teaching for your age group. You relate well with little kids, so I’ll put you down for the third-grade class. You’ll do fine.” She was very persistent, but I stood my ground, again declining Carol’s offer. On my first night, after introducing myself to the students, I said, “We’re here to learn about our faith.” A young boy immediately raised his hand. “Yes, James?” “What is faith?” James was a spirited soul, and I knew he would be a handful, yet he seemed sincere in his question. I had read the manual for the first night’s lesson, and faith was not defined. I knew what faith is, but how would I explain this in a way an eight-year-old would understand? I told Carole I wasn’t a teacher, and now I felt like a deer in headlights. I had to figure this out on my own. “Faith is believing,” I said. There. A nice, short, simple answer to James’ question. I continued with my opening, but James interrupted. “What do you mean?” This kid was going to challenge me all year long. “You’re in third grade, right,” I asked James. “Where do you go to school?” “Lincoln Elementary,” James replied. “How do you get to school in the morning,” I asked, “and how do you get home after school?” “My mom takes me to school and picks me up,” James answered. “But sometimes my dad picks me up after school.” “How do you know your dad will be there after school,” I asked. “He told me he would come get me,” James explained. I continued, “And do you believe him?” “Yes,” James said. “He’s always there when he says he'll come get me.” “Believing he will be there is having faith in your dad, like we believe in God. That’s our faith, which we will learn more about.” James was good with my answer, so I must have replied on a third-grade level. To this day, I still reflect on and ponder James’ question from nearly forty years ago. It often leads me to think about the story of the apostle referred to as doubting Thomas. Thomas was not present when Jesus first appeared to the disciples, and he didn’t believe their story: ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands…and put my hand into his side, I will not believe,’ he said. Then, a week later, Jesus appeared to the disciples again, this time with Thomas present. Jesus told Thomas to put his fingers in his hands and his hand in his side, “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.” Because of this story, I have spent much of my life conscientiously trying to believe without seeing. Sometimes, it’s easy to do. For example, on a cloudy, overcast day, I hear people say, ‘I sure wish the sun would come out.’ “It is out and shining brightly,” I assure them, even though they cannot see it. But I am somewhat a doubting Thomas myself. On many overcast days, I’ve taken an airplane and flown above the clouds just to see and bask in the sunshine; it does wonders for an attitude that needs adjusting. After landing, I'd assure naysayers, “The sun is out and shining brightly. I just saw it.” This would again remind me: blessed are those who believe but have not seen. Sometimes, it’s not always so easy to believe without seeing. Living in the Northwoods, there’s a lot of wildlife around our property, and we love it all. Some animals come out during the day, while others prefer the night, like raccoons and bears. I do love watching the bears. Unfortunately, bears and dogs are not friends. Because we have a dog, Nova Mae, who ‘marks’ her domain, the bears tend to steer clear of our yard. I’m pretty sure they still come around. They just wait until the nighttime when the dog is asleep. Something has been cleaning out the bird feeder on the deck at night. I have no way of proving this; I’ve not seen the bears in our yard for quite a while, but I believe they are the robbers because the noise seems more than a raccoon would make. “It’s a raccoon,” Melissa said. “Bears would have torn down the feeder, and they haven’t touched the hummingbird feeder.” (The hummingbird feeders are hung where the raccoons cannot reach them, but a bear standing on its hind legs could get them.) Even in the middle of the night, I’ll get up when I hear a ruckus outside in the dark, but by the time I get to the back door and turn on a light, the thief has escaped in the night. “One of these nights, I’m gonna bust you,” I say to the bear that was not there. A few days ago, it rained just before dark. Not long after the rain let up, Nova Mae ran to the front window barking. I heard some noise on the front porch that sounded like footsteps on steps and assumed it was the UPS guy; they’d been working long hours. I went to the front door, “Stay here,” I instructed my trusty canine to keep the delivery guy from being jumped upon. I opened the door, but no one was there. I stepped onto the porch to investigate. I had not been out since the rain fell, but I noticed fresh footprints on the steps and a few on the porch, too, but only near the top step. There was no package left on the porch, and I did not see a truck on the street, going down the road, or at the neighbor’s house. Then, it occurred to me that the footprints were not human. “Was it a sasquatch?” I wondered. I looked around the porch and over the edge of the railing; no creature was on the ground unless it was hiding under the porch. I called my wife outside to have her check under the porch. (Hey, she’s shorter and can look under there more easily than me.) I showed Melissa the evidence of Sassy on the steps. Melissa noticed wet paw prints on the hand railing as if the animal was reaching for the squirrel feeder hanging from a rod over the edge. “It looks like a small bear,” she said. Or, a baby sasquatch, I thought to myself. Still, I did not say aloud lest my wife should have me taken in for a psychiatric evaluation. “We haven’t seen a bear around here since last fall,” I said. “You never know,” she said, returning inside the house. Although I'd not seen them on the back deck if a bear came to the front porch, why wouldn’t they come to the back deck, too? Last week, Melissa quietly called me to the back door. Two big, fat raccoons were climbing the post on the back deck. They would hold onto the wood post with their back feet while stretching to grab the hanging birdfeeder almost two feet away with their front paws. Then, they would lick the sunflower seeds out of the feeder with their tongues. It was hilarious to watch these little burglars! The raccoons returned two or three nights in a row, making plenty of noise, disproving my theory of bears being the culprits. Besides, bears are notorious for tearing things up; they pull a bird down with minimal effort and break it open to get the treat inside. Although our bird feeders have yet to be damaged, I still think bears are getting into them. (Or sasquatches, or is the plural sasquatchi?) The other night, I went outside to get something from my van in the driveway. I took Nova Mae along with me for a potty break. Melissa stood on the front porch, asking, “Is Nova on a leash?” I told her she was not. “Bring Nova inside right now. Do not let her go to the backyard.” When my wife says this, I never question why. I called Nova to come inside with me. On our way to the front door, I wondered if it was a wolf or a coyote. Had the sasquatch returned? “Come on, Nova. Stay close to me.” It was probably the raccoons again, and Melissa didn’t want Nova to chase them or, worse yet, get into a scuffle. I couldn’t wait to find out what was going on. “There’s a bear on the back deck,” Melissa reported. When I went to look, there was no such animal there. “He might have run away when I called you into the house,” she said, “but he was out there.” “Have you been in the gin? I don’t see a bear,” I said. My wife told me to be quiet, and he would probably return. A few minutes later, we heard the ladder by the deck rattle. Sure enough, a small bear climbed the step ladder and came lumbering across the deck. The bear stood on his hind legs, grabbing the bird feeder with his front paws to keep it from swinging, and he licked the sunflower seeds out with his tongue. “It’s amazing he doesn’t just pull it down,” I whispered as we watched him. When the feeder was empty, the bear sniffed around the deck for something else to eat. Eventually, the bear came within about three feet of the back door, where we stood watching him. Bears have poor eyesight, so he did not see us, but their hearing and sense of smell are impeccable. I’m sure he could either smell us or hear Nove whimpering in her kennel in the other room. Anyway, he sensed our presence and returned down the ladder. We watched as he made his way through the yard toward the woods. Before leaving, he laid down in the grass, crossing his front legs like a dog, to rest for a bit. Then, finally, got up and moseyed back into the woods. We haven’t seen him at night again since then, but it was a thrill to have him stop by to visit us. Several nights since then, I have been awakened by noises from the back deck, but whatever was there left by the time I got there to look. Melissa thinks it’s just the raccoons, but I think it’s the bear. Finally, last Friday night, I fell asleep in the three-seasons room adjacent to the deck while watching old reruns of M*A*S*H. I woke up at 5:25 in the morning to Nova, making a soft, low, rumbling growl. There was noise on the deck. I got up to see if it was the raccoons. Nope. It was the same black bear, with his brown snout and great big ears. He was cleaning out the bird feeder, but my movement alarmed him. The bear jumped off the edge of the deck, then scurried to the tree line. I like that bear. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see that bear again, but I have known the pleasure of watching him, and I believe I will see him again. Thank goodness for Carole Olsen who talked me into being a religious ed teacher. Had it been any other way, I may never have met James; a third-grade student who taught me more about my faith then I ever realized at the time. I hope you will get to watch a bear in your yard someday, too. He’s probably there even if you don’t ever see him. You don't believe me? Don’t be a doubting Thomas; remember: “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.”
0 Comments
Read More
Back to Blog
The Suit6/12/2024 Back in my radio days, our station had the best DJ service around. We play all types of events: school dances, class reunions, company parties, birthday parties, and anniversaries. The most common gigs we played were wedding receptions.
Before the wedding, I always met with the couple to discuss what songs they wanted played for special dances, such as the bride and groom, father and bride, and groom and his mother's dance, and maybe a few requests they would like played throughout the evening. Occasionally, a bride would bring in a list of songs they wanted played and in what order. I would politely tell them I (or the DJ working the dance) would pick the music. Some brides were shocked, "So you won't play my music list?" "I'll play your crowd, but I won't follow a list," I'd answer. We read your guests' and pick music to keep them dancing to ensure a good time." Some brides were adamant that we follow their list: "You'll need to find a different DJ service; that's not how we work." And we'd walk away from their business. I always left brides with one bit of advice: "No matter how hard you plan to make everything perfect for your wedding, some things will go wrong; count on it, and don't worry about it; just move on. "If there is a problem with the music, let me handle it. If a guest has too much to drink, let the venue handle it. If your brother is being a jerk, let your dad handle it. Your mom will take care of him if he's really being a jerk. Your job is to get married and have a good time. Period." I've done hundreds and hundreds of wedding receptions and seen weddings where the florist lost the bridal bouquet. I've seen five-tier wedding cakes get knocked to the floor during setup. I've seen it all, and it always worked out fine. Our daughter's wedding was this last weekend. I would get ahead of the game and break my usual habit of being late and behind schedule. Well before the wedding, Melissa ordered a new navy-blue necktie to match her dress. Encouraged by my wife, I took my suit from the closet five weeks before the wedding and tried it on to make sure it fit well and did not need to be altered. The suit fit fine, which was good. However, it also meant I didn't lose the fifteen pounds I wanted to before Annie's big day. I took my suit to the dry cleaner in Duluth two weeks before the wedding. Before driving to Duluth, I loaded my Stihl chain saw into the van. I have two chain saws, which are Stihl brand. Both have served me well. My "little" chainsaw is about twenty years old and has been a real workhorse, however, it needed a new clutch. With my suit hanging and the chainsaw on the back floor, I called my dog. "Nova, do you want to go with me?" She's always up for a car ride. We hopped in the van and drove to Duluth. I first dropped the chain saw off at the repair shop, then ran several errands in Duluth and Superior. Finally, I took my suit to the cleaners arriving just a few minutes before closing. The clerk was happy to accept my suit. "A three-piece suit will be $24 to clean. What day do you need to pick it up," she asked. "I'm working out of town for the weekend and won't be back until Tuesday," I said. "No problem," the clerk said. "We'll have it ready for you to pick up next Tuesday." I explained, "I'll be busy when I get home; then, with Memorial Day weekend, I may not be able to pick it up until a week from Tuesday. Is that okay?" "We'll have it ready this Tuesday," she promised. "You can come get it any time after that." I walked back to my van with a spirited step. I took my long "to-do list" from my pocket and drew a line through 'suit to cleaners.' "How about that, Nova Mae? Fifteen errands on the list, and they're all done." It was a fun ride home, knowing I was totally on schedule for once in my life. The following week, I was busy getting ready for the wedding. Nova Mae and our cat Edgar Allan would be traveling with us, so we planned to take the Scamp to the wedding and camp rather than staying in the motel - it's just easier with pets. I made sure the Scamp was ready to travel. The freshwater tank was filled, the LP gas tanks were full, the battery was fully charged, the refrigerator was on and cold, all the bedding was washed, and the bed was made. I needed to replace a tail light cover, which I had on hand. (A new lens from Bullyan RV was one of my 15 errands in Duluth.) Finally, I inspected the tires and checked the air pressure. The Scamp was road-trip worthy. All we had to do was throw in the groceries and our bags. With the Scamp ready, I could relax and enjoy the weekend with my wife. On Memorial Day, I planted two Autumn Blaze Maple Trees in the yard. The gnats were horrid! Melissa brought me my safari hat with mosquito netting attached. I've never used it before, and boy, was I impressed. Gnats swarmed my head and face while I worked, often landing on the netting. I laughed in their little gnat faces as I sang, "I hear you knocking, but you cannot come in, da, dah, da dah…. Although the gnats couldn't get to my face, I had my sleeves rolled up to work, and they chewed up my forearms pretty badly! Once the maple trees were planted and staked, my thoughts turned to other steaks, and I fired up the Weber grill. Despite my itchy arms, Memorial Day was great. Still, the days following would be busy getting everything else packed to go to Sioux City, Iowa, for the wedding. Tuesday morning, Nova Mae and I returned to Duluth with twelve items on a fresh "to-do" list; first, we picked up the chainsaw. "Your chain saw is pretty old," the clerk told me. It will cost way more to repair than it's worth." I was sad to hear this, but the saw had served me well. I planned to use it until she died. "It's $25 for the diagnosis," the clerk said. Fair enough. I paid the man and waited. "Did you need anything else, sir?" "I need my chainsaw," I answered. The man went to the backroom and returned with a box. I was stunned, to say the least, looking in a box at my disassembled chainsaw. "You didn't put it back together?" The man said it wasn't worth fixing and that reassembling it would cost another $100. "I brought you a running chain saw, and you hand me a box of parts? That's pretty crappy!" I took my dissected chain saw to the van. I was not happy, but I had a lot to do today. I moved on to item two: picking up my suit from the cleaners. The clerk asked my name and went to the backroom to get my suit. She returned, asking, "Do you have the claim ticket?" I never keep those claim tags, but this time, I knew it was in the cup holder in my van. I retrieved the ticket, and she disappeared into the back room, returning to the counter without a garment. "I can't seem to find it," she said. "What color was the suit?" I told her it was a gray, three-piece suit. She went to look again, coming back to the counter empty-handed. "I'm sorry, sir, I can't find your suit." "YOU LOST MY SUIT?" I was quite alarmed. "My daughter is getting married Saturday, and I need my suit!" "We didn't lose it, sir. It's here somewhere; I just can't find it," the clerk said. I'll call the owner; she can find anything." I waited while she made the call. “The owner said she’ll come in to find it tomorrow. "It's a hundred-forty miles round trip drive from my house," I said. "Can she come in and find it today?" The clerk made another call, "The owner said she won't be here until tomorrow. She comes in at 7:30 a.m." Here concern was touching. I had a lot of things I wanted to say, but there was no sense in shooting the messenger. "Can I keep the claim tag?" the clerk asked. "No, I'll be taking the claim tag with me," I answered, letting her take a copy before leaving. "Where's your suit," Nova asked when I returned to the van. "They lost my dang suit," I told Nova. "I should be grateful for getting my chain saw back in pieces, at least they could find it! I hope this isn't a sign of how our next ten stops will go!" I arrived at the drycleaners Wednesday morning at 8:00, giving her time to find my suit. "I'm very sorry, I haven't been able to locate your suit yet," the owner said. "I'm calling in another worker to help look. We will find your suit." I had my doubts. "And if you don't," I asked. "Then what?" "It has to be here someplace, suits don’t just vanish," she said. We will find your suit." Unconfident, I left to run other errands, returning to the drycleaners three hours later. "We still haven't found it," the owner said. "But we figured out whose garments were on the rack beside your suit. We're hoping your suit was accidentally given to him when he picked up his suit. I have a call into him, but he works until 5." "And what if he doesn't have my suit. Then What?" "If you have to buy another suit, I will pay for it," the owner said. "I am leaving at 10:00 tomorrow morning," I explained. "How do you suppose I am going to find another suit that happens to be just the right shade of gray and have it altered before the end of the day?" She reemphasized, "We WILL find your suit!" Her words were not very reassuring, and I felt sick as I drove away. In the end, they did not find my suit, so I started shopping like a crazed shopaholic. The Men's Warehouse and Kohls had nothing even close to my size. I found a suit at JC Penny, but where would I get it altered? "Are you finding everything okay," Marg, the sales lady, asked. I explained what was going on. Marg took the jacket I was holding, "Try this on for me." Melissa wasn't with me, and I was willing to accept any help I could get. "That jacket's pretty tight across the back," she said. "Did you look at the suits on the rack over here? The sizes are more generous in this line." Thank goodness for Marj. She helped me find a much better-fitting suit. The britches were a bit snug, causing the pockets to pucker, but the next size bigger was baggy at the hips and made me look like I was wearing a horse jockey's pants. I took the suit home and tried it on for Melissa. "You'll blow the seat out of those pants if you sit down," she assessed. I didn't think they were that tight, but still, it was time to call for emergency services. I dialed the phone. "Hello, Aunt Di? Can I come over with a pair of dress pants that need to be altered before tomorrow morning?" Aunt Di is an excellent seamstress! Soon I was in her sewing room. Di was tearing out stitches until the whole back side of the trousers were split apart! "I sure hope she knows what she is doing," I said to myself. Di pushed pins here and there, marked the fabric, took measurements, moved the pins, and did things I didn't understand. Then she ran the pants through her sewing machine. "Try these on," she said. I put the pants on. "Now turn around." I did. "Hmm. They're still a little tight," Di said. "Take them back off." I thought the pants fit much better, but what do I know. I removed my pants and handed them to Di. Di tore the stitches out again, added more pins, and finally put in new stitches. "Try them on now," she said. They felt very comfortable. "They look a lot better," she said. "Okay, take them off." Aunt Di pressed the pants with an iron and had me try them on again. "Turn around," she said. "Okay, you're good to go." By 10 p.m., I was on my way home with a well-fitting suit. Amazing! I never mentioned the drycleaners losing my suit to Annie; she would have just worried about it. Thanks to Aunt Di and her magic sewing machine, my fears of walking Annie down the aisle in a Minnesota Tuxedo (flannel pajama pants, a flannel shirt, and snowmobile boots) were put to rest! We were ready to travel to Sioux City, Iowa. The suit debacle put me behind on tasks left to do. Still, we were able to get on the road by noon, only two hours later than planned. We were five hours into the trip on Highway 169 just north of Mankato. The trip was going great, then BANG! Whap, whap, whap, whap, whap… Darn it! We blew out a tire on the Scamp! The tire tread was coming apart, slapping a hole in the floor and wheel well. In my side mirror, I could see white debris flying from the Scamp, and I was worried it was fiberglass from the side of the trailer. Fortunately, that was not the case. The tire tread was shredding the Styrofoam insulation around the water heater inside the cabinet, which was not good. Fortunately, I stopped the trailer safely on the shoulder. While changing the tire, I was swarmed by mosquitos. I wore my safari hat with netting. My arms had just started to heal from the gnat bites, but the mosquitos chewed up my arms again. My shirt must have come untucked from my britches because I had one big welt right on the…well, never mind. Let's say it was in a spot which made it hard to sit still while driving. We didn't make it all the way to Sioux City as planned. We stopped at Worthington, Minnesota's visitor's center, and rest area, just north of the Iowa line. We slept quite well in the Scamp, but not before I covered the gaping hole in the floor and wheel well with duct tape to keep the skeeters out! I should have been angry about everything that went wrong. But I have come to learn something important over the years. When I am having a self-pity party and feeling sorry for myself, it makes it impossible for me to count my blessings. My blessing always out-weigh the bad. Sure, the cleaners lost my suit, but I found another suit, and I am blessed to have Aunt Di, who lives close by, to alter the new suit. Yeah, the tire blew out and damaged the trailer floor, but I had a good spare tire and duct tape to cover the hole, keeping the bugs out while we slept. Yes, there were setbacks on my trip to Duluth, but 13 of the 15 tasks were completed without issues, in one day, and that's a lot! It was time to take my own advice, the advice I gave to brides, including my daughter: no matter how hard you plan to make everything perfect some things will go wrong; count on it, and don't worry about it, just move on. It rained heavily in Sioux City on Friday night, so we had to have the rehearsal inside. On Saturday, the sun shined, and the day was a gorgeous. I walked my daughter Annie down the aisle in a nice-fitting new suit. She looked stunning, and she and Zack had a beautiful wedding at Country Celebrations, an excellent wedding venue. The DJ was great; I had a chance to visit with him while setting up. "I won't play a reception where they want me to follow a specific list of songs," he said. I smiled. Instead, he played the crowd well, and everyone had a fantastic time. As for my deceased chainsaw, I paid two hundred bucks for it over twenty years ago. That's only ten dollars a year, and the saw served me very well. “Why do I need two chainsaws anyway?” But If I do replace my little chainsaw, you can bet your bottom dollar it will be another Stihl.
Back to Blog
Fueling Memories5/29/2024 As my wife and I travel about the country, we notice the annual jacking up of gasoline prices coincides with the coming of Memorial Day weekend, the kick-off to the summer travel season.
Every year, the big oil companies have another excuse for raising gasoline prices: a natural disaster somewhere in the world, foreign issues, government problems, OPEC raising the barrel price of crude oil, OPEC lowering the price of crude oil, causing a rise in gasoline prices, or fewer swallows returning to San Juan Capistrano. My favorite excuse is always: "Prices went up because of anticipated increased demand and supply." Really? Because of increased demand? Did the coming of Memorial Day catch you off guard? With well over 100,000 employees in the oil industry in the United States alone, not one person put up a post-it note in their cubical to remind them, "Memorial Day will be the last Monday in May this year. People are going to start traveling for the summer. Make more gasoline." The oil industry could learn a lesson from the sausage makers of the world. Sausage makers know Oktoberfest is celebrated the first weekend of October, so they ramp up production to make more sausage for brats. They never get caught off guard, running short of brats - and they don't jack up the price of these delicious sausages for Oktoberfest. Big oil companies have charged more for nothing for years! Take, for example, the introduction of unleaded fuel in the 1970s. Unleaded fuel has always been more expensive than regular leaded fuel. Why? Lead is not natural to gasoline—it's an additive. I know about the environmental impact of burning lead in gasoline, but why were big oil companies charging more not to add tetraethyl lead? Hmm. A thinner nozzle was used on the unleaded fuel pump handle. The new car itself had a much smaller opening on the fuel filler neck that would prevent the larger regular fuel nozzle from fitting. Some people didn't want to pay for the higher-priced fuel and "punched out" the smaller hole, making it big enough for the larger regular fuel nozzle. Another issue with unleaded fuel was the smell of the exhaust. Ick! When you pulled up behind a car burning unleaded fuel, the scent of the exhaust would get in through your fresh air vents or open windows. Like rotten eggs, the putrid smell would cause you to wrinkle your nose and gag a bit. It was nasty, no doubt about it. Whatever happened to that nasty stench? Did the fuel refineries find a way to eliminate it? Did it disappear, or did we get used to it, accepting it as the new "norm?" I apologize; I've strayed from the subject of this story. It was supposed to be about Memorial Day, initially called Decoration Day. Decoration Day was established by the head of an organization of Union veterans, the Grand Army of the Republic. It was used to decorate grave markers, remembering those who died in the Civil War—both Union and Confederate soldiers. As time went on, people used Decoration Day to decorate the graves of those who died in both World Wars. It became inclusive of those who died in Korea and Vietnam and, eventually, all soldiers who died in any conflict while serving in the US Military branches. Memorial Day didn't become an official federal holiday until 1971. Unfortunately, it has become just a paid day off work to some. How sad. Recently, Melissa and I visited the graves of her ancestors and relatives on her grandma Lucille's side of the family, who are buried in the Coatsville Cemetery, not far from Lancaster, Missouri. It is a quiet country cemetery surrounded by farm fields, with markers in straight rows across the hilly knoll. The grass wasn't really tall that day, but it would soon be ready for a cutting. Many older deteriorating stones were in the cemetery, some of which had broken and fallen to the ground. Very old, weather-worn markers had distorted wording carved into the limestone that was hard or impossible to read. Sometimes, we could make out a year that indicated the ones who had died in the Civil War. Although Coatsville Cemetery was old, very small, and on a narrow gravel road in the countryside, it was not forgotten. Some of the graves had small American flags near the base, and some were marked with flowers and other such decorations. Someone had taken the time to lift fallen stones, propping them up against the remaining base. It warmed my heart to see this sign of respect for the long-dead. Among the older stones were a few newer markers for those who had passed more recently. Coatsville is still an active cemetery. There are cattle guards at the driveways entering the cemetery. Still, a broken- farm fence surrounding the perimeter would allow animals - wild or livestock from nearby farms - to cross into the grounds. Still, it was clear someone had been taking care of this site. The last time we visited, a big cedar tree stood on the grounds. It was now gone, but a trickle of smoke was still rising from the smoldering stump that was once the base of the big tree. The tree either died or was struck by lightning. A new, tall flag pole was not there the last time we were. Who removed the tree? Who put up that flag pole? I wondered further, who maintains this lot? I assumed the county must maintain it. We continued to walk around looking for headstones bearing the name Veatch, Melissa's relatives. A lady pulled into the cemetery, driving a Polaris Ranger. She approached us and was friendly in her inquiry about why we were there. She told us her husband, a farmer working in the field across the way, called her from his tractor to let her know people were in the cemetery. We learned her name was Sara Morrow. She and her husband are the caretakers of the Coatsville Cemetery. She explained her son, who died at a young age in the late nineties, was buried here and pointed to his marker. There was sadness in her eyes and voice as she spoke of her son. She is still grieving her loss. I felt her pain. Melissa told her we were looking for Veatch graves. She pointed to a headstone and then told Sara that her great-uncle, Lala Veatch (pronounced lā-lee), owned the 80-acre farm on the hilltop just beyond the valley. Sara said, "Oh! I knew Lala. I still remember his laugh." Melissa mentioned she still has relatives who live in the area—"Lyle and Pat York. Pat worked at the post office," she said. Sara's eyes lit up. "I saw Lyle just last week," she said. The two women made a connection. Melissa had grown up visiting this and other country cemeteries each year around Memorial Day, brought by her grandparents and then her parents. It had become a family tradition to remember their ancestors and share the stories while walking amongst the graves. Sara stayed and chatted with us for twenty minutes or so. She gave us a good education on country cemeteries. Sara had learned, from being on the board of directors, that the man who kept the grass mowed would no longer be able to do so. She and her husband had assumed the lawn care for the grounds. "The county doesn't provide any funding for these old cemeteries - at least not in Missouri," Sara said. "The only funding we have is from donations, and we spend a lot of our own money to make improvements." Those improvements included the new flag pole, planting new trees, and buying flags to ensure all veterans' graves were marked with an American flag for Memorial Day and Veterans Day. They purchased larger flags to fly across the front of the cemetery. The Morrow's raised old tombstones and placed them on new concrete bases to preserve them, among other things. "We're trying to raise enough money now to replace all the old fencing around the perimeter," she said. Her passion for keeping this cemetery well-kept was heartfelt. When working on projects, people often give me tips. The tip is generally fifty or one hundred dollars. We are not rich people, but we are not starving either, so when I get these tips, we give them to others who may need the money. I remembered a one hundred dollar bill in the car we hadn't given away yet. Listening to Sara talk, I smiled, thinking we had just found a good use for that money. Melissa was thinking the same thing. Sara expressed great appreciation for the gift—one would have thought we had just given her thousands! We, in turn, expressed our gratitude for the Morrows' work keeping the cemetery nice. This Memorial Day, when you're out visiting loved ones who have passed, especially in small rural cemeteries, please look for a donation box. If you don't find one, take the time to call your county and find out if the cemetery maintenance is funded or done by donation. Find out who maintains the grounds, and send them a donation and a note of gratitude for their hard work. I don't notice the exhaust fumes from unleaded gasoline anymore. Did they go away, or did I just get used to the scent - taking it for granted? Let us never forget nor take for granted why we celebrate Memorial Day: to honor the veterans and loved ones who lay to rest in the Coatsville cemetery and similar small cemeteries throughout our great nation. Let's seek out and support the Morrow's all over our country, who quietly take care of these cemetery grounds. Thank you to all who served our country, sacrificing their lives for our freedom! You are remembered this Memorial Day and always.
Back to Blog
Jell-O Salad5/22/2024 People get excited for Memorial Day weekend. In just a few days, the schools will be out for the summer, traditionally kickstarting the summer vacation, camping, and picnic seasons. I love a picnic. I remember picnics with my family when I was a small child.
Mom was a great cook who could make something out of nothing when there was "nothing to eat in this house." She also packed a delicious picnic. Sometimes, our picnics featured hotdogs and hamburgers on a park grill—an old-fashioned grill mounted on a steel post in the park. Dad would start the charcoal, and when it was ready, he placed the hotdogs on the grill and burned them. Dad would never take the blame for charring the dogs; one of the kids distracted him and caused the hotdogs to burn. To avoid the grilling fiasco, Mom would usually pack sandwiches. Bologna salad sandwiches were always a hit, but I liked the liverwurst with Miracle Whip better. My favorite picnic entree was Mom's homemade fried chicken; at home or in the park, Mom's chicken was the best! No matter the main dish, every picnic included Tupperware. Sandwiches were stacked in oblong flat containers. Every picnic had a big yellow or green Tupperware bowl of Mom's homemade potato salad. Of course, all Tupperware containers were properly burped for freshness. Tupperware pitchers were filled with lemonade, iced tea, or Kool-Aid. Ice for the drinks came from the bottom of the cooler, which was used to keep food items cold, especially sandwiches made with mayonnaise. Although Mom usually used Miracle Whip, she was a stickler for keeping anything with mayo (or similar products) cold. I never did get Mom's recipe for potato salad, but a few years ago, I got a recipe from Melissa's aunt Gail. Aunt Gail makes a mean bowl of potato salad because she uses lots of boiled eggs and finely diced onions; Mom did, too. Gail shared her potato salad recipe with me, and I've made it several times since then. However, Melissa tells me, "There's just something a little different. It's not the same as Auntie Gail's." Hmm. Why? It's the same recipe. One summer, my buddy Stu Stetter was visiting with a couple of friends. The four of us went on a men's camping and fishing trip to Ester and Devilfish Lakes on the Arrowhead Trail. I made a batch of Gail's potato salad for the outing. "Isn't this potato salad just the bomb," I asked Stuart. Stu shrugged his shoulders. "It's okay." "Okay? Just okay?" I was aghast. "Are you going to tell me that's not the best potato salad you've ever had?" "It's okay," Stu repeated. Then he chastised me, "It wasn't made with Hellmann's mayonnaise." Seriously? I'd known this guy for over thirty years and had no idea he was a Mayo snob! When we got home, I called Gail to tell her that Stuart didn't love her potato salad. "He complained because it wasn't made with Hellmann's Mayonnaise," I reported. Gail questioned, "Well if you didn't make it with Hellmann's, what did you use?" I told her I used Miracle Whip. "YOU USED MIRACLE WHIP IN MY POTATO SALAD?" She was aghast. "I certainly hope you didn't tell him that was MY recipe!" I've known Gail for twenty years and had no idea she was a Mayo snob, too. After being chastised a second time, I have since switched to Hellmann's—and only Hellmann's—mayonnaise in potato and other salads. However, I will admit I still prefer Miracle Whip on bologna, tuna fish, and peanut butter and pickle sandwiches. A couple of weeks ago, I made a batch of potato salad and used the rest of my jar of Hellmann's. I immediately wrote Hellmann's on the grocery list. Heaven forbid I should start a batch of potato salad someday and discover I was out of Hellmann's. I just don't think I'm emotionally strong enough to handle a third chastisement for using Miracle Whip. On my next trip to the store, I bought a jar of Hellmann's. Unfortunately, I didn't notice the mayo was gray until I got home. I don't know if the jar had an air leak or what, but you can bet your last dollar I will return it for a good jar. The only thing that could get me chastised more severely than not using Hellmann's would be making potato salad with bad mayo and giving my wife a case of green gills. Maybe I'll try something other than potato salad for this year's picnic. Years ago, I told people about a Jell-O salad I had in the 60s made with lime Jell-O and green olives. People didn't believe me; not even my siblings remembered it. People said, "You're sick!" and, "That's just gross!" But I swear to you, Mom made such a salad, and it was good! Mom made the salad in a fancy mold with lime Jell-O as its base. It had mixed in chopped celery, onion, green olives, and chunks of cheddar cheese. But nobody believed me until one day, I found a Jell-O advertisement in a vintage magazine from the 1950s featuring this very salad. Mom made a variety of Jello-O salads. Another lime Jello-O salad had cottage cheese, pineapple, shredded cheddar cheese, and pecans. One of my favorites was orange Jell-O with shredded carrots and raisins. I can still taste them. They were delicious and pretty, too. Speaking of pretty, how about a red Jell-O salad with bananas or strawberries. Jello-O with mandarin oranges is fantastic. Jello-O salad with fruit cocktail or peaches is good, too. And, you can never go wrong with any flavor Jell-O with miniature marshmallows stirred in. (Of course, today, people add whipped cream and call it fluff.) I haven't replaced that bad jar of Hellmann's yet, and we might be having a picnic this Memorial Day weekend. It may be time to surprise my wife with a cool, refreshing Jello-O salad with green olives, diced onion and celery, and chunks of cheddar cheese. I wonder if it would be good with a few sardines added in? I could make it look like the fish were swimming inside. I could even put a figurine of a barefoot little boy in coveralls fishing on top of the salad. I could have a fishing line with a hook and a worm running from his pole into the Jell-O dish. Happy Memorial Day, my friends. During your gatherings with family and friends, be sure to remember the purpose of this weekend: to celebrate, honor, and remember those who gave their lives in military service to this great country of ours.
Back to Blog
Widowmakers5/8/2024 I have wonderful neighbors. One is a retired machinist, which comes in handy for me. Being able to tap into his expertise has often times helped me. He is talented in many ways, including having the best garden along the north shore - maybe all of Minnesota! He’s a giving man, Melissa and I benefit from his bountiful harvest every summer and fall.
Gene is a Finlander, through and through, and mighty proud of it; he’s also a great storyteller with a charming accent. I love listening to him share his tales. I’m a bit of a storyteller myself. That may come from being Irish on my mother’s side. Between the two of us, storytelling can become competitive. One summer day, I took a few slices of homemade cherry pie on a plate and walked to his house just down the road. Lois greeted me at the door. “Hello. Come in, come in.” She said with a big, warm smile, her arm extended, welcoming me to the dining room. “Oh, would you look at that pie! It looks wonderful!” She praised, then turned and hollered through the house, “Geno! Tom is here.” “I’m coming.” Came a reply from the hallway. Lois offered me a beverage. “I can’t stay long,” I said. “But how about a Jack Daniels with a splash of Coke?” Lois blushed, “Well, I don’t believe I have any of that here. How about some fresh-brewed iced tea or water?” I enjoyed a tall, cool glass of iced tea. Gene entered the room, greeted me, and said, “I’ve got a lot of lettuce in the garden. I’ll send some home with you.” He pulled up a chair, and we began to chat. He took a fork and started on the first slice of cherry pie with a lattice top. He told an impressive story. Lois jumped in at the end, declaring, “Geno, you embellish your stories.” He quickly justified his position, “Of course I embellish them. Nobody wants to hear a boring story.” We shared a good laugh over that, and I made a mental note for future reference: nobody wants to hear a boring story. After we said our farewells, I headed out the door, leaving them with their pie. Gene followed me outside with a plastic sack in his hand. “Let me get some lettuce for you. I’ve got a couple different kinds. Lettuce doesn’t last long once it’s ready, so you take all you want.” Melissa and I had an amazing garden-fresh salad that evening with dinner. A few weeks later, after church, I went downstairs to enjoy the pancake breakfast the Knights of Columbus served. I sat at the men’s table with Gene. The conversation was about chainsaws and how good we were at cutting and trimming trees. It soon turned to mishaps that occurred while doing so. I told a story. “When I was about fifteen, I was already pretty good with a chainsaw, yet still in the learning stages. I was standing on a four-foot ladder, cutting a branch about seven inches in diameter from the crabapple tree. This wasn’t one of the newer, sturdy green Werner plastic ladders with the yellow top step. It was an old wooden ladder that was wobbly and swayed back and forth. You had to keep rhythm with it to maintain your footing. As I cut through the branch, it started falling toward me. I knew it was going to knock me and the ladder over, so I jumped to save myself before that could happen. As I came down, landing on my feet, my knees naturally bent to absorb the impact. As you can imagine, while I was jumping with a running chainsaw, I had a firm grip on it. Inadvertently, I had squeezed the throttle wide open, and the spinning chain came down, hitting the top of my left thigh. I instantly pulled up on the chainsaw. As I was standing up, I hit the kill switch, throwing the saw away from me. I stripped right there in the yard to examine my injuries. I feared losing my leg; I was prepared for the worst! The saw shredded my jeans, cut through my heavy thermal underwear, and got my leg. There was just a little blood, about the same amount you would get from a nasty scratch. My cat-like reflexes saved my limb, possibly even my life, but I tell ya, it sure could have been a lot worse.” The men were all in awe, praising me for saving the leg. The Finlander leaned forward; I feared he would one-up me. “Do you know what it means when a tree jumps?” He asked me. “Sure.” I answered, “It’s when the falling tree comes completely separated from the stump, and the trunk literally jumps up in the air. It can be dangerous when it jumps to the side.” Impressed by my knowledge, Gene said, “That’s right,” then rolled into his story. “One day, I was cutting down a birch tree; they call them widowmakers because the tops can fall on your head. They’ve been known to kill a few men, so you need to know what you're doing – you have to be real careful. “Anyway, I cut through the trunk, and this monster tree started to fall. Right at the end, the trunk broke loose and jumped up from the stump. The tree came my way and hit me while I was still holding my chainsaw; it flipped me and the saw, sending us straight up at least ten feet or so into the air. “I did a full somersault - a complete three-sixty- before returning and landing on my feet. Now, while flipping twenty-five feet through the air, I held that saw real firm with my hand still on the throttle. The saw still ran wide open when I landed and hit my leg. “I shut the saw off, then set it down to check my leg. That chain ripped through my Carhartt’s, my jeans, my long underwear, and my leg. “I was bleeding pretty good, but it wasn’t that bad. Some of the boys thought I should go get stitches, but I just called up to the house, ‘Lo, bring me some Band-Aids.’ I put a couple of Band-Aids on it and kept cutting wood the rest of the day.” The men around the table were astonished. Clearly, I was defeated by a more experienced master storyteller. Now there are some unwritten rules in competitive, embellished storytelling. One must never directly denounce, discredit, or attempt to put down their opponent. You have to be a bit passive-aggressive when one-upping. I looked at Gene to clarify, “You were launched thirty-some feet, possibly more, into the air, did a complete somersault, and still landed on your feet while holding your chainsaw?” “That’s right. I came down with my saw still running in my hands.” He assured. Gene was prepared to defend the integrity of his story. Of course, I wasn’t there when it happened, so I couldn’t challenge the validity of his story. I looked at him and said, “You’re a Finlander, aren’t you?” Gene sat up straight with his chest puffed out, “You’re darn right I am, and what of it?” I grinned, then bragged, “Because I am an Irishman. An Irishman would have topped the next tree while he was up there.” We all shared a good laugh over that. “Have a great day, gentlemen.” I offered. Saying no more, I quickly gathered my dishes, then headed for the door before the Finlander had a chance for rebuttal. I have wonderful neighbors, and I appreciate Gene teaching me about widowmakers; they can be dangerous. A few weeks ago, I was driving west on Bergquist Road just outside Two Harbors. We’d had plenty of high winds along the north shore, and a tree top snapped off a big birch tree. “Wow,” I told my dog, Nova Mae, “that’s the biggest widowmaker I’ve ever seen!” I turned the van around to get a photo. I only pulled the van about halfway to the narrow gravel shoulder and turned the flashers on. “You wait here,” I told Nova as I grabbed my phone and got out of the van. Walking in the grass, I noticed how steep and deep the ditch was, eventually running into a small creek at the bottom. “Boy, I’d hate to run over that embankment,” I said to myself. I took several photos of the broken tree top, then saw something in the grass that caught my attention. An empty Smirnoff Vodka bottle lay in the ditch; not far from it was an empty Fireball bottle. I shook my head. “I’ll guarantee, drinking and driving has made far more widows than all the birch trees in the north woods put together,” I said. “Then, you had to throw your empty bottles in the ditch to boot. Nice.” I was disgusted but still picked up their trash and started walking back to my van. Something else caught my attention. Nova Mae was sitting in my seat; she always does that when I get out, but something was strange. It looked like she was sitting at an angle. “Holy crap,” I yelled. “The van is sinking into the shoulder.” I hurried back to the van. I turned the steering wheel slightly toward the road and slowly drove forward, but the van only slid farther into the ditch. I put the van in reverse and tried to back up onto the pavement, but again, I went even deeper into the ditch. “This is not good,” I told Nova Mae. I made one more short attempt to pull forward, but still, the van slid farther away from the road. I was recalling how deep and steep the embankment was in my mind, and that I did not want to go over the edge. My van is a high-profile vehicle, and I seriously thought it would roll over. I reached for Nova’s leash. “Come on, girl. If this thing is going to roll, we’re not going to be in it when it does.” I never realized how heavy the van doors are, especially pushing them at a sharp angle. Finally, I pushed the door open, and Nova and I climbed out. I called the St. Louis County Sheriff’s Department. “Are you away from the vehicle and safely off the road?” the dispatcher asked. When I assured her I was, she said she would send a deputy and a wrecker. Nova and I waited in the grass. Several people stopped in four-wheel-drive pickups, offering to help. “I’m afraid if I try to move it again, it’s going to roll,” I told them. It’s not worth the risk; I’m going to wait for the wrecker to pull me out.” They each agreed. The Sheriff’s Deputy arrived shortly. “Did you just drift off the road,” he asked. “No, I pulled over to take a photo of that tree,” I said, pointing to the birch. “The widowmaker,” He asked. “You got a little too close to the edge, eh?” “No,” I said. I showed the deputy my tire tracks on the shoulder. “I wasn’t far on the shoulder at all,” I said. “The van just started sinking, and when I tried to move it, it slid farther into the ditch. I was afraid it was going to roll, so I called for a tow.” “You probably made the right call,” the deputy said. While waiting for the tow truck, I pointed to the empty liquor bottles in the ditch. “I’ll bet bottles in the ditch have made a lot more widows than all the birch trees in the north woods combined.” “That’s for sure,” the deputy said, “and I’ve been on too many of those calls.” Just then, the driver from Two Harbors Towing arrived, assessed the situation, and decided how to pull the van out of the ditch. “Do you want to climb into the driver’s seat,” he asked. “Not really,” I said. The tow driver assured me the van wouldn’t roll once he connected it to the truck. “Once I get hooked onto the van and get a little tension on the cable, I need you to put it in neutral and turn the wheels slightly toward the road.” I trusted the driver, but just in case…. I took Nova and handed her leash to the sheriff's deputy. “Just in case it goes over, there’s no sense in both of us being in the van.” The deputy held the dog, and the driver winched my van out of the ditch without incident, saving the day. Nova and I continued on our way out Bergquist Road. I called the person I was going to meet and told them I would be delayed about an hour. So, my neighbor Gene taught me what a widowmaker is, as in a birch tree, and I already knew drinking and driving can be a widowmaker. I’m just glad I didn’t discover that Ford vans can also be widowmakers, especially when driven on soft shoulders near steep embankments.
Back to Blog
National Library Week5/1/2024 Libraries are much more than books. I use our library fairly often to research things online because it doesn't have the distractions I have at home. For example, at the library, I've never had a cat (Edgar Allan) walk across my keyboard, typing random gibberish while I went for a drink of water.
The ladies at the Silver Bay Public Library are great! Shannon, Eileen, Julia, and Tracy have helped me a lot over the years, especially with printing and technical issues. (I'm not the kind of guy who can hit 'control print' and make it happen without an intervention.) National Library Week was coming, and I wanted to do something to give back to our local library. Shannon, the librarian, told me they would serve coffee and cookies for Library Week. I promised to send some homemade cookies. Sunday evening, before National Library Week, I baked a couple hundred cookies for the event and gave the library a Pie-O-U. A Pie-O-U is something I came up with years ago for fundraisers. Instead of an I-O-U, people buy chances for $1 each, or 6/$5. If their name is drawn for the Pie-O-U, I will bake a pie of their choice and deliver it to them. It's far more delicious than an I-O-U. I delivered the cookies on Monday morning. On Tuesday, I stopped at the library. "I went to my kitchen for a cookie, but I didn't have any," I said. "If I want one of my cookies, I have to go to the library." We all shared a good laugh about that, and then I snatched a maple nut and a ginger crack cookie. Wednesday, I got a message from my friend Gretchen. (She was my boss when I cooked for the assisted living home.) "Are you home as in Silver Bay? I know, a weird question, but I have a question for you." Well, that certainly got my attention, so I called Gretchen. "Do you have anything made up at home," Gretchen asked. "Something you baked or cooked that would be ready right away?" "I have a pan of lasagna in the freezer," I said, "But that would take two days to thaw." "I need something sooner than that," Gretchen said. "Do you have any cookies, a pie, or a cake at home?" "Okay, that is a strange question," I said. "Tell me what's going on." "I have a friend named Star from Silver Bay," Gretchen said. "Do you happen to know her?" "I don't," I answered. "Is that her real name?" Her real name sounded familiar, so I looked her up. "Oh, yes, she is a Facebook friend." "She's a very dear friend of mine who reads all your stories; she thinks you're the greatest," Gretchen said. "Anyway, she's been under Hospice care for a while now. Last night, just out of the blue, Star said, 'Before I die, I want something Tom Palen made.'" I certainly was not expecting that. "She sees your posts of dinners you make for your wife and the desserts you bake; she wants something you made," Gretchen said. "Star has no idea that I know you, and I was hoping to take something for her when I visit tonight." "Consider it done. I can run to Zup's and whip up a fresh pan of lasagna," I offered. Gretchen said lasagna would be too much. "Do you have any cookies, a pie, or cake at home?" "I baked over two hundred cookies Sunday," I told her, "But I gave them all to the Silver Bay Library for National Library Week." "I know; Star told me all about it," Gretchen said. "She wanted to go to the library for your cookies but can't get there anymore. Star is an avid reader and visited the library almost daily when she was able." "Of course! That's why she looks so familiar," I said. "I would frequently see her there when I went to the library." I had an idea. "Shannon would give me a plate of cookies for her. I can get them to you or deliver them if you'd like." Gretchen explained that Star and her two sisters were staying at a cabin in Beaver Bay, on Lake Superior, about ten miles away, for a couple of days. "Do you have time? That's asking a lot, and I don't want to put you out," Gretchen said. I laughed. "Gretchen, you haven't put me out since that Memorial Day weekend when you scheduled me to cook. It was the weekend I had family coming into town, and you put me on the schedule – but I'm over it now, Gretchen, so don't even worry about it." "It doesn't sound like you're over it," Gretchen rebutted. "You're bringing it up again ten years later!" We shared a good laugh about that. (I am over it.) (Almost.) I told Gretchen I would get the cookies together and call her on my way. Next, I called the library and told Shannon what I was doing. "Could you put together a plate of ginger cracks, maple nut, and snickerdoodle cookies for Star? Three of each, if you have them; her sisters are visiting." "Absolutely," Shannon said. "We love Star. Do you want any date cookies?" The date roll cookies are the hardest to make, so I took fewer of them to the library than the others. Besides, I made another batch of date roll cookie dough the night before to send to my brother but only baked half of the batch. "I just turned the oven on to bake some," I told Shannon. "Do you need more date roll cookies for the library?" I wrapped the freshly baked cookies and went to the library to pick up the other plate. The ladies also made a card for Star: "Silver Bay Public Library loves you, Star. Happy National Library Week. Thanks for being such an amazing supporter. With care, Shannon and Julia." It was perfect! Nova Mae and I gathered the gifts and headed to Beaver Bay. When we arrived at the cabin, Nova stayed in the van. A lady met me at the front door. "You must be Tom," she said. (Gretchen told them I was coming so they wouldn't be alarmed when a strange man showed up at the door with cookies.) "I'm Star's sister, Sue," she said, inviting me inside. "And this is our sister Kitty. Star is in the living room; Sue showed me in. "Hello, Star," I said. She was sitting in a chair where she could look out the patio doors to Lake Superior. "Who's there," Star asked. "I don't see distances too well these days." I approached the side of the chair. "I'm Tom Palen." I introduced myself, as we'd never met in person. "Tom Palen? Oh, my goodness!" Star's face lit up, which made me feel good. "What are you doing here, and how did you even know I was here," she asked. I replied, "Do you know Gretchen?" "Yes, she's a dear friend of mine, she and I go way back," Star said. "So do I," I replied. "Did Gretchen put you up to this?" Starr said. "Gretchen just told me you wanted something I baked," I said. "So, I brought you something." Star's face lit up again. "Is it pie?" "Not pie," I chuckled. "I wanted to bring you cookies, but I gave all my cookies to the library." "Oh, I know that," Star said. "I read that they were serving your cookies all this week, and I so badly wanted to go, but I just can't get out anymore." "Well, I called Shannon at the library, and she sent a plate of cookies for you," I said. "They also sent a card for you." Star read the card and got a little teary-eyed. "Bless those dear hearts." Star sighed, "I just love Shannon, Julia, and all the girls at the library. They treat me so well." I gave her the plate of cookies, and she smiled. "And are these your cookies?" I told her they were, and she said, "Well, tell me about them." "These are Ginger Cracks; I learned to make these with my mom." "Oh, those are the cookies I see in your pictures; I've wanted to try those for a long time," Star said. "These are snickerdoodles. I just started making them not too long ago." Star said her sisters loved snickerdoodles. "The light-colored cookies are Maple Nut, made with Wild Country 100% pure maple syrup harvested right here on the north shore. The key word is nut, so they have walnuts in case you have any allergies," I cautioned. Star said, "I'm not allergic to anything; I can't wait to taste them." Next, I unwrapped the last package of cookies. I handed Star the small tray. "These are Date Roll or Pinwheel cookies made with my Grammy's recipe." "Oh my," she said. "Kitty, Sue, come feel these; they're still warm!" I told her they came out of the oven just before I left home. "I want to try these first while they're warm. Sue, will you get some plates?" As the sisters enjoyed cookies, we shared some wonderful conversation. I learned how Star met Gretchen over twenty years ago. The girls told tales of growing up, and of course, I shared a couple of stories myself. We visited for an hour, and Star was getting tired. "I'd better get going," I said, getting up. But Star began telling her sister another story. "Tom and his wife, Melissa, have a black cat named Edgar Allan and a border collie named Nova Mae. They had another border collie named June Bug before Nova. They travel all around the country with their pets." Star had a twinkle in her eye when she talked about Nova. "I know it will never happen, but I would give anything to meet Nova. She is such a beautiful dog." That warmed my heart. "She's out in the van," I said. "Would you like to meet Nova Mae?" "I would love to, but I don't think I can get out there," Star said. I suggested bringing Nova inside. "We're not allowed to have pets in the cabin," she said. "But if I brought Nova inside, then technically, you did not have a dog in the cabin - I did." I looked to one of the sisters, who nodded with approval. "I'll bring Nova in for just a few moments," I said. Nova Mae was excited to come inside; I held her leash short to keep her from jumping. "Oh, Nova Mae, you are such a pretty girl. Come here, sweetie." Star leaned forward in her chair, sharing hugs and affection; Nova returned the sentiment. "If I could, I'd be rolling on the floor playing with you, Nova." They were buddies from the get-go. I would have loved to have visited longer, but Star was tired, and I wanted to stay within our welcome. I held her hand to say our farewells. "Thank you so much for coming; this really meant a lot to me," Star said. "Thank you for the cookies and for bringing in Nova Mae. I'm so happy I got to meet both of you." I told Star that Nova and I enjoyed meeting her and then went to the van. Driving home, I contemplated people and life—the things we want. We become very goal-driven and busy with work to achieve our wants and desires. We want a bigger house, a new car, a more powerful boat. We save money to go on that exotic vacation and attend a particular school, and of course, we're always worried about putting away enough money for retirement. In contrast, there is Star. In the final chapter of her life, what does Starr want? A cookie! One of my cookies. I'll admit, I was flattered. Such a request could quickly go to my head, but instead, it had a far more spiritual effect on me than feeding my ego. My thoughts ran deep. Star wanted a cookie, but why one of my cookies? There are a lot of bakers on the north shore, and many are far better than me. It humbled me that Star should request something I baked. I believe my ability to bake is a God-given talent. A talent is simply that—just a talent—until it is shared. Once shared, the talent becomes a gift, and gifts are meant to be given away. Something was happening here, and it was more than sheer coincidence. Was this another case of God putting me where He wants me when He wants me there? I felt emotional and blessed to have met Star. I shifted the van to park at the stop sign and took a moment. I was moved to tears as I recited an old Kris Christopherson song: "Why me, Lord? What have I ever done to deserve even one of the pleasures I've known? Tell me, Lord, what did I ever do that was worth love from you and the kindness you've shown." I said a prayer of thanksgiving, dried my eyes, and drove home. Gretchen texted me: "I don't even have words, Tom. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Star means the world to me…I just wanted to do something for her that she wanted…I seriously owe you." Gretchen didn't owe me anything. She told me, "You really made Star's day with your visit." But in truth, I was thrilled to be there—it was Star who made my day! The weekend came and went, and with it came the end of National Library Week. On Monday, I went to the Silver Bay Public Library; there was still the matter of drawing a winner for the Pie-O-U. Shannon brought out a clear container of tickets and asked me to draw the winner. I struggled and laughed, reaching into the jar. "My fat hand won't go through the mouth." A young man, maybe a volunteer, was working behind the counter. "Let's have him draw the winner." The young man's hand fit into the jar just fine. He swirled the tickets vigorously, mixing them well, then pulled a single ticket from the jar. Shannon read the winner's name. (Imagine a drum roll.) "And the winner is Gretchen Jacobsen." Needless to say, I started laughing. What are the odds? Shannon would notify the winner. Gretchen sent me a message: "I appear to have won the Pie-O-U at the library. I'd like to call the cookies an even trade." I wasn't going to accept that. "I'm serious. It was about making a donation to the library," she wrote. "I never win anything, so who'd have thought…." "She's not getting out of the pie that easily," I said, then replied, "What kind of pie do you want?" "Peach is my favorite," Gretchen replied. "Does the pie come with wine?" And so I made a peach pie for Gretchen, sans the wine, and delivered it. I felt very content. "Another Pie-O-U paid in full," I said. What did Gretchen do with the peach pie? She shared it with Star, of course. I thought about the whole week, how one thing led to another, and everything kept falling perfectly into place. These events were much greater than just coincidences. All in all, I'd say this was my best National Library Week EVER!
Back to Blog
Asking Questions4/24/2024 We bought our house in Minnesota almost 10 years ago. Planning to do a complete remodel, I gutted every room in the house.
Naturally, while they were open, I tried to think of everything that should go inside the walls. I ran new plumbing, wiring, and ducts for the heat, air conditioning, and exhaust fans. We ran cable for TV and USB ports in nearly every room. I even remembered running a cable to hardwire the smoke detectors and a waterline for the ice maker in the refrigerator. I thought I’d thought of everything, but it didn’t even occur to me to run wiring for a doorbell. Ironically, we’ve never used the TV cables; they run through the internet now. Nobody connects computers to the internet with wires anymore; everything is wireless. So, I ran a bunch of cables for nothing, but we could use a doorbell. In hindsight, why would we need a doorbell? We live on the edge of being in the sticks with only a few neighbors, and bears don’t ring doorbells; they just come in through a window if they want inside. Besides, even the doorbells with fancy cameras and security systems are wireless these days. We have a wireless doorbell: Nova Mae. Instead of a porch camera, our wireless doorbell has two eyes and fantastic ears. Nova alerts us if anyone comes on the property or pulls in the driveway; she even lets us know if someone is in the street. Nova Mae tells us when the mail is here, when the garbage truck has arrived, and when a delivery truck is at the house. Nova has an assistant for 24-hour security: Edgar Allan. Our black cat takes the night watch, letting us know if a raccoon is robbing the birdfeeder on the deck or if the neighbor’s cat is prowling around the yard. Between the two of them, we are very well protected. The other day, I ran to the post office in town to mail some cookies to a friend. Nova Mae came along for the ride and wanted to go inside with me. “You have to wait here in the van, baby girl,” I told her. As I walked away from the van carrying the package of cookies, Nova barked several times to express her disapproval of my decision. She thought I baked the cookies for her and was not happy that I was sending them away. When I returned to the van, she was acting strangely, as if she had done something, but I didn’t pay much attention and drove home. About ten minutes after I got home, Nova gave two soft, low woofs while looking out the bay window into the driveway. This indicates a low-threat visitor. I looked out the front window and a black Dodge sedan with silver letting on the door was in our driveway. “Silver Bay Police? What are the city police doing all the way out here,” I asked. I looked at Nova Mae, “You better not have done something in the van just because I wouldn’t let you go into the post office!” When I’m driving, if a cop turns around or pulls out behind me, I don’t make them chase me; I pull over. I guess the same is true at home. When the officer got out of his car, I stepped out onto the front porch. “Hello,” I said, walking down the front steps toward the driveway to greet him. Are you supposed to be way out here?” “Not normally, but I have a reason today,” he said, then asked, “Are you Thomas?” Crap. It’s seldom good when a cop, a school teacher, or your mom calls you by your formal first name. I gave my routine, smart-aleck answer, “It depends. Do I owe you money?” We shared a good laugh about that, and then I told him, “I am, but you can call me Tom. What can I do for you?” “Is there something you did or didn’t do that you can think of,” he asked. When I was in town, I did a rolling stop at Davis Street and Outer Drive, about a block from the police department, but I doubted he saw it, and certainly, he wouldn’t follow me seven miles out of town for that. Maybe someone complained that I left my dog in the van, but the temperature was in the forties, so Nova was not in danger. I drew a blank. “If you give me a clue what you’re talking about, I can probably come up with a confession or an alibi.” “Do you have a Facebook account,” he asked. I told him I did. “Have you been in New York lately,” he asked. It was raining, and I could tell he was serious. I looked at the name on his uniform. Sean Bergman “Would you like to step up on the porch and talk, Sean, to get out of the rain?” Under the roof on the porch, Officer Bergman again asked, “Have you been to New York lately or communicated with anyone in New York?” I explained, “I have a lot of friends I’ve met through social media, and I do communicate with them through comments on posts, but I don’t know if I’ve talked to anyone specifically in New York.” He named a person (I don’t remember the name): “Do you know Jane Smith, or does her name mean anything to you?” I told him it did not. He asked, “How many Facebook profiles do you have?” “I only have one profile,” I answered. I felt a bit suspect, “Can you tell me what this is all about?” “A lady reported getting messages through Facebook, saying that you had been kidnapped in New York, and if she didn’t send ten thousand dollars, they were going to feed you to the fish,” Officer Bergman explained. “She said the messages were coming from your Facebook account. They even sent her a recorded message.” He played the message for me, but I couldn’t even understand what the man said. “Obviously, that is not your voice,” he said. “And you only have one profile?” When I confirmed that I had only one profile, Sean pulled it up on his phone. “This is your profile photo and your page, correct?” he asked, scrolling through the page. “It sure looks like my page,” I said. The officer continued, “When I type your name into the search bar, three more pages appear under your name with your photos. Someone has lifted photos from your wall and created clone pages using your name.” I shook my head in disbelief. “I’ve seen a lot of people get cloned,” I told Sean, “But I had no idea I’d been cloned – or kidnapped in New York, for that matter. Why would anyone want to clone me?” I get friend requests from people who follow my stories; I don’t know many of these people, but I do know others. Or, at least, I think I know them. So, I am cautious when anyone sends me a friend request. I’ll reply, where did we meet, or where do you know me from if it’s someone I haven’t met yet? I can usually tell from their response if they are legitimate or not. Just a few days before, I got a friend request from a person in Ottumwa whom I’ve known for over 30 years. The photos on the profile were definitely Don Phillips and he had pothers of himself and his wife, who I also know. It seemed legit, but still, I went through the same precautionary routine, asking where we met or where you knew me from. Don replied, “Facebook suggested you for me to add, that’s why I sent the request. You look familiar also, but I’m not sure where we met.” That sounded suspicious. Don would know the answers. He used to live across the street from me, and our kids went to elementary school together. I'd worked with Don many times through the news department at the radio station, so I asked another question. “Where do you work?” Don replied, “Okay, I work as an expert in crypto trading….” Wow! A clone, for sure! I looked up the real Don Phillips profile. He posted, “I’ve been cloned. Do not accept a friend request from me.” Double wow! It takes a lot of guts to clone Don Phillips, the Sheriff of Wapello County, Iowa. If these hackers will clone the sheriff’s profile, why would they even think twice about cloning me or anyone else? Officer Bergman handed me a card with a web address. “You can go to this website to report the cloning,” he said. We said our farewells and he was on his way. After Sean Bergman left, I spent time reflecting on his visit. Even though I briefly felt like a suspect, I was glad he was asking questions. He’s doing his job and keeping the community safe. It can be a scary world out there. Facebook can be a fun place, but it's necessary for all to be vigilant and watch out for one another. Ask questions when you get a friend invite, and when you're confident it's legitimate, ask more questions. I gave Nova Mae a rub on the head and a treat, too. “Thanks for the heads-up that someone was in the driveway. You're a lot better than any doorbell.” Be safe, my friends.
Back to Blog
Acclimation3/13/2024 As a kid living in Madison, Wisconsin, I was naturally a Green Bay Packers fan. During neighborhood football games, I dreamed of someday replacing Bart Starr as the Packers quarterback, but that was a short-lived dream.
I wanted to play football. "You're too scrawny," said Coach Scents, the junior high coach. "You should go out for track." "You're too small," said coach Clement in high school. "You should try wrestling. You'd do well in the light weights." Admittedly, I was small, but light weights? I lost interest in football, redirecting my enthusiasm to motorcycles, a passion still with me today. In 1983, I rode my motorcycle to Colorado with my dog Harry. We were camping near the Continental Divide, on the Guanella Pass, outside Georgetown. I carried a tent with me but preferred sleeping in the open air; the stars in the mountains are spectacular! Campers in the Rockies had to park a minimum distance from the road, so I rode my bike a little into the open area and camped on the ground next to my bike. Even summer nights are cold in the mountains; having the right camping gear was necessary. I had a zero-degree sleeping bag and a mat and blanket for my dog. I unrolled my bag and laid out Harry's bedding. The wind was calm, so I hung my jacket on the mirror, then took off my shoes and slid them under my motorcycle. I crawled into my sleeping bag, and Harry laid on his mat. I covered him with his blanket, then slid down into my sleeping bag and pulled the drawstring until there was about a two-inch opening left for air. With Harry curled up next to me, we both stayed warm. Harry kept pushing closer and closer until, eventually, he was on top of me. By daybreak, I was having a hard time breathing with his weight on my chest. "Harry, what are you doing? Get off me," I complained while trying to nudge him to one side or the other, but Harry wasn't budging. I loosened the drawstring and pushed open the top of my sleeping bag; that's when the snow fell on my face. "This isn't good," I told my trusty canine. There I was: at an elevation of almost twelve thousand feet, in the mountains, on a motorcycle with a dog, and five inches of fresh snow on the ground. "We're in a predicament here, son," I reported. It wasn't very cold, but it would be challenging to get down the mountainside in the snow. I shook the snow from my sleeping bag, Harry's mat, and blanket and stuffed them into a saddlebag on my bike. With the mild temperature, the snow was already melting, and the outside of my coat on the mirror was I put on an extra flannel shirt, then my coat. I buckled my helmet chin strap, then pulled my gloves from my coat pocket. Fortunately, my gloves stayed dry inside my pockets. "Get on, Harry," I said, and he jumped into the backseat. "Here we go," I said. The back tire spun slightly in the snow, but we got back to the road without much trouble. "It's all downhill from here," I joked with my dog, but Harry wasn't laughing. I kept the pace nice and slow as we started down the mountain. Even though I tried to go slow, the heavy bike picked up speed. It was kind of scary, but what was really frightening was the first hairpin turn ahead of me. The bike was still gaining speed. If I applied more pressure to the brakes, the wheels locked up, and the bike continued to cut through the snow like a razor. I was probably only going fifteen or twenty miles per hour, but I had no control of the bike. As I approached the turn, it felt like I was going at least a hundred. I reached behind me and pushed Harry off the motorcycle. "By God, if I'm going over the mountain's edge, he doesn't need to go with me," I said. When I pushed Harry, my movement caused the bike to wobble and fishtail. The back wheel locked, and I went down on my side. I envisioned myself going over the edge. When I came to a rest, I lay there for a moment, confused and unsure if I had gone over the edge. Harry ran up next to me. "What just happened," I asked as I got up. I looked at my bike lying on its side with a berm of snow in front of it. "It's like I wiped out in slow motion," I answered myself. "The motorcycle pushed snow like a plow until the bike stopped. That was a pretty neat trick," I said as I looked to heaven. I still had several more hairpin turns to negotiate. I got on my knees and dug the snow out from under the bike with my hands, and then stood the motorcycle upright. "Let's go, Harry." We climbed back on the bike and started down the hill again. I tried to keep the pace slow, but the bike still picked up speed against my will. If I got going faster than I was comfortable or approached a hairpin turn, I would call out, "Harry, get off," and he would jump off the bike without me pushing him. Then, I would turn the handlebars slightly while locking the rear brake and gently lay the bike down in the snow. It took a while, but we were finally out of the white stuff about halfway down the mountain. When we returned to Georgetown, I was grateful that the roads were dry and the sun was shining. The roads were dry, but I was wet from being on my knees while digging the snow with my hands and laying on my side when putting the bike down; and when you're wet, you're cold. Harry and I rode to the gas station, and I used their men's room to change into dry clothes. After changing clothes, the cashier grumbled something about the bathrooms being for customers only, so I bought a large cup of coffee and a sandwich. I took Harry's food and water bowls outside to the motorcycle, and we sat on the curb to eat breakfast. Although we still had a couple more days, after the morning's ordeal, Harry and I decided to head toward home. Driving east on I-70, I turned the radio to News Radio 85, KOA. It was mid-morning Sunday, and all the talk on the radio was about the Denver Broncos. All the scuttlebutt was about some new snot-nosed Stanford University quarterback drafted by the Baltimore Colts but refused to play there. The quarterback wanted to be traded to a West Coast division team, and if Baltimore didn't trade him, he would accept the option of playing baseball for the New York Yankees. "And so today rookie quarterback, John Elway, will make his debut before Broncos fans in this first preseason game here at home in Mile High Stadium," the announcer reported. I had never been to a professional football game and thought it might be fun. We made our way into the city and found the football stadium, and I got a single ticket. Fans were really intrigued seeing Harry on the motorcycle with me. Some friendly people tailgating in one of the parking lots, inviting me to park my bike in their space with them. They offered me a hamburger from their grill and a beer. (I declined the brew and opted for a Coke.) They really liked Harry, the dog riding on a motorcycle, and offered him a hamburger. During the pre-game festivities, we played football in the parking lot. Every time I ran for the ball or chased another player, I found myself winded; it was hard to breathe. My new friends had no problems breathing. I thought something was wrong with me. "You're not used to the high altitude of Denver," one of the ladies told me. "It takes a few days to get acclimated," she said. It was the first time I'd become familiar with the term acclimated. I huffed and puffed every time I exerted myself; I couldn't keep up with these guys, who were all older than me. Fortunately, it was getting close to game time. Harry was accustomed to traveling with me. He would stay with the motorcycle while I went to the game, but I fastened his leash to the bike to ensure he didn't wander off. I placed his mat next to the bike and tucked his blanket under the seat, making a tent to be sure he had a shaded area. I filled his bowl with fresh water and then headed into the stadium. I was breathing hard inside the stadium as I climbed the steep steps to find my seat. I was buzzing with excitement in the new environment, my first time ever being in the stands of an NFL game. The green field with white lines looked surreal, far more brilliant than I'd ever seen on a televised game. The colors, sounds, people, and vibrancy in the air all had me awestruck. The people didn't pay much attention when the stadium announcer introduced the visiting team; they even booed some players. "And now, here's your Denver Broncos starting lineup!" The crowd came alive; everyone stood up, cheering as he called out the names, and players ran from the tunnel onto the field. "And, your new Denver Broncos, starting quarterback, number seven – John Elway!" The crow exploded. It sounded like deafening thunder as 75,000 fans stomped their feet on the metal stands. A few people booed the rookie over his controversial way of getting to a West Coast division team. When the game was over, the Broncos defeated the Seattle Seahawks, and the crowd was ecstatic. I was one of them. Back in the parking lot, Harry was off his leash playing with our new friends. "What did you think of the game," one lady asked me. "Wow," I said. "I took the hook, line, and sinker. I am officially a Denver Broncos fan." Several guys patted me on the back, saying, 'Atta boy,' 'Welcome,' 'We're the best fans in the league.' I looked at Harry. He always wore a red bandana around his neck, but one of the ladies bought him a Denver Broncos kerchief and tied it around his neck, too; how fitting. "I guess Harry is now a Broncos fan, too." "See," the one lady said. "It didn't take you two very long to acclimate." We all shared a good laugh about that. But acclimation isn't always that quick. Last December, I helped with a project in Florida for two weeks before Christmas. I acclimated to the beautiful weather almost instantly. After the holidays, Melissa returned to Florida with me for two months to continue helping with the work. January was also nice, but by February, the temperatures were getting a little too warm for me, and it was so humid! A friend who relocated to Florida told me, "I got used to the heat pretty quickly, but you'll never get used to the humidity, and I've been here for seventeen years." I could believe that. This year, I came to Texas for three weeks to help my sister with some work around her house. The weather has been pretty nice so far, with only a couple of hot days (Upper 80s). I would stop over and visit the crew next door, who were building a garage on the neighbor's lot. The workers were all Mexican, and a couple did not speak English, but that didn't stop us from communicating. I spent a whole day cutting, gathering, stacking, and piling brush and yard waste to burn the following day. I texted my friend Bob Henricks: "I'm lighting the fire at 5:00 am. Would you like to bring a mug and join me for morning coffee?" It didn't take Bob long to respond: 'Wow! God's not even up at 5 am. I'll pass on that, but I will get in touch with you tomorrow morning.' I laughed out loud at his response. "See, this retirement business makes a guy soft," I told myself. I sent Bob another text, "I would love to have you join me at 7, 8, or 9… Whatever works for you. The fire will still be burning." Then I set my alarm for 4:30 am. I got up as soon as the alarm sounded. There would be no hitting snooze this morning; I was excited to get the fire lit on time. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and said my morning prayers. Then, I made a cup of coffee and stepped outside. It was pitch black! "God, are you awake," I asked. "Did you forget to start the new day? Where is the dawn?" Not hearing a reply, I called again softly, "God, are you there?" Finally, a voice from the dark sky replied, "I'm sleeping. What do you need?" Apparently, I had acclimated to the 70-80° days. The warmer temperatures tricked my body into thinking it was summertime by northern Minnesota standards. The voice spoke again, "It's March, Tom. March is still winter. I'm not turning the light on until 6:30. Now go back to bed." Instead, I took my coffee and sat on the back deck; it was a good time for some prayer and meditation. "What now," the voice said. "Oops, I was just saying some prayers," I explained. "Okay," said the voice. You talk; I'll listen and get back to you a little later." I was good with that. At 6:00, dawn broke, and I lighted the fire. The morning was mild, and as the flames blazed, it got sweltering, working near the fire. I remember that day Harry and I rode down the mountainside, cold and wet. "Boy, I sure could have used some of this warmth back then," I said. The fire burned quicker than I anticipated. I had stacked several large piles of 12' bamboo shoots the day before. Wow! I thought pine popped a lot when burning. Every time I threw another load of bamboo on the fire, it sounded like I had tossed in a pack or two of Black Jack firecrackers. At 7:20, I texted Bob, "She's going down fast. Come see how the bamboo burns." Bob finally came over a little after 9, "Good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty," I teased. Bob helped me drag more branches from the tree line to throw on the fire. Then, I started raking and burning leaves. It was hot, dusty, and dirty work, but I enjoyed it and kept the fire going until after 7 pm. At one point, I carried my leaf rake next door and handed it and my work gloves to a painter, and then I took his paint sprayer. Although he didn't speak English, he knew what I was getting at. "No, no, no," he said, taking his paint gun from my hand and returning my rake. Then he said something in Spanish, and the crew laughed, and others commented more. Although I did not understand a word they said, I knew they were having fun teasing me, and I laughed along with them. Another worker translated, "He said you're working too hard to take your rake and go away." We all shared a good laugh about that. Pointing at the sweat on my brow, the foreman teased me, "You Minnesota boys haven't acclimated to our Texas weather. This isn't hot – this is a nice day for working." We all laughed about that and then returned to work. The next morning brought a big change in the weather, with the temperature dropping to 45° at 8 am – a temperature I am well accustomed to. My Mexican friends were all bundled up in hoodies, wearing stocking caps and gloves. Naturally, I went next door wearing a flannel shirt with no hat or gloves. I gave a little tug on the foreman's black stocking hat in the driveway. "What is this," I asked. "It's my hat to keep my head warm," the foreman said. "It's freezing out here." "This isn't freezing," I laughed. "This is nice weather for working. It seems you Texas boys haven't acclimated to this lovely Minnesota weather." We shared a good laugh about that, and then I pointed to his stocking cap again, "By the way, that isn't a hat," I said, reaching inside my shirt. I pulled out my rabbit-fur-lined bomber cap with the big ear flaps like a magician would pull a rabbit from a top hat; I slapped it on, pointed to my head, and said, "THIS, my friend, is a hat!" We all laughed a lot about that. The crew guys started making comments and laughing. I couldn't understand their Spanish, but I knew they were having fun teasing their boss, and I laughed along. The foreman looked at me and asked, "Haven't you got some raking to do?" "Nope," I said. "I'm going to take down a tree in the front yard today," then went on my way. Traveling around the country, it’s necessary to adjust to different climates, humidities, elevation changes, and such. But I've never needed to acclimate to the people – and language barriers have never interfered with communication. |