Tom Palen,a broadcaster, pilot, writer, and our Guest Columnist! Archives
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The Opel Kadett7/25/2018 We pulled up in front of the house on Hegg Avenue, in Madison, Wisconsin. A man was mowing the front lawn. I walked up to him and asked, “Hi, would you mind if I took a picture of your house?” Caught off guard by such a strange request, he questioned, “What for?” “I used to live here, years ago.” I explained, “I too have mowed this lawn many times.” I continued, “There used to be a white board fence around this flower bed. I hated mowing around that.”
“So you lived here, eh?” He said, “Yes.” I went on, “Under your front porch is a fruit cellar, the concrete slab of the porch makes the ceiling.” He smiled, “Are you part of the big family that lived here?” “Yes, I am,” I started to tell him the layout of his home. He interrupted, “Would you like to come in and see the house?” I finally took a breath, “Yes, I really would.” I introduced myself and Fred began to walk me down the driveway. “We’re getting ready for company, so it will have to be a fast tour.” He said. I met his wife and daughter who were also working, getting ready to host guests. There is a parking area in front of the garage that kind of wraps around the house, leading to the backyard and back door. I stood and looked in the garage. The garage. Oh the memories I have of that special place! It’s a square building with a medium pitched roof. Inside, to the left, is an open staircase that goes up to an attic. Most people would use that area for storage I suppose, but it was our secret clubhouse when I was little. On the right front side there is a recess for the walk door. The roofline provides protection over this entry, an area that creates an alcove inside the garage. It was a good area for a work bench, or to store your lawn mower. It wouldn’t fit a full size car but when it was our garage, it’s where we parked my Opel. I loved that car. It was a 1968, dark blue Opel Kadett, two door station wagon - a German import sold by Buick. It had a grey leather interior (actually it was vinyl, but calling it leather sounds more impressive) It was a four cylinder, four speed manual transmission. It had no bells or whistles. The front side windows went up and down by a hand crank, the backseat wing windows were also manual. It didn’t have air conditioning, so I went cruising down the roads with the window open and my arm resting on the door, while the wind blew through the car, keeping me cool. There was no power steering or power brakes, but honestly, the Opel was so lightweight it didn’t need them. The only two options the car had were an A.M. radio and the luggage rack on top. The Opel was actually my parents car; one they had purchased for the teenage kids in our family to drive and share. I told Dad I was saving my lawn mowing money and I would buy the car to be my own as soon as I had enough cash. My brothers Peter and Danny drove the car and whenever I rode with them I paid close attention to the way they worked the pedals and the shifter. From there, I taught myself how to drive a clutch in that car. I got really good at it, too. I even learned how I could use the parking brake to keep the car from rolling backwards when taking off from a stop sign atop a steep hill. I loved that car! Sometimes, I’d load the car with my younger brothers and sisters and take them for a ride; we’d go get ice cream, go to the beach, or to the store. One time I took them to the drive-in movies. I parked the car backwards. We lifted the back hatch, stretched out and ate popcorn and drank Kool-Aid that we brought from home, while we watched the show. It was fun. I took that car everywhere. I drove it to Saint Louis, to visit the Arch; to New York City, to see the Empire State Building, then upstate to experience the majestic Niagara Falls. I went to Colorado to climb the Rocky Mountains and Arizona to gaze down into the Grand Canyon. I drove to California - to the Redwood Forest, then down to Disneyland. I went to Florida to Cape Canaveral where all the Apollo Rockets were launched. I visited the beaches and the new Disney World while I was there. I drove to Green Bay where I cheered on the Packers at Lambeau Field; they went on to shut out the Chicago Bears 21-0. I drove to Port Washington, Wisconsin, to watch the big ships come in off Lake Michigan and unload their coal at the power plant. I went fishing for Coho salmon, off the breakwater; I caught a few monsters! I put the backseat down, took a sleeping bag and a pillow and slept many nights in the back of that car. One time, a police officer pulled me over while I was driving the Opel. He asked for my driver’s license. When I told him I didn’t have one, he asked how far I was from home. “Not very far at all.” I told him. “Well, be careful driving home and get a driver’s license before you drive again. Okay?” I assured him I would do that, then drove home. A few days later, he pulled me over again wanting to see my license. “I don’t have one yet.“ I told him. “Why not?” He wanted to know, “I told you to go get a driver’s license before driving again.” I explained, “When I went in to take the test, they told me I couldn’t get a license until I’m sixteen.” “How old are you?” He asked, I answered, “twelve, going on thirteen.” He smiled, “Oh, I see. Well, drive home carefully and avoid driving too much until you get a license.” He said, then got in his patrol car and went on his way. Let me explain; a couple weeks before I started driving the Opel Kadett, one of my sisters was driving it. A little figure showed up on the dashboard, so she drove the car several miles home to tell my Dad, “A little red oil lamp came on the dashboard. What does that mean?” Dad was livid; she blew the engine in the car. My brothers, Peter and Danny, pushed the Opel into the garage, tucking it into the alcove. They jacked it up and put the car on cement blocks where they were going to try to pull the engine to repair it. For all the tens of thousands of miles I put on that Opel; the hours and hours I had driven it all around the country; all the places I had been - that car never physically left the garage. I sat behind the wheel of the Opel for hours. I did all the shifting and ran the gas and the brakes. I learned to manage the heat and defrosters too. Sometimes, I made engine noises and sometimes I didn’t. I learned to program the pre-set buttons, and often sang along with my favorite songs that were playing on the radio - WISM or WMAD. I would put the sun visors down in the late afternoon, when heading west, just like I had seen my dad do. Being up on blocks, the front wheels turned freely. I taught myself to parallel park; how to use turn signals, the emergency brake and everything, I even practiced how to get it running when the engine didn’t want to start on cold winter days. I don’t remember if Peter and Danny ever rebuilt the engine or if Dad sold it with the bad motor. I just know one day I went to the garage and the little station wagon was gone. All that remained in its place were four cement blacks. I was sad about that. Although only within my imagination, everything I’ve told you in this story is true. It all happened and it came back to me so very clearly while standing in that driveway on Hegg Avenue, some forty-five years later. It was still so real within my mind, I couldn’t see what Fred had in that alcove. I could only see the dark blue, ‘68 Opel Kadett, two door station wagon sitting up on blocks. A short kid with scruffy brown hair and glasses was behind the wheel, stretching his neck upward to see over the hood, driving the car and having a ball! I fought off the tears that welled in my eyes and told Fred, “On the backside of the garage there is a narrow addition.” “Yes, the shed. It’s still there.” He said. I told him, “My dad had that addition built to store our boat in the winter. We had an old red and white 17’ Lone Star aluminum boat with a 50 horse power Mercury outboard motor...” I began thinking of all the hours I maneuvered that boat on the water after the Opel Kadett was gone. In calm waters and rough seas, I fearlessly sailed all around the world without leaving a safe place we called, “the boat house,” behind the garage on Hegg Avenue.
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A Helping Hand7/17/2018 As soon as I pulled into the rest area in Wiggins, Colorado, I noticed a man on the far end of the truck and trailer parking area. He was changing a flat tire on his pop-up camper. His wife stood to the side to assist if needed.
Poor guy. Campers don’t come with jacks or lug nut wrenches, so, when dealing with a flat tire, one has to depend on the tools that came with their car. These tools are usually tucked under a cover in the back of a smaller sport utility vehicle. They are never easy to get to, especially for a man on vacation with his family. The back hatch on the SUV was raised. There were sleeping bags, baskets of toys, coolers, pillows and blankets and suitcases sprawled about the ground, with some setting on the top corner of his camper. He had to unload everything to get to the jack. I had empathy for the poor guy, as I have been in his shoes many times before. Trailer tires always seem to be a challenge to change because inevitably something doesn’t fit or isn’t quite right. They are especially trying on such a hot day, as it had been, but at least he had some relief from the higher temperatures earlier in the day. It had been a long, hot drive across Nebraska. Mid-day temperatures had been in the mid to upper nineties with high humidity. It was the kind of day where stepping out of an air conditioned car, or building, was like entering a blast furnace. The sun beat down on me from above. It was hot on my arms, head, shoulders and anywhere else it touched. My t-shirt felt like it just came out of a hot dryer, which might feel good in the winter, but today it was just miserable. Sweltering heat rose from the asphalt to greet me, making it hard to breathe. By the time we reached Colorado, rain showers came and went and the sun was making its way to the lower western sky. The precipitation was welcome. Not only does the state desperately need the rain, but the storm front dropped the temperatures between ten and fifteen degrees, bringing welcome relief from the oven-like conditions. I parked alongside a semi. Although a bit cooler, it was still in the 80’s. I would leave the car running with the air conditioner on for June and Edgar. The shadow cast from his rig would keep the hot sun off my car while I visited the men’s room. The driver was working on his truck with several side compartments open. I greeted him, “It’s a hot one today, isn’t it?” He sighed and said, “Too hot.” as he continued digging though his tool box. I looked up at his cab and saw his dog looking down at me. The driver’s dog hadn’t noticed June sitting in our car and she hadn’t seen him yet, either. I didn’t want them barking at each other so I got back in the car and backed up far enough where the two dogs would not have sight of one another. The driver, with a curious look on his face, watched as I backed up. When I got out of the car, I smiled and explained, “It wasn’t anything you said. I didn’t want my dog barking at your dog; I moved back so they wouldn’t see each other.” He was a friendly man. “Thank you for that, “ He said, adding, “My dog will bark at anything and the last thing I want right now is to hear him barking.” After our break and taking June and Edgar for a walk, I started to drive away. Melissa suggested we should go ahead and make sandwiches before getting back on the road. I parked again, this time closer to the man who was still working on his tire. I fixed our meal from the cooler in the back of the car and handed the plates to Melissa. Then, I went over to see if the man needed any help. “Can I help you with anything?” I asked the man. He had removed two of the five lug nuts with his socket wrench by hitting the ratchet wrench handle with the backside of his hatchet. “The nuts are really tight, they don’t want to come off.” He said. “I’ve been working on these two for quite a while. He held his hand up showing me his skinned up knuckles and scraped backside of his hand. “The handle is too short, I keep slipping off the wrench. My hand has about had it.” He said, then asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have any kind of a breaker bar, would you?” “I’m sorry, I don’t.” I said, “but there is a truck driver over there working on his rig. You might go ask, he might have something.” The man thanked me, then walked over toward the truck. He was a well built, muscular younger man, well capable of changing a tire, he just didn’t have the right tool. I felt bad driving away, but there was really nothing I could do to further help him. Next to the rest area was a truck stop. I noticed a couple guys working in the parking lot and quickly turned the wheel to pull in. One man was a bit husky, taller with short hair. The other was about my height, thin with long hair tied back. Both men were dirty with black dust stuck to their skin, shirt and pants. The two men were patching spots in the asphalt. I said hello then asked, “Would you have a breaker bar I could borrow?” The guy with the long hair immediately set down his shovel and said, “Let’s see what I’ve got.’ He jumped up into the open box of an orange Chevy crew cab truck and began digging through tools, holding up a large pry bar. “Will this work?” He asked. “No, I need a pipe to slip over the end of a ratchet.” I explained why I needed it, then asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have a four-way wrench would you?” “I sure do.” He said and jumped from the back of the truck. He dug through more tools in the backseat of his truck, then came up with the wrench I was looking for. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.” I told him, then assured him I would be back shortly with his wrench. I returned to the rest area, pulling up alongside the man’s camper. He hadn’t made any more progress on the three remaining lug nuts. I smiled, walking toward him, holding up the four-way wrench and told him, “I really wanted to help you out, but didn’t have the tools. When I saw your pregnant wife standing here and your little kid sitting in the car - man that was a clincher. I knew I had to help.” “Hey!” He said with a full grin. “Where did you get that?” I handed him the wrench. He had been struggling with that tire for over an hour and clearly wasn’t going to get the lug nuts off with the tools he had. Within a minute, using the right wrench, he had the remaining nuts off the wheel. We chatted while he finished changing the tire - Melissa kept his wife company. I learned his name was Brandon; a firefighter from Eerie, Colorado. He, along with his wife and daughter, had been camping at Lake McConaughy in Nebraska. “We’re still 70 miles from home.” He said, “I don’t know what I would have done without this wrench. I can’t thank you enough! ” Brandon told his wife, “We have to get one of these four-way wrenches to keep in the camper when we get home.” She held up her phone, “I already put it on the list.” Brandon tightened the lug nuts and took the trailer off the jack. He checked each nut again, then handed me the wrench. We said our farewells. Brandon started repacking his car, and we drove back to the truck stop. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you letting me use this wrench.” I said, setting the wrench on his tailgate. The long haired man said, “No problem man. Don’t worry about it.” The guy with the short hair said, “You don’t have to thank us - you’re going to get a bill in the mail.” We all shared a good laugh about that. I drove away feeling really good. I’ve helped a lot of people in my time, but this was more special - probably because Brandon was a firefighter. Firefighters put out fires. But far more often than putting out fires, they are putting out helping hands. At accidents, medical calls, disasters of every kind; in our schools, communities and neighborhoods; in their local towns and towns far away - on or off the clock, a firefighter always has a helping hand. It felt pretty darn good to return a helping hand.
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Cooler Thoughts7/10/2018 Reading how hot it is around the country, for relief I let my mind wander to cooler days of yore. At a cafe in a small town in the mountains of Idaho, some older gentlemen were having coffee on a snowy morning.
Their conversation ranged vastly. From fishing in the spring, shoveling snow, what they had for dinner last night, to overhauling a lawn mower engine. Apparently old Don has had the same mower since the sixties, and keeps rebuilding it. “Ya can’t buy mowers like that anymore. “ He stated with authority. “The new ones have too many plastic pieces and they fall apart.” Another man chimed in, “Why are you talking about lawn mowers? It’s snowing out there, man! Do you know anything about snow blowers?” The first man shook his head, “I don’t need a snowblower, I’ve got a good shovel.” Another man laughed, “Is that the same shovel you bought in the sixties?” They all had a good laugh about that. They told jokes. spoke of fun things, and serious topics too. The conversation turned to frozen pizza; which brand was the best. “What do you want on your Tombstone?” One man joked. That led to conversation about how they wanted to be remembered when they’re gone - what they wanted people to say about them. It was fun listening, to say the least. On my way out, I commented to the group, that I found their conversation to be quite interesting especially the last part. One man asked me, “What would you like to hear people say about you when you’re gone?” I rubbed my chin, thought for a moment, then answered. “I guess I’d like to hear the undertaker tell his assistant, ‘Tom pulled a lot of pranks in his time. You better check for a pulse one more time before embalming him!’” We all shared a hearty laugh. I offered salutations for a good day, then headed to the counter to pay for my breakfast. At the register, I asked the waitress to put their coffees on my tab. “What about their donuts?” She asked. “I’ll get those as well.” I answered. Outside, I stretched my arms out like wings on an airplane and turned a full circle taking in the beauty of the mountains all around me. I tilted my head back, pointing my nose upward toward the snowy sky and did another turn. Snow flakes fell, and melted on my face, cooling my cheeks. I managed to catch a few on my tongue as well. They were delicious! Taking a deep breath of fresh air, I gave thanks for the beautiful day, and for the men inside who entertained me during breakfast. “Life is good.” I said, then got in my car and drove away. It is hot today. Thoughts and good memories of wintertime might help cool you down and bring a smile to your face. It worked for me. To easily share this story with a friend, visit our website at www.fairmontphotopress.com
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Fireworks7/3/2018 With the Fourth of July, come the big fireworks displays. Rockets launched into the air, bursting into big colorful shapes, often times stacked on top of one another. They fall toward the ground like rain, drawing ooo’s and awes, until they dissipate. Another rocket shoots through their path, into the sky to continue the show. Loud thunderous booms add to the excitement, celebrating the freedom of our great country.
While some will buy additional fireworks to set off in addition to the public displays,, my life seems to be filled with natural fireworks all year round. For example: We bought a vintage Alaskan, pickup camper in Washington. We’re still looking for an old truck to carry it, so we had to trailer it back to Minnesota. On the way home, we opted to spend the night in the camper, rather than a motel. Melissa, June and I were trying to get to sleep while Edgar insisted on exploring every square inch of the new camper - in the dark. Toward our feet is a wide horizontal window with an old roller shade for privacy. Edgar got behind the shade. Backlit by street lights, he was a silhouette behind a screen, pacing back and forth like an alley cat walking the top rail of a wooden fence during a full moon. It was hilarious; the show he was putting on. I’ve no idea how he did it, but he managed to snap the shade, releasing it. The shade retracted at a high rate of speed, back up on the roller with a couple extra spins at the end! ZIIING- WHAP-WHAP-WHAP!!! It scared the bejeebers outta that cat, and he took off running! Have you ever seen a cat run a quarter mile...full speed...inside an eight-by-seven-foot box? It’s a hard cross between comedy and danger. The best you can do is to cover your head with your arms, and pray that you don’t wet yourself laughing during the ruckus. (Fellas, tightly crossing your legs or rolling onto your stomach is strongly advised.) What a nut! After this outburst he spent the majority of the night under the bed. In the morning I took June for a walk down the Centennial Trail, a paved recreational path just outside Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. It’s was a beautiful morn; cool fresh air, sunshine and tall mountains in every direction I looked. A six-foot high chain link fence separates the trail from houses in the area. June on her leash, saw a chipmunk ahead and took off after it. The retractable leash whirred as she pulled out the entire fifteen feet! She was as close as I’ve ever seen to catching that little booger. Two feet beyond the end of June’s reach, the critter jumped through the fence. June nearly jerked my arm out of its socket, then continued tugging, pulling me over far enough so she could reach the fence. Safely on the other side of the fence, the chipmunk turned and gave June a piece of his mind. June barked back - an argument between the two ensued. The furry little critter charged back at June, jumping toward June’s face. I wasn’t sure if he actually came through the the fence until I pulled June back toward me. With all four feet clinging to the wires, an inch from my dogs face, the chattering and subsequent barking continued. I yelled, “June! Leave it!” And pulled back on her leash. “Have you lost your cotton-picking mind?” I asked. “If that chipmunk latches on to your nose, you’re going to get hurt! You might even lose and eye!” June returned to my side. The chipmunk momentarily retreated, then charged though the fence at June! June took off running away from the crazed rodent. The leash whizzed as she ran. Reaching the end of the line, she nearly pulled me off my feet. I stomped my feet at the chipmunk and yelled, “Get outta here!” The chipmunk turned back and ran to the top of the fence. He jumped to a tree branch and continued chattering at us. I yelled back, “Go home ya little five-inch terrorist!” He disappeared into the leaves and branches.. I tried to regain composure while looking around to find the dooty-bag I dropped during the mayhem. That’s when I noticed the two bicyclists, wearing black spandex trimmed with lime green and orange accents. They sat atop their seats, each with one foot on the ground. Apparently they had watched the whole thing. The rider on the right adjusted his black plastic helmet and said, “Lucky chipmunk!” I bent over, picking up my dark green plastic sack, then stood up and said, “Lucky dog!” We all shared a good laugh. I walked off to the west with June, they pedaled away to the east. I don’t need extra fireworks? Real life offers the best fireworks displays, happening around us every day!
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Second Place Isn't So Bad6/26/2018 Two elderly gentlemen stood on the walk near the front door of Super One Foods, in Two Harbors, Minnesota. The ornery look on both their faces told me I should slow down and do a little eavesdropping. Maybe, I would learn something today.
The man headed in was pushing two small shopping carts; one carrying his green re-usable grocery bag. He was wearing a green plaid long sleeve shirt, buttoned all the way to the top and tucked into his perfectly pressed blue jeans. A handsome fellow, he sported a grey tweed Gatsby cap. The other man, heading out, was wearing khaki pants with tennis shoes, a faded Minnesota Vikings windbreaker, zipped all the way up, and a worn tan fedora. “I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m 98.” said the man wearing his team’s logo, “I’m only 91 - born in 1927.” He explained. The second man, in the plaid shirt, said, “It’s because you’re just an old bag of dust. That’s why they think you’re 98.” They shared a good laugh together. “What about you? Aren’t you the same age as me?” Asked the man in purple and gold, of his friend. Defending his youthful age, the second man replied, “Heck no, I’m not nearly that old! I’m only 89.” The first man laughed, “Well, what are you talking about? You’re just an old bag of dust yourself!” The men shared another hearty laugh, followed by a series of dry coughs. “Well, I gotta go.” Said the first man, explaining, “My boy already went to the car. These kids just ain’t got the energy our generation has.” I smiled thinking to myself, “If he’s 91, his boy is probably 70 or so.” They said their farewells. The first man shuffled off toward the parking lot. I stepped ahead of the second man with the green plaid shirt, who was going into the store. I waved my hand for the sensor and the big panes of glass glided off to their respective sides. “Here, allow me to get the door for you.” I said, motioning for him to go before me. “You’re just like me.” The man chuckled, “I always offer to get the door, too, but I only do it for the ladies!” We shared a good laugh. “Well, you seem like quite the gentleman.” I said, adding, “I’ll bet the ladies really go for you.” “Yes, they do.” He said, laughing, then asked, “So you like boys, huh?” He began roaring with laughter as he pushed his carts into the vestibule with a bit of a spring in his step. It didn’t seem he was going to give me time to reply. I’m glad I wasn’t drinking anything when he said that, as the beverage surely would have come through my nose! It took me a moment to join him in laughter as I followed him inside. “Here. You want a basket?” He asked, pushing one my way. “I always bring in two from the parking lot.” He explained, “One for me and one to help the kid that has to bring them all in.” I took the cart and thanked him, then, pushing the small cart with the rest, I pulled out a big one. The man stood, watching as I did this. “A big cart? So you’re married, eh?” He said, laughing as he headed inside the store. Later, when I told my wife this story she said, “You should have told him, ‘Yes, I’m married. His name is George, but I never let my husband do the shopping.”’ That made me laugh. Normally, I would have had such come back, but I was caught off guard by his original question. I’ve never been asked if I liked boys, let alone by a man of his age. Inside, I made my way down aisle five, looking for lasagna noodles. There was a young couple with two kids in a racecar shopping cart and a third pushing his own miniature cart. They were standing in front of the pasta sauce in this same aisle. The oldest kid was reaching for a jar at eye level on the second shelf. “Not that one. Get two from the bottom, honey.” His mom said, pointing to the spaghetti sauce on the bottom shelf. The kid did exactly as he was told. While mom looked at something behind her, he grabbed the very bottom jar; the jars stacked on top of it tumbled to the floor. Then he went for a second jar from the bottom, knocking down even more jars! In all, two jars of sauce were in his cart, while seven jars rolled freely about the aisle. His dad started to scold him, “Pick them up!” He demanded in a cross voice, but made no effort to help the kid. I retrieved two of the jars that came my way. I handed them to the boy who was on his knees gathering the others. “Here you go, partner.” I said to him. He took the jars one at a time. Looking down toward the floor, in a soft, ashamed voice he replied, “Thank you.” “It’s okay,” I said to reassure him, “There’s no harm done. None of them broke.” I smiled at his dad and asked, “When did they start putting Paul Newman spaghetti sauce in a plastic jar?” The dad grumbled something. Obviously, he didn’t want to be at the store. I said, “If this is the worst thing that happens to you today, then you’ve had a pretty good day, friend!” He gave me a less than pleasant grin and said, “Yeah, right.” I moved on down the aisle, thinking to myself, “What a jerk.” Several items later I was in the main aisle that runs down the middle of the store, perpendicular to the grocery aisles. An older lady was looking over the display of specially priced cereals. I grabbed a box of Cheerios, placing it in my cart. Nodding toward her smaller grocery cart, I asked, “Do you want to race that thing?” She scowled at me and replied, “Don’t be a smart aleck!” I smiled at her and wheeled my way back toward the dairy section. I needed sour cream - and speaking of sour, how about her attitude, huh? I began wondering if some place in the store there was a kiosk where they were handing out free samples of grouch biscuits! I grabbed my dairy goods and headed for the checkouts. Oops, I forgot to get bananas and strawberries. Back in the produce section, I again came across the little boy and his family. They were by the bananas. I was standing by the strawberries. With a small bunch of bananas in his cart, the grumpy dad said to the boy, “We need more bananas than that.” The kid grabbed a few more small bunches of bananas, two or three in each, placing them one at a time in his little cart, until the dad complained, “Why didn’t you just get one big bunch instead of all those little ones?” The kid reached for a larger bunch, and the dad snapped, “Put those back. You don’t need any more.” I thought if I could get the dad to smile, maybe he’d lighten up on the kid. “You never want to put all your eggs in one basket.” I said, then offered, “So, it’s probably safer not to keep all your bananas in one bunch.” The dad didn’t say anything, but gave me another look of distaste. I smiled, put my strawberries in my cart and moved on. I clearly wasn’t going to make him smile - not today anyway. I guess some people just want to be miserable, but did he have to spread his misery to the young boy? Walking down the center aisle toward the checkout lanes, I passed the man in the green plaid shirt. He no longer had his cart, instead he was carrying a basket with just a few items, and his green reusable grocery bag. “Where’d your cart go?” I asked him. “Well, I guess I didn’t need as much as I thought, so I traded the cart for a basket.” He said. I grinned, “Did your date for tonight cancel?” “No,” he chuckled, “She’s taking me out for dinner and she’s buying.” He replied. We shared a good laugh, then each went our separate ways. He one-upped me again! I paid for, and bagged, my goods, then placed the full sacks in my cart. I pushed it out to my car and loaded the bags into the back seat. While returning my cart to the corral, I saw the lady from the cereal display walking out the front doors. I thought about saying something to her, but felt it may be better if she was left alone. It’s like poking a hornet’s nest and getting away with it - you’d best not give it another poke. I kept quiet and returned to my car. She passed me while I was backing out of my parking space. I pulled forward a bit until she was right alongside my car. I couldn’t resist. I lowered my passenger side window to challenge her, “I’ll race you to your car!” She gave me a scowling look and kept walking. Just ahead, a van was backing out from his parking space. It was one of those big Ford Transit vans with the high top, extra long, and no back windows at all. Assuming he could see me, I stopped to let him out. Behind the van on the opposite side of the lane, was a full-size, four door Dodge dually pickup with a long bed. He was parked at an angle, taking two spaces and his rear end was still sticking out from his space. The van was so long the driver had to do some maneuvering and wiggling to get out. I didn’t see where the older gal went; she must have passed behind the van with her cart. She was standing with a now empty grocery cart at the end of a Buick waiting to greet me. She positioned her thumbs on each side of her head, with her fingers all stretched out. I looked at her; I was puzzled wondering, “Is she giving me...she is! She’s giving me moose antlers!” I started laughing out loud! As I passed her, she scrunched up her face, stuck out her tongue, and went, “pftttthhhh!” while wiggling her fingers. She won the race fair and square. I conceded, giving her a couple congratulatory toots on the horn and waving with approval. Well played, ma’am. Very well played! Pulling onto the street from the parking lot, I zipped up to the intersection hitting the light’s green! “This has been a good day!” I said, turning left onto Highway 61, heading for home. I thought about the two gentlemen, the little boy and his dad, and the lady. The man in the plaid shirt outwitted me. I wasn’t going to break the dad’s foul mood, and the lady beat me in a race when she was on foot, and I was driving my car. As I came to the last intersection in Two Harbors, I smiled, rolling through the green light. I may not have won a single match today, but I did hit all the lights green going through town - and second place isn’t so bad! “Darn it.” I said aloud. “I was standing right there...I got the strawberries, but forgot to put bananas in my cart.” Oh well. Now I have a reason to go back to the grocery store tomorrow.
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I've Still Got It6/20/2018 With applications sent out to various school districts, Annie had been packing her household for weeks getting ready for the inevitable move. When she accepted a teaching position at a rural district, she set out on her own to Mason City, Iowa to find an apartment; picking a place without the assistance of her parents - without her dad’s help.
I was so proud of her and at the same time found myself wallowing in a bit of self pity. She’s all grown up now, maybe she doesn’t need her dad anymore. Then came the call, “When can you come help me move, Dad?” she asked. I smiled. Maybe I’ve still got it - this Dad thing. “We can come down Sunday, after church.” I told her. I called U-haul to reserve a trailer and found out that there weren’t any U-haul stores open along our route to pick up on Sunday. We would have to get the trailer in Duluth and pull it down to Winona. I priced multiple options; whether to bring it back to Duluth, taking advantage of the local rental discounts, or pay more to drop it off in Mason City or Waterloo. I told the operator I would have to check some things and call back. We would need the trailer for two days. A local rental would be $60 for two days, $90 to leave it in Mason City, or $119 in Waterloo; which would be handy as I could use the trailer to help our oldest daughter, Sydney, with a project. You know that old adage; two birds, one stone. I called U-haul back. The kid on the line confirmed the various prices being held in the “quote” file for a one-way rental. “And how much if I return it to Duluth?” I asked. “$139,” he told me. He threw down the gauntlet - I accepted his challenge. The U-haul sparring began. “It can not possibly be more to return it to Duluth.” I said. He confirmed, “Yeah, it is. It will be $139.” “There is no way. If I pick up and return the same place, it’s a local rental at $30 per day.” I explained. “That’s not what my screen says.” He replied. Frustrated, I said, “Well, clean your screen because it’s wrong.” He started babbling on, trying to explain the logic behind the pricing structure, then said, “Oh, you’re right. It would only be $30 per day.” Ugh. “And to leave it in Mason City?” I asked. He confirmed, “$90 if you leave it in Mason City, Iowa.” I crunched the numbers quickly to calculate the difference in additional fuel cost to return the trailer to Duluth. “Okay, let’s reserve the trailer to be picked up in Duluth, Minnesota, and dropped off in Mason City, Iowa, by noon on Tuesday.” I said. He repeated the order, gathered some additional information, then said, “...and your total will be $146.” “It was $90 to Mason City.” I reminded him. “Well, the price went up.” He replied. “It’s the best I can do.” I hate when they play these games. Two supervisors later, I reserved the trailer for $90. I was on the phone with them for over an hour. I guess I’ve still got it; the ability to get through the U-haul process without getting jacked on price - it just takes a little longer. Sunday came, and we drove to Winona where we loaded the trailer. It took a little longer than I expected, but the help Annie lined up didn’t come through. It was just Melissa, Annie, and myself. I was pleased with the way the girls were able to help move the heavy furniture. Annie had to be in Mason City the next morning to meet the cable provider who would hook up her Internet. She had the standard appointment, “Between eight a.m. and noon.” I didn’t want to get up at five in the morning, so we drove to Mason City after the trailer was loaded, Sunday night. The next morning we were up and at it early, moving Annie into her new building...to her third floor apartment! First, we carried in boxes and totes of books...to the third floor. After lots of trips up and down the steps I was feeling it a bit in my legs and back. I told Melissa, “I guess I’m not thirty anymore.” Inside the main door to the building is a split foyer; to the right, seven steps went down to the first floor and to the left, seven steps up to the second floor. There was a wall a few feet inside the door to divide the stairwells. Once on the second floor, there were seven steps going up to a landing where you turned and went seven more steps to the third floor. A wrought-iron railing divided the upper stairs. With each load I kept envisioning how much work it was going to be to clear this obstacle course with the big stuff. The couch was next. By removing the feet and turning it to just the right angle - an angle making it nearly impossible to hold the long, slippery, leather couch - we were able to squeeze through the door. We had to stand the couch on end to clear the intrusive black railing and turn the corner on the landing. Finally on the third floor, we had to carry the couch at the impossible angle to clear the door going into her apartment. Once it was inside, I flopped down on the sofa to rest. I told Melissa, “I guess I’m not forty anymore.” The mattress, although bulky, wasn’t so bad because it bends a little. The box spring, dresser, entertainment center and desk, do not. When we finally had everything moved into her apartment, I sat down, exhausted. I looked at Melissa and said, “I guess I’m not fifty anymore. I can really feel it in my muscles.” Then I smiled and said, “On a happier note, I’ve still got it - the ability to move big furniture to a third floor. It just takes a little longer than it used to.” We finished at 11:40 and we were all ready for lunch! “What about the cable company?” Melissa asked. Annie called to find out if they were on their way. An operator told her, “A technician will be there by noon.” Annie replied, “That’s now.” The surprised operator said, “Oh, I guess it is. I’ll call dispatch to find out where they are.” Annie was placed on hold. When the operator returned, I could tell by the look on her face, Annie was getting the standard cable company run-a-round. After holding again for a period of time, the operator returned. Whatever she said, Annie’s response was, “I don’t have another four hours to keep waiting on you guys to show up.” Then she asked, “And that’s the best you can do?” With the operator still on the line, Annie told me, “They’re now saying I wasn’t actually scheduled until next Monday, on the eighteenth, but they can come Wednesday between noon and five.” I motioned for Annie to give me the phone. “Hi, this is Tom - Annie’s Dad. What’s the problem?” The operator explained the same thing she told Annie, “I’m sorry, Wednesday isn’t going to work.” I said, then she suggested the eighteenth. “I’m sorry, that’s not acceptable.” Next the operator suggested the twenty-ninth. Again I said, “That’s not acceptable. Annie was told today, and has an order confirmation. You need to send your service tech here today.” There was a pause, then the operator told me, “She is not going to have service installed today. Rescheduling is the best I can do.” Polite, but firmly, I told the operator. “We planned this day to move our daughter based on when your company could install her service. I’m driving over seven hundred miles to meet your schedule. You need to have someone here today.” In a bit more irritated tone of voice, she said, “It’s not going to happen today. Rescheduling her appointment is the best I can do, so what do you want to do?” I paused, then calmly answered, “I want to speak to your supervisor.” She started to say, “You’re not going to get...” I interrupted her, “Excuse me. You just told me you cannot help me, so there is nothing more for you and I to talk about. I wish to speak to your supervisor.” She started to say “Sir, you...” I stopped her again, “Now, please.” There was a slight pause. She didn’t sound very sincere when she said, “Hold the line, please.” with a sarcastic emphasis on please. After explaining everything to the supervisor, a few more minutes of conversation and holding time, I said, “Thank you. I appreciate your efforts to make this right.” I hung up the phone. Melissa and Annie were both staring at me, waiting for the outcome. “They’ll be here before five-o-clock today.” I guess I’ve still got it - the ability to handle these cable companies who feel their time is valuable and yours is not. I won’t accept it when they act like you should feel grateful that they are even allowing you to subscribe to their service. We went to lunch. Afterwards, Melissa and I headed on to Waterloo. My son-in-law, Jordan, and I loaded the trailer with boards, brush, drywall scraps, metal, fencing, and other stuff they had been piling up for a landfill trip. Because he had jury duty the next day, I agreed to drive to the landfill and empty the trailer alone. With a quick call to U-Haul they told me I could leave the trailer in Waterloo without an additional charge. I liked that. It took a lot of pressure off me by not having to drive back to Mason City before noon. Jordan’s jury duty was cancelled for the day, so he went to work. I was getting ready to go dump the trailer, but didn’t know where I was going so I texted him, “Addy for the Landfill?” He replied, “If you want to, move her seat.” Confused, I wrote, “That makes no sense at all.” He explained, “Take her seat out of the van and put it in the truck.” I busted out laughing, then replied, “Bahahaha! I meant I need an address for the landfill. OMGosh.” His next text read, “Oh. Haha, ok one sec.” then followed up with the address. I told Sydney about the series of texts, explaining, “He thought I was asking if I could take Addie (our granddaughter) to the landfill with me. All I wanted was the street address.” I was laughing over the misunderstanding. Sydney looked at me and said, “Dad, people don’t use the term addy anymore.” “They don’t?” I asked, a bit surprised. “Not really,” she said, explaining, “Not since texting pretty much replaced email in like 2000.” Well, I learned something new! At the landfill, I emptied the trailer. It took a little longer than it used to, but I was working alone. As I drove away, I thought about the misunderstanding with Jordan, then started chuckling to myself. I’ve still got it - the ability to communicate with this younger generation - it just takes a little longer.
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The Inchworm6/12/2018 Our youngest daughter recently accepted her first teaching position in a rural Iowa school district. This morning we are in Mason City, Iowa, helping her move into her new apartment.
It’s a third floor apartment, no elevator, with an average size stairwell, but all stairwells seem too narrow when moving a large couch. I find myself asking, “Why did they need to put turns in the stairs?” There should be a law that all stairwells with turns have to be five feet wide. Maybe six - or a service elevator Yes, that’s it, an elevator. Mattresses will bend a little, to make the corners, but a box spring and dressers don’t give at all. While pondering my strategy for the move, I drifted off, thinking about a story I wrote awhile back - it includes things that bend, and others that don’t. I hope you enjoy it: An inchworm and a firetruck don’t have a lot in common. The firetruck is big and shiny red. The inchworm is small and a dull green. The firetruck has big black shiny tires that roll smoothly down the street. The inchworm has tiny, grabby feet that cling to everything. The firetruck is loud and thunderous; shaking the earth when it goes by. The inchworm silently moves along its way. The firetruck is strong and powerful. The inchworm fragile and delicate. The firetruck has a long rigid body, mounted on big beams of steel, somewhat limiting its mobility. The inchworm has a flexible body, with a hump that goes up and down. It can turn in very tight spaces allowing it to go wherever it wants. The firetruck can’t pop wheelies. The inchworm can stand straight up, on its back feet or show off and stand on its front feet, body straight up in the air behind it. The inchworm avoids fire and danger. The firetruck bravely charges into danger. An upside down firetruck has a serious problem. The inchworm, however, travels just as well, upside down or right side up. The firetruck has several passengers. The inchworm travels alone. The firetruck and the inchworm have one thing in common. When either one goes by, you have to stop and watch it. It’s like an unwritten law. It just takes longer to watch the inchworm pass by. I better get started, although this couch and much of the furniture has legs, none of it is going to walk itself into this apartment.
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It's Good to be Home6/5/2018 We got home late last night, around 11:30. It was good to be home; to sleep in my own bed after three weeks on the road.
This morning I pulled the patio furniture out from storage. We enjoyed our first morning coffee of the year on the deck and discussed how the grass needed to be cut. During our coffee time, two finches came by to bathe in the birdbath. Melissa went inside to fetch a pitcher of water. She washed out the basin, then filled it with clean water. Since our water is from a well, it’s not chlorinated. The birds like that, and it wasn’t long until another finch came by to splash about in the cool water. Later I mowed our yard. After sitting through the winter the John Deere, had three flat tires, a dead battery and the blades need to be sharpened. It had plenty of white polka dots left by birds, on the green hood and yellow seat. On a brighter note, it had one good tire, it jump started easily and the blades were good enough to get me by this time. The lawn really wasn’t that bad - more shaggy than tall. There were some patches that were about nine inches tall, mostly around the septic tank. As will happen when cutting the grass for the first time of the season, I came across critters that have claimed homestead; living in that taller grass. I let the snake slither away unscathed. I told the mice and voles, “You better run for your life! If the mower doesn’t get you, that snake will - and the ravens will take what he misses!” I let off the gas when I saw something hopping in the grass. A big fat handsome toad - well, as handsome as a toad can be. An old 70’s song immediately started playing in my mind: Jim Stafford, I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes. Especially the part where he sings, “I got silly and I found a frog, in the water by a hollow log, and I shook it at her and said, ‘This frogs for you!’” I had an idea. I turned off the mower and chased that toad. Picking him up in my right hand I assured him, “I’m not going to hurt you, little fella. I just need you to help me with a little fun.” We went in through the kitchen door - the toad and me. “Melissa,” I called, “Can you come to the kitchen.” She replied, concerned, “What is it? Are you okay? Did you injure yourself?” What a vote of confidence. “No I didn’t injure myself. I’m fine, I just need you to come to the kitchen.” She called out with her second concern, “You didn’t run over a family of baby bunnies, did you?” “No I didn’t run over any bunnies. Just come out here.” Melissa walked into the kitchen. I was holding my hand behind my back. When she got within arms length, I presented the toad. I shook it at her and I said, “This frog’s for you!” I laughed my fool head off! Melissa, looking directly into the big eyes of the little amphibian about four inches from her face, screamed! The toad screamed, then wet himself in my hand. June jumped up to see if it was something that could be used to play catch. Edgar sat on the kitchen bench unimpressed with it all and said, “People are so weird.” I started to run for the door, with the toad. Once a safe distance from the angry woman, I asked, “Do you like it?” “It’s not even a frog - that’s a toad, now get it out of this house!” “But I got him for you...” I pleaded. “Out! Now!” It didn’t seem like she was going to change her mind, so we left - me and the toad. I took him outside and set him on the edge of the birdbath. “You might want to stay up here while I finish mowing.” I told him. He sniffed the water. “Hey, the water isn’t chlorinated!” He said. “Nope. It’s well water.” I replied. He smiled. “I like that.” As I finished mowing, with each pass I kept looking over at the birdbath. The toad was still there, just watching me. When I was done I put the mower away, then went back to check on the toad. He was gone. Most likely he found his way back to his home. From the taller grass between the septic tank lids where the mower doesn’t reach, I heard a small voice telling someone, or some other critter, “After an ordeal like that, it’s good to be home.” I climbed the steps up onto the deck where I found the kitchen door locked. I must have bumped the lock in my hurry to get out. I walked to the front door, it was locked too. Hmm. The garage door was also locked and the spare key wasn’t in it’s hiding place. I returned to the front porch and knocked on the door, “Honey?” There was no answer. I knocked again, a tad bit louder, “Honey! The doors are all locked...Melissa? Sweetie? Are you in there?” It’s good to be home.
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The Last Supper5/29/2018 ![]() It wasn’t the best news I’d ever received. Cynthia gave me a prescription for a low dose of medicine. Not wanting to be on any medicine, I asked, “What can I do to lower my blood pressure on my own - without meds.” “Exercise and lose the extra weight.” She said. “I’m working on that.” I told her. “What else can I do?” I asked. “Quit smoking...” She said, “I did that almost nine years ago.” I explained. “Good for you! Now switch to a more healthy diet.” She said, “Cut down on the salt, alcohol and caffeine.” “Caffeine? As in coffee?” I queried. “Yes. Cut way down or switch to decaf coffee.” She replied. I hung my head and pouted, “Decaf? What’s the point?” She rolled her eyes and continued. “Avoid stress.” She said. I rolled my eyes, “Decaf stresses me.” “Cut down on fats and red meat. You don’t need to eat red meat more than once a week.” Seeing my delicious steaks, hamburgers and roast beef slipping away from me, I asked, “Cut down on red meat? What am I supposed to eat? Cardboard?” “Eat more chicken and fish.” She said. “I already eat a lot of chicken - and salmon once a week.” I explained. She responded, “Keep doing these things; we’ll keep an eye on your blood pressure. Get it back down where it should be, then we can get rid of the meds.” I’ve read the brochures on hypertension. She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know - what she did tell me is that it’s time to start applying that information to MY lifestyle. I also knew for all the healthy things I was eating and doing, the unhealthy habits were taking their toll - it was time to cut out the...ugh...fast food. As I left her office, I took inventory of what she just told me. “Diet, exercise and lose weight. Avoid stress. No smoking, get rid of the salt, alcohol and caffeine. Cut way back on red meat, eat fish and chicken instead.” My eyes lit up. “Chicken? She just told me to eat more KFC.” I said aloud. Okay, maybe that’s not exactly what she said, but that’s what I heard and I love Kentucky Fried Chicken! I was laughing about that as I got in my car and drove away, headed for KFC. One last hurrah if you will, just like Fat Tuesday, before Ash Wednesday and the Lenten Season. It would be like my last supper; a celebration of my new heathy diet...that starts tomorrow. I started to reminisce about the first time I ever tasted KFC. I was about eleven or twelve years old; we lived in Madison, Wisconsin. My brother Dan worked at Kentucky Fried Chicken at the corner of Monona Drive and Davidson Street - about four blocks from our house. My brother Gerard and I would walk by the restaurant and look in the front windows. A time or two we knocked on the window to get Danny’s attention. “You guys can’t be knocking on the windows when people are sitting at the booth.” Danny told us, but we didn’t mind - those people weren’t bothering us. We didn’t have any money, but we knew if Danny saw us and waved, we could run around behind the store to the back door. Danny would come out and give us each a piece of chicken. Needless to say, that was a real treat. We’d walk back home, eating our chicken right down to the bones, then lick our fingers clean, too. I sometimes wonder if that’s where the Colonel got his slogan. “When I grow up and get a job,” I told Gerard, “I’m going to eat Kentucky Fried Chicken every day.” Those eleven herbs and spices had me, hook, line and sinker. A few years later, my family moved to Ottumwa, Iowa. My dad was a member of the Rotary Club. It seemed like every time the Rotarians were working on a project, like cleaning up trash from a highway, planting redbud trees in a park, setting up for Oktoberfest, or other such community service, I was recruited to be a Rotarian for the day, too. I didn’t mind helping, especially because Dale Gottschalk was also a Rotarian, and Dale happened to own the KFC in Ottumwa. It wasn’t uncommon for Dale to bring several buckets of chicken for the workers when the work was done. I was glad to be a worker! By the time I turned 16, I had already been working for a couple years and had my own money. I bought a motorcycle, then got my license. My little Kawasaki 400 quickly learned the way to KFC at the corner of Richmond and Ferry Streets. Mmm. As I was driving to KFC that day after my check up, two little people showed up on my shoulders. On the left was a little southern gentleman wearing glasses. He had white hair and a white goatee. He was wearing a white suit with a black southern style string bow tie. “It’s finger lickin’ good.” He said to me, with a drumstick in one hand and a red and white bucket in the other. On my right shoulder was a little nurse practitioner with a blood pressure cuff in one hand, shaking a little amber vial of pills like a rattle in the other. “How about a nice green salad with grilled chicken, instead?” She suggested. “Aw geesh!” I said, in a confused state of mind. “Willpower man, willpower!” I turned the car toward a restaurant where I could get a nice hot bowl of oatmeal and some dry wheat toast. Besides, it was only nine in the morning and KFC doesn’t open until ten or eleven, I suppose. Several KFC free weeks later, my wife and I were on a road trip passing through Kentucky on I-75 making our way to Florida. The big blue square billboard listed the gas stations and restaurants at the next exit. “Look honey! A KFC at the next exit and we could use gas, too.” “Do we need gas yet?” She asked, I answered, “Not for about fifty more miles, but when traveling cross country it never hurts to be safe and have plenty of fuel in the tank, ya know!” She looked at me, shaking her head in disbelief that such words would come from my mouth. I’m one who refuels when the gas light comes on...and has been on for awhile. Sometimes quite awhile... “We’re eating at Cook Out tonight, remember?” She reminded me, “BBQ, great hush puppies and Fresh banana shakes?” I complained, “Why can’t we have KFC tonight? I haven’t had it for a long time.” She continued, “Unless you want to stop in Corbin, 20 miles down the road and eat there...” “What’s in Corbin?” I mocked, “A restaurant that serves the best rabbit food this side of the Mississippi River?” “Probably,” She said adding, “that and the restaurant where Colonel Sanders first served his Kentucky Fried Chicken.” My eyes widened. “Really?” I asked. She replied,“I suppose we could eat there tonight and have Cook-Out another night, if you want to...” This was a no-brainer as far as I was concerned. We drove on, turning off at exit 29 and drove into the little town of Corbin, Kentucky, my mouth already watering. Some reviews on the restaurant and museum said the location seemed to be in a seedy part of town. There were several small shops in the area, some weren’t real well kept, but I didn’t care. I really wanted to go to this KFC. It didn’t seem bad to me at all and it certainly wasn’t a dangerous area. I smiled ear-to-ear when we pulled into the parking lot, which sported a modern sign with a marquee and the famous KFC bucket on top. The restaurant itself was really cool. It looked more like a house with several tall peaks and a dark shingled roof. It didn’t look anything like a modern, or even an older style KFC. As a matter of fact, it still has the old neon sign over the door that reads “Sanders Cafe.” The main part of the building where we entered was the original building. The the modern KFC restaurant on the other side has been replicated to look like part of the 1939 motel complex. It was the original part that had me interested. Harland Sanders started out operating a gas station. He would feed travelers in the garage, eventually opening a cafe. His fried chicken was what his guests loved. It became so popular he couldn’t keep up with demand, and in those days you just didn’t make extra food anticipating to sell it. He found a way to modify a pressure cooker and fry his chicken under pressure in far less time, and kept the chicken very tender. The really cool thing to me - a guy who loves to cook, especially with pressure cookers - is that his original cookers are still there. His kitchen is still intact. The museum features a room that was made correct to the period, showing the style of rooms Sanders rented. His office also was on display. I was really enjoying the whole experience! We went to the modern side where the current KFC restaurant is located. There were more cases of old memorabilia; cooking utensils, one of his white suits, and a case with a model of Harland Sanders original motel and cafe buildings the way they were when he was running them. I took it all in. We got in line at the counter. Melissa ordered a one-piece chicken breast dinner that came with an extra wing - free! I was going to order the twelve-piece bucket with a quart of potatoes and gravy, coleslaw and a mountain of biscuits. After all, this could be my last supper - at least my last KFC for a really long time. Well, I was going to, until a little southern gentleman in glasses with white hair and a white goatee showed up on my left shoulder. “It’s finger lickin’ good.” He said to me with a drumstick in one hand and a red and white bucket in the other. On my right shoulder was a little nurse practitioner with a blood pressure cuff in one hand, shaking a little amber vial of pills like a rattle in the other. “How about a little moderation?” She suggested. “Aw geesh!” I said, “Just give me the two-piece dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy and coleslaw.” The cashier repeated my order, “...is that correct?” She asked. “And an extra biscuit. I want an extra biscuit.” Melissa and the nurse practitioner both glared at me. “Okay,” I conceded, “Skip the extra biscuit and that’ll be it.” We chose to sit in the dining area that was part of the original cafe. I swear, the chicken was fresher than I’ve ever tasted, the biscuits more flakey. Even the potatoes, gravy and coleslaw were better than usual. Maybe it really was, or maybe it just seemed better because I hadn’t had KFC for a long time. Truthfully, it was great food combined with the ambiance of the historical setting that made it extra special and delicious. When I was finished, Melissa gave me her extra wing. I devoured that, then I licked my fingers and said, “I think I’m going to order one more piece of chicken.” “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Melissa replied. I offered my rebuttal. “Cynthia said I should eat more chicken. I’m doing it for health reasons, under professional medical direction.” My wife rolled her eyes saying, “I seriously doubt that’s what she meant and you know it.” She slid a small paper sack toward me. “Eat this instead.” She said. “What is it?” I queried. “It’s a chocolate chip cookie. It came with your meal.” I grumbled, “I’ll bet Colonel Sanders never served chocolate chip cookies!” After cleaning my hands with the traditional KFC wet-nap, I went back to the newer side of the restaurant. On a park style bench sat a life-size figure of Colonel Sanders. He posed casually with his right leg crossed over his left and his left arm stretched over the back of the bench. I sat next to Harland to have my picture taken. Just before I stood up, I told him, “I’ll be back, my friend.” The colonel said, “I’ll be here.” I smiled at him. Although it may not be the healthiest, no one can deny his chicken is finger-licking good. Even if this was to be my last supper - what a way to go!
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Fueling Memories5/23/2018 ![]() As my wife and I continue to drive all over the country, we are starting to notice the annual jacking up of gasoline prices to coincide with the coming of Memorial Day weekend, the kick-off to the summer travel season. Every year the big oil companies have another excuse as to why the prices of gasoline were raised: a natural disaster, foreign issues, government problems, OPEC raised the barrel price of crude oil, OPEC lowered the price of crude oil, causing a rise in gasoline prices, less swallows returning to San Juan Capistrano. My favorite is always; “Prices went up because of increased demand.” Really? Because of increased demand? Did the coming of Memorial Day catch you off guard? With thousands of employees in the industry, 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 around the world. These people know Oktoberfest is going be celebrated the first weekend of October, so they 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 coming of unleaded fuel in the 1970’s. Unleaded fuel was always more expensive then regular leaded fuel. Why? Lead is not natural to gasoline - it’s an additive. Obviously I know about the environmental impact of burning lead in your gasoline, but big oil companies charged more to not 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 to be inserted. 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. The putrid smell of rotten eggs would cause you to wrinkle you nose and gag a bit. It was nasty, no doubt about it. I wonder what ever happened to that nasty stench? Did the fuel refineries find a way to eliminate it? Did it go away - or did we just get used to it, accepting it as the new “norm?” Hmm. I apologize, I’ve digressed from the subject of this story. It was supposed to be about Memorial Day. Originally, the holiday was called Decoration Day. It was used to decorate the grave markers, remembering those who died in the Civil War - both Union and Confederate soldiers. As time went on, the day was used to decorate the graves of those who died in both World Wars as well. 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 became an official federal holiday until 1971. Unfortunately to some, it has become just a paid day off work. How sad. Recently, Melissa and I went to visit the graves of her ancestors and relatives on her grandma Lucille’s side of the family, who are buried at 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 real tall, but would soon be ready for a cutting. There were many older deteriorating stones, some had broken and fallen. The really old markers were worn by elements of weather over the years. Distorted wording, carved into the limestone, was hard or impossible to read. Sometimes we could make out a year that would indicate the ones who had died in the Civil War. Although this cemetery was old, very small, and located on a narrow gravel road out in the countryside, it was not a forgotten place. Some of the graves had small American flags near the base. Others were marked with flowers and other such decorations. Someone had taken the time to raise fallen stones, propping them up against the remaining base. It warmed my heart seeing this sign of respect for the long dead. Among the older stones were a few newer markers for those who had passed more recently. This was still an active cemetery. There are cattle guards at the driveways entering the cemetery, but a broken down 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. There was a very big cedar tree on the grounds the last time we had visited. It was now gone. In its place a trickle of smoke was still rising from the burning stump. I would guess the tree either died, or maybe it had been struck by lightning. There was a new, tall flag pole that was not there the last time we were. I wondered, who removed the tree? Who put up that flag pole? I wondered further, who maintains this lot? I assumed it must be maintained by the county. 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 the way she inquired 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 there were people 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 a 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 then told Sara, her great-uncle, Lala Veatch, (pronounced l?-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 that 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 pass along 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. Being on the board of directors, Sara had learned 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 does not provide any funding for these old cemeteries - at least not in Missouri.” Sara said, adding, “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, buying flags to make sure all veterans’ graves are marked with an American flag for Memorial Day and Veterans Day. Larger flags to fly across the front of the cemetery. Raising old tombstones and placing them on new concrete bases to preserve them and more. “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 heart felt. Often times when delivery trailers, customers will give me a tip. The tip is generally fifty, or one hundred dollars. We are not rich people, but we are not starving either, so when we get these tips, we give them to others who may need the money. I remembered there was a one hundred dollar bill in the car we hadn’t given away yet. Listening to Sara talk, I smiled thinking, we 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 gratefulness for the work of the Morrow’s in keeping the cemetery nice. This Memorial Day, when you’re out visiting loved ones who have passed, please look for a donation box at the cemetery. If you don’t find one, please 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, 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, accepting it as the new norm? Let us never forget what we are to remember on Memorial Day. The veterans and loved ones who lay to rest in the small Coatsville cemeteries around our great nation. Let’s take time to seek out and support the Morrow’s all over our country, who take care of these cemetery grounds. To all who served our country, sacrificing their lives for our freedom, Thank You! You are remembered this Memorial Day and always. |