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July 2024
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Bath Time9/25/2019 I had a couple outside projects to finish before winter. The leaves were already turning deep red, bright orange and brilliant gold. I would rather have gone for a drive taking in the beauty of Lake Superior’s north shore, but those fall colors mean winter isn’t far off. I utilized the nice weather to install new galvanized wells around the basement windows.
I had done about as much as I could for the day. Melissa would be home from work in an hour, so I gathered my tools. I’d take a quick shower then start dinner. Inside the back door, our black cat was on the counter with his paws curled in, tucked under his chest. “Edgar Allan, get down from there .” He closed his eyes, ignoring me. I gave him a nudge, “Get off the counter, Edgar.” He jumped down and ran to the dining room. I slipped off my shoes by the back door, then walked to the living room where June was sprawled out on the couch. “Get off the couch.” I said. She did, then curled up on the rug by the front door. I gave her a rub on the head. "You're the best dog in the world." I told her, then went to turn on the water for my shower. While I was waiting for the hot water, I went back to the living room to get my coffee cup. The best dog in the world was back on the couch. "Off." I told her again. She climbed down, returning to the front door. I love that dog and her innocent ways of acting like she didn’t know she wasn’t to be on the furniture. Carrying my cup to the kitchen, I found Edgar back on the counter. “Edgar Allan! Get down.” He closed his eyes, acting as if he didn’t hear me. I clapped my hands, “Now, Edgar!” He jumped from the counter, high-tailing it to the dining room, meowing all the way to give me a piece of his mind. I love his subtle ways of letting us know who really runs this house! I poured the last of the coffee into my mug. The phone rang; it was my cousin calling. I went out on the deck where we chatted for about thirty-minutes, then I went back into the kitchen. “Edgar, get off the counter and stay off!” He jumped on the floor and sat on the throw rug. I set my cup in the sink, then walked to the other room. Guess where June was. I gave her a stern look and pointed my rigid arm toward the front door. Without me saying a word, she slithered off the couch, returning to the rug. I went back to the kitchen, expecting Edgar to be on the counter, but he was laying on the rug by the back door, taking long licks from the middle of his front leg, down to his foot. He ran his paw across his head and face, repeating this several times. I ruffled the fur on his head. “Good boy Edgar, taking a bath. You look so clean and pretty.” Edgar pulled away, “Hey! Don’t touch my clean head with your dirty paws. Now I have to wash it again.” He continued his bath. In the living room, June was licking her paws. I gave her scratch on the ears. “Good girl, washing your feet so you’re nice and clean.” I stood up and smiled. “The dog and the cat are both grooming themselves; it must be bath time!” I started to laugh then said aloud, “Oh crap. The shower.” I ran to the bathroom, June followed close behind. I pushed my hand around the end of the curtain and under the water. “Ice cold. Darn it!” June looked at me, “Are you getting in? It is bath time, ya know.” Edgar, now standing behind her, was snickering, “Yeah, Dad. It’s bath time. Get in there.” Humph. Maybe I’ll just wash up and go start dinner.
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Lattice Tops9/18/2019 ![]() I baked three pies, one Granny Smith apple, one strawberry-rhubarb and a cherry pie with a lattice top. I gave the pies to the Lake County Humane Society for their silent auction at their annual fundraiser. I posted photos on several social media outlets to help promote the event. The pies generated a lot of interest, which led to some really fun and entertaining comments and conversations. I enjoyed that. My brother told me the strawberry-rhubarb pie was a waste of time. “No one is going to bid on that thing. Rhubarb is awful; it’s a weed, not food!” he declared. Obviously, he doesn’t like rhubarb. A lady complimented my lattice top on the cherry pie, asking if I was a Master Pastry Chef. I was flattered, but laughed out loud. No, not a pastry chef. Just a guy who found a bag of flour on sale one day and said, “I think I’ll take this home to make some wheat paste,” then later found out I could do other things with flour. Several people commented on the cherry pie. Another lady asked “Where did you learn to make a lattice top like that?” Her question caused me think. Mom taught me to cook and bake, but she never taught me much about pie crust. Over the years, many people have shared secrets and given me tips on baking, but I don’t recall anyone ever teaching me anything about pie tops. I myself started to ponder, “Just where did I learn to make a lattice top?” I thought back to my days of higher education; kindergarten! (“Higher” because I learned more in kindergarten than some of my other years.) I suppose it was late April. Mrs. Murphy was teaching us to make May Baskets from construction paper. We made a simple cone shape and fastened the edge with Elmer’s Paste, then decorated the basket. Elmer’s was made by Borden and came in a white container with blue and orange print. There was an applicator wand fastened to the inside of the lid. The wand poked down through the paste even when the jar was full. Elmer’s paste smelled good and it didn’t taste too bad either – but that’s another story. After pasting a colorful strip of construction paper over the top to make a handle, we could fill our little basket with real flowers, or make flowers from construction paper. I stuffed mine full with early spring grass and dandelions from our yard. On May first, I was supposed to hang the basket on the door knob, knock and run, leaving a cheerful surprise for the unsuspecting recipient. Unfortunately, my little hands didn’t make much noise on the door and we didn’t have a bell on the back door. The grass and yellow flowers proved to be too much weight for the basket and the handle came off on one side. I went inside and handed the arrangement to my mom; she loved it, broken handle and all. In first grade we moved on to more complex, advanced basket making. Mrs. Sales taught us to cut strips from various colors of construction paper. We would lay out the first strips flat on our desktops, then weave different colors through them. Over, under, over under, over, under. The next strip went under, over, under, over, under, over… You had to do it just right, or you’d end up with a mess and a basket that hand no strength. When the bottom was done, Mrs. Sales showed us how to use a ruler to bend the edges upward, then weave more colored strips through the vertical pieces. We folded them to follow right around the corners until the ends of the strip met. After pasting the two ends together, we’d repeated the process with a new strip, thus building the sides of the basket. All I had to do was paste a strip over the top to make a handle and voila! I had just made an Easter basket. Comparing my basket to the one Mrs. Sales made, I was disappointed. I copied her lead all the way through the process, even using the same color strips; pink, green and yellow. But her basket was much better than mine; her weaving was much tighter and there weren’t fingerprints of paste all over hers like there was on mine. My work was sloppy. I remember looking in the bottom of my basket. There were gaps between all the strips, making small square holes. Sand and dirt, small rocks and other things of importance to a first-grade boy, could easily fall through my basket. I remember thinking, maybe I should cut a piece of paper and lay it in the bottom to cover the holes. All these years later, thinking about the floor of that basket, it looked like – well – it looked like a lattice top on a pie. The mystery is solved. It was Mrs. Sales, my first-grade teacher, via my beginner’s art skills, who taught me the concept of making a lattice top for a pie. I smiled, fondly recalling those first-grade memories as I read through the comments on social media about my baking and the cherry pie with the lattice top. The day after the fundraiser, it was good to hear the pies drew a lot of attention. Of the three, the cherry pie raised the most money, but the strawberry-rhubarb pie created the most interest. (That shows how much my brother knows about pies.) It was most gratifying for me, knowing that a little over twenty bucks worth of ingredients and a few hours of my time turned into more than one hundred dollars for the Lake County Humane Society in Two Harbors, Minnesota. I think next year I’ll get crazy and put a lattice top on a strawberry-rhubarb pie! Woot-woot! That’ll create quite a stir. Bidders will go wild and the puppies and kittens will eat really well! Author’s note: you don’t have to wait for a fundraiser. Your local animal shelter will be happy to accept a donation anytime – even today.
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Getting Even9/11/2019 After living there for many years and trying corn from other states, I’ve concluded the best sweet corn in the world comes from Iowa. Returning from our camping trip in Ankeny, we brought home extra corn to share with friends and neighbors.
When I took a few ears across the road, Bonnie asked me to come inside, “I have something for you and Melissa, too.” She brought a baking dish of something that sure looked good, to the table. “It’s a blueberry dessert I made,” she said, while cutting two pieces, each about three inches square. She placed them on a paper plate, “I’m not going to cover this. The plastic wrap will stick to the whipped topping.” I told her it was okay I was going straight home. Smelling the fresh blueberries, I said, “I hope this makes it home.” Then added, “I don’t think we need to tell Melissa about this dessert, just in case it doesn’t.” We shared a good laugh about that. I thanked her for the dessert; Bonnie and her husband, Kenny, thanked me for the corn. I was barely off their steps when I caught another whiff of those berries. I smiled thinking I sure got the better end of this deal. About halfway on the short walk home, the two pieces shifted a little. Sliding them back into position, I got some whipped topping on me. Obviously, I couldn’t go home with dessert on my finger; it would look as if I had sneaked a sample. Mmm. The square had a small dent where I pushed it, so I evened out the edge. “Oops, I accidentally got some more on my finger. My bad.” Mmm. At home in the kitchen, I took a fork and cut a small corner from Melissa’s piece and tasted it. “Oh my. That is good.” I said, then tried another small bite. I took a third bite to Melissa, who was sitting at her computer. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.” I said, then waved the fork under her nose. “Blueberries!” She said with excitement, then opened her eyes and ate the bite. “That’s really good! Where did you get it?” She sprang up from her chair and followed me to the kitchen. Her eyes lit up when she saw two big pieces on the plate – one missing a few small bites. Taking the fork, she tried another bite, as if to give a second opinion. “Mmm. That is so good.” She pointed the fork at the piece we had been sampling and declared, “That’s your piece.” We shared a good laugh about that. “Bonnie gave it to me when I took them the sweet corn.” I explained. Melissa took another nibble, “Honey, we got the better end of that deal. Go ask them if they need some more corn.” “This is for dessert tonight.” I said, snatching the plate from her and setting it in the refrigerator. With the dessert safely tucked away, I drove to the Finland Co-op to get a couple things I needed for dinner. When I got back, Melissa confessed, “I have to tell you, I already ate my piece of the blueberry treat.” I laughed. Somehow, I knew that was going to happen. I decided to have my dessert before dinner, too. I took the plate from the fridge and looked at the small piece that remained, about half the size it was when I brought it home. “I thought Bonnie cut the pieces bigger than this.” I said, giving Melissa the stink eye. “Oh,” she smiled, “Your piece had that bite out of the corner, so I evened it up for you.” Hmph. I ate the rest before anything else could happen to it. Sunday morning after mass there was a pancake breakfast in the church hall. Kenny is one of the cooks for the Knights of Columbus. They don’t always have them, but on this day, they had both regular and blueberry pancakes – I had the blueberries and sat with our neighbors to eat. I learned it was Kenny’s birthday, which gave me an idea. When I got home, I made a pie. After it cooled, I took it to the neighbor’s house. “I made this peach pie and I wanted Kenny to have the first slice for his birthday.” I told them. Bonnie got a plate from the cupboard. I cut into the pie; it was still warm. The aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg escaped from the flaky crust. I gave them two big slices, then walked down the road to visit another neighbor. Gene was in the driveway working with his tractor and a trailer full of gravel. He said, “Peach pie is my favorite.” I reminded him, “Gene, you told me every kind of pie is your favorite.” “Well, it is.” He said, “But peach is my favorite, favorite.” We shared a good laugh about that. I carried the pie up to the house where Lois took a plate from the cupboard. I gave them two big slices, then walked home. Melissa and I enjoy sharing pie with friends and neighbors. It gives us a good feeling inside and it keeps us (me) from eating the whole thing! After dinner we each had a slice of pie, leaving the last two pieces for the next day. I suppose it was around seven p.m., when I walked to the kitchen. Melissa quickly turned away. “Ah ha!” I said, “And just what are you eating?” “Nothing.” She replied, acting suspiciously innocent, but I knew what it was and she knew that I knew that she knew it. She justified, “It was just a tiny bite.” When she left the kitchen, I removed the foil from the pie pan. Her bite left a small divot in the side of one of the slices. “Look at that.” I said, shaking my head. I took a knife and fork from the silverware drawer, “I’ll have to even up that edge...” Mmm.
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Cowlicks9/4/2019 We were on a mission to find a different pickup truck to pull our Scamp fifth wheel. We wanted a particular brand and model year truck, so it took a bit of looking. After a search spanning from southern Texas to northern Minnesota, we finally found one in the small town of Defiance, in northern Iowa. It wasn’t far from Omaha. The man we bought the truck from told us the highway we were on was the one Bob Seger sang about in the song, Turn the Page.
The first line of that song is: “On a long and lonesome highway east of Omaha, you can hear the engine moanin’ out his one note song…” I love the part where Bob sings about stopping at a café. It was in the early seventies – the hippie era. The locals would look at him; a stranger with long hair, then ask one another, “Is that a woman or a man?” I can relate to parts of that song – especially about being on the road. The following week, I would take the truck to the Scamp factory to have a hitch installed. It’s a bit of a drive, but that's no problem. I like to drive and it's always a pleasure to visit the people at Scamp. Rather than leaving at 4:30 in the morning, I hitched our 16' Scamp to the truck, then headed out around eight pm. I would arrive in Backus, Minnesota between 11:30 and midnight. Perfect! I would sleep in the Scamp, then already be in town to drop off the truck at eight-o-clock the next morning. Arriving in Backus, I pulled into the local restaurant parking lot. There are always semi-trucks parked there, so I just nuzzled right in with them. I climbed into bed in the camper, fell asleep and slept like a baby all night. If you've never been to Backus, Minnesota, it's worth the drive. It's a small town of just a few hundred friendly people. Some would say there's nothing to do in Backus...but then, some people can go to the Mall of America only to find themselves bored, with nothing to do. Personally, I like small towns. About 5:30 in the morning, the little town begins to wake up. A semi started his engine, warmed up, then drove away. I laid in bed with the covers pulled up, counting as he shifted through the gears. I got to seven before he was far enough down the road that I could no longer hear him. I went back to sleep. Just before 7a.m., I rolled out of my bed that was so cozy and comfortable I was reluctant to get up at all. After washing up and brushing my teeth, I challenged the cowlicks in my hair. I wetted my hands with water, then tried to smooth my hair, without success. The cowlick was strutting like a rooster on my head. I did the best I could trying to fix my hair, then went into the restaurant for breakfast. The waitress greeted me with a smile and a very pleasant voice, "Good morning!" Each time she looked at me, she smiled even bigger. It was obvious she found me irresistibly handsome. I thought she was flirting with me. If she asked me out on a date, I would have to break her heart, wave my wedding ring finger and say, "Sorry, ma'am! I am spoken for!" Well, that's what I thought at first. Then it occurred to me, the rooster on my head was causing her smiles. Stupid cowlick! I ordered the breakfast special: a ham and cheese omelet with a side of homemade wheat toast and a cup of coffee. The waitress walked by with a plate of sausage gravy and biscuits for another customer. I began second guessing my choice. I thought about changing my order and I did. "Ma’am, could I add a half order of biscuits and gravy to go with my omelet?" I asked? "Sure thing." She said, as she kept walking in stride, looking back over her shoulder and smiling at me again. Breakfast came and I ate...and ate...and ate. Partway into the biscuits and gravy, she stopped by the table, filled my coffee cup and asked, "Did you get enough to eat?" I answered, "You should have stopped me at the omelet!" "I'm not your mom." She replied, laughing, “If I was, I would have told you to fix your hair before leaving the house.” We shared a good laugh about that. I left her a nice tip since she humored me. I arrived at the factory at eight-o-clock sharp. They got me right in, installed the hitch perfectly and had me out the door in far less time than I expected. Since I had extra time, I asked them to install a new kitchen faucet in the trailer. Perhaps with a new faucet, I could better wet down my head and control the cowlick in the future. While they installed the new fixture, I stopped into the office. I wanted to toss my name in the hat to possibly deliver Scamps in the future. "Anywhere around the country would be fine with me." I told the man. He seemed distracted but still smiled as he said, “We have plenty of drivers right now.” He was smiling and yet giving me an odd look at the same time. Maybe I just caught him at a bad time. I gave him my contact information, then headed out the door. Back in the driver's seat, I started the engine. I looked up to adjust my rearview mirror - although I don’t know why. The only thing I could see in the mirror was the front of my camper…and the hair standing straight up on my head. Good Lord! It looked like a plume on the headdress of a Las Vegas showgirl. No wonder he was distracted. I licked my fingers and tried to smooth it down with my hand as I drove off the lot, turning north on Highway 371. I only got about seven miles up the road when I came into the next town and I saw the sign for Viddles and Joe. I don't know why, but this place always reminds me of my friend, Joe. Hackensack, Minnesota claims to be home of the Sasquatch. Most of the stores in town sell some sort of Sasquatch memorabilia and there are numerous life-size, metal cutouts of Sasquatches around the town. Joe is a fan of Sassy. I think he would like it here. The café has good food - especially their pie. I thought about stopping but it was only 10:00 - way too early for lunch. I turned into their parking lot anyway. I could have coffee and write for a while. Inside, I sat at the horseshoe-shaped counter, where I ordered a slice of blueberry pie and a cup of coffee. The waitress sported a big smile as she tried to talk me into ice cream. Pie a la mode sounded tempting, but I refrained. "Just the pie, please." She smiled again, then went to get the pie. I opened my iPad and started writing. She returned and smiled as she set the pie plate in front of me, asking if I needed anything else. I smiled back. “No. Just the pie, thank you.” She kept smiling as she walked away. With each bite of the pie my tastebuds danced with delight. Each dance step was overshadowed by another thought: I should have stopped at the omelet. Whew! I was stuffed! I closed my tablet. It was time to get going. When I paid my tab, the waitress gave me a big grin and wished me a nice day. I returned her salutations and was ready to go, but before leaving I stopped in the restroom to wash my hands. I looked in the mirror and saw my cowlick still standing up. “Oh my gosh! It’s still there. No wonder the waitress was smiling.” I cupped my hand, filling it with water, then leaned over the sink, dousing my hair in an attempt to tame the wild beast on my head. After repeating the process several times, I dried my hair with a paper towel. I managed to get the unruly hair to go from vertical, to laying downward but still sticking out from my head at a forty-five-degree angle. It looked like a wing window on a camper. Unable to get my hair to cooperate, I walked through the restaurant as if it was supposed to be that way. I felt like everyone was looking at my goofy hair. I complained to myself, “I’ll bet no one laughs at a Sasquatch if he wakes up with bad hair.” I thought about Bob Seger’s song again; how back in the early seventies he would walk into a small-town café as a stranger with his long hair and the locals would ask one another, “Is that a woman or a man?” I chuckled thinking, if anyone asked me what was up with my hair, I would look at them and say, “It’s a cowlick!” Then I remembered, Bob sang in his song, “… and you always seem outnumbered, you don’t dare make a stand…” I didn’t need to say anything, the people were all friendly, I was just a little self-conscious about my hair. I got in my truck and pulled onto Highway 371, headed north. After pushing a couple buttons on the stereo in my truck, the lonely sounds of a solo saxophone came wailing through the speakers. Bob and I sang together: “On a long and lonesome highway east of Omaha, you can hear the engine moanin’ out his one note song…”
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Windex8/26/2019 I stopped at Walmart in Fishkill, New York, to get a bottle of Windex. In the cleaning supplies aisle, a lady was carefully looking over a toilet cleaning
brush - her husband was patiently standing by. I suggested, “If you want to know if that thing will work well, you’ll need to put it in his hand to see how it fits.” We all shared a good laugh over that. I walked down the aisle and back, looking for the glass cleaner, but never found it. I asked them, “Do you happen to know where the Windex is? I should think it would be in this aisle with cleaning supplies.” The three of us walked the aisle together, looking, but didn’t find it. We were nearing the end when the lady pointed at the shelves, “It’s right there.” “Where? I don’t see it.” I said. “It’s on the other side of the shelf; in the next row.” She answered. Confused, I shook my head, “This is why men never have the house cleaned when we’re supposed to. Someone always puts the cleaning stuff where we can’t see it.” We shared another laugh about that. I have no idea how she saw that Windex, I still couldn’t, but I took her word and went to the next aisle. Sure enough, it was where she pointed. I picked up a bottle and headed to check out. At the end of the aisle, I ran into them again. “Did you find it?” She queried. “I did.” I said, “It was right where you said it would be.” As we stood there, I pointed to a full pallet - a big display of Windex right at the end of the aisle where we first started talking. “It’s a good thing those weren’t snakes, they would have bit us!” I declared. She chuckled. “Yes sir, they would’ve. They’d of bit us good.” We shared another good laugh, then went our separate ways. Heading toward the checkout lanes, I saw a man kneeling on the floor, facing the shelves, holding a bottle of Western salad dressing. His wife was standing next to him with her hands on the grocery cart, “Is it really worth two dollars more than any other brand?” I couldn’t help it – I had to throw in my two-cents worth. “Ma’am, any salad dressing that brings a man to his knees in the grocery store – that’s really, really good stuff. Probably well worth a couple extra bucks, maybe more.” She gave me a cold, blank stare. Just when I thought I was about to be told to mind my own business, she cracked a smile, then burst out laughing. “Okay,” she told her husband, “Put it in the cart.” He got up grinning, “Thanks man.” He said, holding the bottle of dressing my way, “Have you had this before?” Not wanting to tell him western dressing is probably my least favorite, I replied, “I can’t say as I have.” He told me I should try it sometime, then thanked me again for helping to convince his wife to get the better dressing. “Just doing what I can to help people find happiness.” I said, then went about my way. I felt pretty good for drawing a bit of laughter from the two different couples, brightening their day just a little. Near the registers there was another display of Windex. I thought it must be a really good buy for the store to have multiple displays of the same product. I considered getting a second bottle, but then thought, nah. A bottle of Windex lasts for a really long time - as do the good feelings you get when you share a little happiness - even with people you may not know.
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Wayside Parks8/21/2019 Coming home from the west coast, I stopped at the Dena Mora Lookout Pass rest area just inside Montana on I-90. What a beautiful area to wake up to in the morning. I took long, deep breaths of the cool, fresh mountain air, then hooked June’s leash to her collar. We would go for a walk but first I needed to drop some trash in the can just down the way.
There was a little boy on the sidewalk, holding a bagel in his left hand. He was mighty curious, but cautious about June. He finally asked, “Mister, can I pet your dog?” June was excited about the potential of a new friend, or, maybe it was the bagel. She lunged toward the little boy, startling him and causing him to jump back a few steps. Equally curious about him, June strained against her collar, pushing toward him and again the little boy backed up. His dad was standing close by. “You can pet her,” I told him, “but you better let your dad hold your bagel. I’m afraid she’s going to try to take it from you.” The dad took the bagel but the little boy, still skeptical, stepped away. Taking shelter behind his dad, the boy kept peeking around dad’s leg, showing interest in my dog. “Maybe you can pet her another time,” I said, “I’m going to take her for a walk right now.” June and I usually walk down the shoulder to the end of the exit from the rest area, then back to the entrance. Near the end where we were going to turn around, we found an old road that went back into the woods. Naturally, we followed the road. A short dirt trail took us from the asphalt down along the stream at the base of the mountain. We enjoyed the shallow water that babbled and splashed over the rocks. June stepped into the stream’s edge for a drink. There were wildflowers of all sorts and colors. Pinecones and other neat treasures were scattered about the ground below the tall pine trees. The road led to the backside of the rest area. June and I would cut through to get back to the car. The dad and his little boy were in the picnic area, under a shelter. They were now joined by mom, a sister and two more brothers. I smiled and waved as we cut through. Still intrigued by her, the boy dropped his bagel in the grass to come follow June. One of his brothers and the little girl joined in line, trailing behind. They were all very curious about this dog, but caution kept them several feet away. I wanted them to be comfortable enough to pet her. I knew a way to break the ice and put them at ease. I went to the car and got a tennis ball. Excited over the ball, June bounced and hopped backwards on her hind legs all the way to where the kids were. They laughed at her silly moves. I took her leash off and told the kids, “Watch this.” I threw the ball a good distance. June ran full speed to retrieve the ball, bringing it back to me. Then I threw the ball high in the air. June positioned herself under the ball, then jumped up to catch it. I faked as if I was going to throw the ball deep again. June ran down the grassy area in anticipation, then turned toward me. I launched the ball to her and again she jumped up, making a spectacular catch in the air, just like a major league baseball player in the outfield. The kids were all impressed by her skill. I showed them how to position their feet in a V-shape, explaining June would drop the ball between their feet for them to throw it. I warned them the ball would be slimy with dog slobber. They didn’t care. The first little boy made a V with his shoes. June dropped the ball between his feet and he threw it for her. June gladly retrieved it. Justin, the dad, told me their names were Gavin, Ruby and Samuel – back at the picnic table, looking on, were his wife Amanda and oldest son Jack. The three kids each put their heels together making V-shapes with their feet. Each time June came back with the ball, she would decide who to give it to next. It was entertaining for all and I was amazed how June would rotate turns evenly among the kids. On one return with the ball, June stopped, sniffed something in the grass, then started eating it. It’s was Gavin’s bagel. June hadn’t had breakfast yet. She was hungry and getting tired, but she won’t quit when the ball is out. I told the kids she needed a break and took her back to the car. I gave her some water and let her rest while I fixed a bowl of cereal for myself, then set June’s bowl of food on the ground. Breakfast alfresco. Gavin was coming closer to see if June was ready to play again. He was eating a fresh strawberry, holding it by the little green leaves. Each of the kids were eating fresh fruit. “Can June come play ball again?” He asked. I answered him, “She just ate breakfast, Gavin. We better let her rest.” Munching on his strawberry, Gavin stood watching us – I suppose to see if I would change my mind. I watched Justin and his family as they packed their coolers in the back of their car. The car was really full. It reminded me of when I was little and we would travel. We didn’t eat out in restaurants. Mom packed food for the trip. We stopped at wayside parks to eat our meals. Modern rest areas didn’t exist yet. A row of short wooden posts with rounded tops and painted white, lined the edge of the gravel parking area. A rope or cable would be strung through them to keep people from driving on the grass. If you were lucky, the wayside park might have a swing set, a slide or an old merry-go-round with wooden seats and a bar to hold on to. The kind that creaked and clanked as they went around. The slide always had a shiny metal surface. You had to lift your legs to keep from touching the hot metal surface. At the bottom was a worn pit where kids landed. If it had rained recently, the divot would be filled with muddy water. If you were wearing shorts, riding down on your rump, leaning on your back kept your legs from sticking to the slide and slowing you down. One had to be sure to get enough speed coming down that slide to clear the little swamp. There would be trouble for the one who landed in the puddle and inevitably someone would. Mom would snap, “Stay off that slide. We don’t have enough clean clothes for you kids to be getting muddy!” We would move on to the next attraction. Along with my brothers and sisters, we would take turns pushing the merry-go-round in circles. Some kids sat the way they were supposed to, facing the center. The more daring kids would stand on the horizontal hand bar, holding on to the vertical pipe that connected the seats to the top center pole. I liked to sit backwards, facing outward. When the ride got moving fast enough, I would push off and go tumbling and laughing into the grass. There was always a lot of laughter and complaining, because someone took someone else’s seat. Eventually someone would start crying over a lost seat or a bad landing in the grass. That would draw Dad’s attention. “You kids get down from that bar. That’s not how it’s meant to be ridden. If you can’t use it right, then just stay off it.” Mom would break the tension, “Lunch is ready. Come eat.” Sometimes we would have sandwiches, sometimes she had cold fried chicken. She almost always had a big yellow Tupperware bowl filled with potato salad. Mom made the best potato salad! She always brought apples that came from our apple trees. If we had dessert, it would be cookies Mom made at home – or generic chocolate and vanilla crème filled sandwich cookies. (If dad found them on sale at K-mart.) After a picnic and some playtime, we would clean up the area making sure no trash was left behind. We would also pick up any other litter or debris. “Leave it better than you found it.” Dad always said. Sometimes, the wayside park would have an outhouse. If not, there was always a bush. If you had to do more than tinkle, a service station with bathrooms outside around the corner of the building would be the next stop. You could get the restroom key from the attendant. We all piled back into the old Chevrolet Greenbriar van, to head back down the road. It was fun to watch Justin and his family and reminisce about those olden days with my own family. Those seemed like better days. Of course, I have come to appreciate the bathrooms with indoor plumbing in the modern rest areas, too. One of the nicest rest areas in Minnesota is just a mile from our house at Tettegouche State Park. The next time our grandkids come to visit us on the North Shore, I think I’ll pack a lunch, with fried chicken and homemade potato salad but I’ll take them a little further up the road. Maybe we can find an old-fashioned wayside park with a merry-go-round.
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Cheerios8/14/2019 I filled June’s container with delicious Iams Mini-Chunks dog food and set it by my bag at the front door. Next, I paced my grocery tote. I took the half loaf of bread, but taking the only box of Cheerios from the cabinet would have been rude. Besides, I was going to stop at a store along my way to Seattle, Washington. I put the lid on my tote, loaded the car and we were on our way.
We pulled into the Walmart on Highway 34 in Detroit Lakes, Minnesota. I pushed my empty cart to the cereal aisle. A fairly short lady was standing to one side with a heavily loaded grocery cart. Her four children were scattered about looking at things on the shelves. I waited politely. When she noticed me, the lady spoke in Spanish, calling her children, then in English, she said to me, “I’m sorry.” “No need to be sorry. They weren’t in my way.” I said. Nodding toward her basket, I added, “I was waiting to get your attention to see if you wanted to race that thing.” She blushed and said she did not. She grunted a little as she started to push the heavy cart to go about her way. I stood in front of the selection of Cheerios – totally dumbfounded. “When did they come out with these? Frosted Cheerios, because we’re not getting enough sugar in our diets?” I was having a hard time finding just plain Cheerios. I remember when they first came out with Honey Nut Cheerios, but now they have all these new flavors: Blueberry, Peach, Maple and Chocolate Cheerios. I picked up a box of Apple Cinnamon Cheerios. “They already have these – they’re called Apple Jacks.” I said to no one, while picking up another box, “Fruity Cheerios? They already have these too. They’re called Fruit Loops.” Putting the boxes back on the shelf, I shook my head, grumbling, “There are too many kinds of cereal. Can’t I just get some plain old Cheerios?” I finally found them - $3.98 for a medium size box. I questioned, “Why is cereal so expensive?” Then, I noticed the Toasted Oat Rings nearby, that were $1.29. I picked up a box of each. Comparing them, I started to reason aloud. “They’re in the same size box, the packaging is the same basic yellow background and the picture looks the same. They must be just as good. They’re probably even made by General Mills and just packaged in a different box.” Contemplating what to do, I imagined I would soon hear over the loud speaker, “Security, we’ve got a crazy man talking to himself, complaining about cereal selection and pricing. He’s scaring off women and small children. Code three to aisle nine.” I put the box of cheap cereal in my cart and made a run for it. Rounding the corner into the aisle by the tuna fish, I met the same lady with the big cart. I taunted her, “You sure you don’t want to race?” She shook her head no, called her children to come close and moved on. I grabbed some pink salmon and headed for the crackers to put the fish on. Guess who was in the aisle with chips and crackers? Yep, the same lady. “Are you SURE you don’t want to race?” I asked her again. She gave me a real serious look and said, “I might beat you!” She cracked a smile then, started laughing, which caused me and her four kids to also laugh. She grunted again as she put the heavy cart into motion. I grabbed a small package of Keebler Club Crackers, not a very healthy choice, but oh, so good. I pushed my cart through the grocery section to pick up a couple more items, then looked at several other things on the general merchandise side of the store. I decided I didn’t need them and headed for the checkout lanes. As usual, the lanes were backed up. I wasn’t going to use the self-checkout because I had bananas and I always mess up when I have to “look up” an item. While I waited in line, I looked at all the junk they place close to the register – impulse buys people will make while checking out. I wasn’t going to fall for their marketing strategy. Of course, the candy is there and the Snickers bars were calling my name, but I was strong and resisted. I felt something bump my hand and instinctively pulled my hand closer to my side. Then, something tugged my hand. That got my attention! I looked down and a little boy, maybe four or five years old at best, was standing next to me. In a very soft voice, he said something to me, but I couldn’t understand him. I assumed he wanted me to reach some candy from the top shelf. He repeated himself but I still didn’t hear what he said. I leaned down toward him and he repeated it again. “Mama said to tell you she won.” I had no idea what that was supposed to mean until I stood up, confused. Two carts ahead of me was the lady with the very full cart. She stood behind the cart while her daughters kept unloading groceries, placing them on the conveyor belt as fast as the checker could scan them. With a huge smile, she held both hands up, with fists clinched, shaking them in the air like someone who’s name just got called to “Come on down! You’re the next contestant on the Price is Right.” She laughed and declared, “I won!” Indeed, she did. I shared in her victorious joy, returning a smile and giving her two thumbs-up. When the cashier told her the total of her groceries was $248 and some odd change, I silently gave thanks that we weren’t racing for grocery bills. The next morning, I fed June, then opened the box of Toasted Oat Rings. I poured some milk over them and took my first bite. They were crispy but there was no flavor at all. I picked the box up and looked again. They were Toasted Oat Rings and they looked like Cheerios, but they didn’t taste like them. They didn’t taste like anything. I asked June if she wanted to trade her mini-chunks for a bowl of delicious Cheerios? “No thanks, Dad.” She said, “Those aren’t real Cheerios and I can tell by the look on your face, they aren’t very good. Besides, they’re probably already soggy.” She was right. I ate another spoonful of the soggy oat rings. Completely tasteless, I pitched the paper bowl with the rest of the mushy oat rings in the trash can. I should have spent the $3.98 and got the good stuff. Real Cheerios.
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Sister's Week8/7/2019 When we first married, Melissa was the photo editor at the Daily News and living in Winona, Minnesota. I was still managing my radio stations in Iowa. I would leave our house in Winona around 2:00 a.m. on Monday morning, to drive to work for the week, in Ottumwa.
Our two oldest daughters, Sydney and Delaney, were attending the University of Northern Iowa in Cedar Falls. They shared a house in Waterloo, Iowa, which was right on my way from Winona to Ottumwa. During my Monday drive, I would stop by the convenience store to get a half dozen donuts and a gallon of milk and leave them on their front porch on my way through. I never bothered to wake them because I went through town around four in the morning. It was a special time in life. I hold fond memories of those stops and the “I love you, Dad” texts that would follow. Last Friday, on my way home from Florida, I needed to stop in Rochester, Minnesota, to take care of some business that would take several hours. Then I needed to get to Duluth before 8:00 p.m. to return a rental trailer. My route would have me driving within a few miles of our daughter Sydney’s house. I was on a really tight schedule and contemplating whether to stop or keep going. It was around 8:00 a.m., Sydney had the day off work for Sister’s Week. I figured they would still be in bed, so I decided to keep driving. Our three daughters get together once a year for “Sister’s Week,” and Delaney was back from Pennsylvania. Annie, our youngest, was gone that morning doing things to prepare her classroom for the coming school year. It would be Sydney and Delaney together again in Waterloo. I decided I would go get donuts and stop by their house, just like when they were in college. I rang the doorbell, but nobody answered, so I rang it again and then knocked. Delaney came to the door and let me in. “Stop ringing the doorbell, you’re going to wake the girls.” She whispered with concern. I could see into the bedroom where there were two lumps under the covers. With a milk jug in my left hand and a box of goodies in my right, I gave Delaney a hug and told her good morning! As soon as I spoke, Addison, our oldest granddaughter, heard my voice and sprung up from under the covers. “Papa!” She said in a sleepy, but excited voice. Shaking the other lump under the covers, “Evelyn. It’s Papa. He’s here!” Addison jumped from the bed and came running to the living room, with Evelyn right on her heels. I handed Delaney the milk and knelt down on one knee to embrace the sleepy child in my left arm. Addison threw her arms around my neck and squeezed me tightly. I returned the hug. Evelyn came running along behind with her arms wide open to join in the group hug. “Papa!” she said. When it occurred to Ev, she was hugging Addison and not me, she scooted around to my right. I gave her a big hug, pulling her in close as well, the box of donuts was still in my hand. With four little arms wrapped around my neck like an octopus, it was a very heartwarming greeting. Lots of hugs and kisses were shared and I got a little misty-eyed, feeling such pure love from these two. We went to the kitchen, poured a few glasses of milk, then opened the donuts. Evelyn was all over the cake donut with babos (blueberries) while Addison went right for the long john with chocolate frosting and colorful sprinkles. We shared some wonderful conversation. Evelyn had finally learned to say Aunt Delaney’s name, but was a little too bashful to say it for me. I pointed to Sydney and asked, “Who is that?” “Mommy.” Evelyn replied. Then I pointed at her sister, asking the same question. “Addison.” I pointed to myself, “Papa.” I pointed to Delaney asking, “Who is that?” “Denaney.” She answered, then raised her shoulders, bashfully putting her finger inside her bottom lip. I gave her kudos and another hug. I asked Addison what she was going to do today, “I’m going to get a pony.” She stated with authority. “A real one?” I queried, “Yep. A real pony. I’m going to get one today.” She confirmed. “Do your mom and dad know about this?” Addison smiled. “Not yet, but they will.” We shared a good laugh about that, as I wondered where they were going to keep the new pony – Addison was very determined. We went outside to throw a few balls for June. I was on a tight schedule and needed to get going. We said our farewells, then June and I got in the car and started down the street. I gave two toots on the horn and waved my arm out the window. As we drove away, I could see them in my rearview mirror, standing in the front yard, waving back. Annie would join them again in a few hours, but for now it was Sydney and her little sister, Delaney; Addison and her little sister, Evelyn – together for Sister’s Week. As I turned onto Highway 63, heading north to Rochester, I thought how glad I was to have taken time to stop by. My business in Rochester took longer than expected, so June and I hustled along and cut our breaks short. As it turned out, we made it back to Duluth, arriving at the trailer rental store at 7:50 pm. Everything was going my way. Even if it would’ve meant making another trip back to Duluth and another day’s rental on the trailer, it would have been well worth it. I wouldn’t want to have missed out on that morning and the special greeting - one I’ll remember for the rest of my life, that came unexpectedly during Sister’s Week.
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Go to Your Room7/31/2019 I think every parent has done it, became frustrated with a child and ordered them, “Go to your room.” So, the kid goes to their room where they keep the best of their toys, books, games, maybe a TV and other exciting things. Being sent to your room. Has it ever really been an effective discipline? In some cases, it could be considered a reward.
Case in point: I don’t know any mother raising children, who wouldn’t love to be sent to their room. “Are you kidding me?” they will say with hope, “Sending me to my room for an hour or more – preferably more” Moms relish the very thought of being sent to their room. To most women, with or without kids at home, being sent to their room is an opportunity for a much needed, mid-afternoon nap; some quiet time with a book and maybe a glass of wine. (Hey, it’s her room. She can have wine in there if she wants to.) I think we can assume it is not punishment for kids nor moms to be sent to their room. But what about men? Where do you send a man? I don’t know the answer to this question, but I’ve got an idea. The other day while traveling on I-24 through Paducah, in the beautiful state of Kentucky, I saw a sign for Husband Road just one mile ahead. I thought this sounded like a place where wives can send their husbands for some remedial training. She’ll give you a stern talking to – asking you questions she knows the answers to. “You didn’t clean the garage like I asked you to?” You had good intentions, but how could you clean the garage? Your buddies were driving by, saw the garage door open and stopped to talk about baseball for a few minutes. Naturally you wanted to be a good host and offered them a cold beverage and before you knew it, the afternoon was gone. What choice did you have? You certainly didn’t want to come off showing anything less than good hospitality. There are lots of scenarios that might include promises to clean the basement or rain gutters. Fix the garbage disposal or vacuum cleaner; replace a leaky faucet or a bad light switch. All different situations and yet the same basic thing. Maybe you did something you shouldn’t have done – or worse yet, forgot something big, like a birthday, anniversary, etc... There was a day when any of these things would have landed you in the proverbial “Dog House.” I guess the dog house has been replaced by Husband Road. If your wife knew about Husband Road, she’d shake a finger at you, “You mister. You are going to Husband Road for some retraining. Go on now, go pack a bag because that’s where you’re going! This will teach you a lesson!” All these thoughts made me consider sprucing up my own act, lest I should be sent there. I decided to check it out for myself, in order to forewarn my friends that such a place really exists. I turned off at exit 11. One building in particular had my attention. It took the shape of an old river steamboat with fancy smoke stacks, each topped with a crown. There was a big paddle wheel of sorts on each side and a balcony ran all around the second floor. I got closer to read the sign on the front of the building. “Four Rivers Harley Davidson.” Humph. A Harley dealership? On Husband Road? I was confused. Exploring further, I found the Warehouse 11 Bar and Grille with plenty of outdoor seating, next to the bike shop. Then there was the Range America Gun Shop with an indoor firing range. On the other end of Husband Road is Power Sports of America – a Can Am cycle dealership. They also sell those really cool Polaris Sling Shots. Wow! This was just the kind of place a man would like to be sent to “think about what you just did.” I was going to write a story about Husband Road, but then thought maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe this place is a secret haven the men of Paducah, Kentucky don’t want the girls to know about. I mean to say, I know a lot of woman who ride motorcycles, like to fire their guns and toss back an occasional shot with a chaser. Nope. I’m not going to be the one to let the cat out of the bag. I should leave this subject alone. Men, go ahead and send your wife to her room once in a while, she’ll appreciate the time off. While she’s in there you may want to finish cleaning the garage, mowing the lawn or whatever task is at hand, lest you be sent to Husband Road. This story can be easily shared by visiting our website at fairmontphotopress.com.
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Good Sam7/24/2019 Everyone likes to hear their name even when it’s used not necessarily referring to them. I tend to have a special feeling for people, characters and places that share my namesake. For example, when Tom is chasing Jerry, I always root for the cat. Tom Terrific is my favorite cartoon hero; Tom Selleck was the best TV detective ever and Tommy Johnson Jr., is my favorite drag racer.
On a Sunday morning, I stopped for gas in historic Wallace, Idaho, an absolutely beautiful town nestled in the Rocky Mountains. I got online and checked church schedules and found I was too early for mass at St. Alphonsus, in Wallace. If I drove down the road another hour, I would be twenty minutes early for the 11:00 mass at St. Thomas the Apostle, Catholic Church in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho – another gorgeous town. What are the chances I would be in one of my favorite places in the world, the Rocky Mountains, just in time to catch mass at a church bearing my same name? I drove west. The morning was beautiful. The scenery around me, the cool fresh morning air – I could just feel it, this was going to be a good day. Inside, I used the restroom before mass. While I was washing my hands, a priest came in to wash his hands in the other sink. He asked where I was from. We chatted for a few moments and he said, “You’re going to like it here. The people a very welcoming and friendly. I’m glad you’re joining us today.” He made me feel very comfortable. Sunlight shining through the stained-glass window filled the church with brilliant, warm colors. The organ began to play and the processional began. There must have been at least six seminarians on the altar joining in the celebration of mass. Father John delivered a very interesting homily that held my attention from beginning to end - It was a spiritually rewarding morning for me. After mass, June and I continued west on I-90. The next morning, I stopped at a rest area in Coburg, Oregon – about ten miles from our destination. On the sidewalk across from where my car was parked, an old man sat on an upside down five-gallon bucket. Next to him was an empty red plastic coffee can and a sign that read, three things are forever: Faith, Hope and Love. Love is the most important. Nobody stopped to talk to the old man to say hello, or good morning, let alone asking if he needed help. People looked the other way to avoid making eye contact as they walked past him. The man just sat quietly with his can and sign. After fed my dog, June, I walk over toward the man. His truck was parked in front of him. It was an older, beat-up, white Ford pickup. Both taillights had been broken and were covered with red plastic film, fastened to the truck with duct tape. The glass door was missing from his topper allowing me to see inside where there was a makeshift bed and what appeared to be all of his possession. The side windows had old towels hanging over them as curtains. Although his was sitting down, I could tell he was a fairly tall man. His white hair and beard were not washed, but they were combed. Missing most of its buttons, his thin, blue cotton shirt was open, exposing his chest. He wore tan pants that were dirty and his slip-on, loafer style shoes were very worn. I greeted the man with a simple, “Good morning.” “What’d you say?” He practically shouted back Quite a bit louder, I repeated “Good morning.” then asked, “Have you had anything to eat.” With his hand, he cupped his ear toward me, “You have to speak up. I don’t hear so good anymore.” The rest of our conversation, although civil, was just short of yelling at each other in order for him to hear me. I asked again if he’d had anything to eat. He tipped his red coffee can to look inside. It was empty. “Well, not yet.” he said. I asked if he would like something to eat. “Well, I’m a little hungry.” he said in a humble but loud voice, “I suppose I could eat a bite.” I lifted the tailgate of my Subaru, then opened my cooler. On a paper plate, I prepared a ham and cheese sandwich with some chips on the side, a few baby carrots, four big, fresh strawberries and a banana. I tucked a plastic spoon in my shirt pocket and pinched a single serving can of pork and beans under arm. In my other hand I carried a gallon of water. The old man was appreciative and set the plate in his lap. I asked if he would like a banana, “Sure, bananas are good.” he said. I gave him the fruit and the water. I offered the can, asking if he would like some beans. His eyes got wide and a big grin shot over his face, “I really like beans.” I gave him the beans, then left him to enjoy his meal. June and I went for twenty-minute walk around the rest area. I kept thinking about the way the man’s face lit up when I offered him those beans. I had another can in the car and decided I would give him those as well. I offered him the second can of beans, “Well I can’t eat them now but I’ll take them for later, if you don’t mind.” I handed them to him, and struck up a conversation. I learned his name was Darrel and he had served in army. “The VA hospital takes pretty good care of me. They keep saying they’re going to get me a hearing aid, but they ain’t done it yet. I think they forgot me.” He shook his head, “I can’t complain though,” he said pointing to a long, purplish colored scar on his chest, “they fixed my heart and I need my heart more than my hearing.” Darrel coughed as he laughed about that. “I’ve got another scar where they took out my appendix and a several scars where I got shot when I was in the Army.” Darrel got quiet for a moment, reflecting, then said, “When I got home from Vietnam, no one seemed interested in hiring me for a good job so I spent most of my life working in restaurants – until I got too old.” He scratched his beard, then picked up his bible, “I already served my country and my community. Whatever time I got left, I’m going to spend serving my Lord.” Darrel paused, then smiled, “I’m not going sit somewhere watching TV, so I come here. Maybe I’ll get a few dollars to get something to eat or maybe I’ll just meet someone like you to talk with for a bit.” I felt good for spending some time with Darrel. As much as he was hungry for food, he was lonely – yearning for someone to talk to. I handed him some cash, we said our farewells, then June and I headed west to Eugene, Oregon. After I reaching my destination and finishing my business, I started the long trek east; headed home. I had a story bouncing around in my head. It was one of those stories that was so clear, there was no way I could forget it. It was the story about Darrel. A little voice kept whispering to me, “You’re going to forget this story if you don’t stop to write it now.” The voice was right and there was a McDonald’s at the next exit so I pulled off the highway. Near the end of the exit ramp was a sign with golden arches, an arrow to the right and the numbers 3.5 – I don’t like it when a sign is posted for a restaurant so far off the path. I pulled right back onto the highway where two exits later there was another McDonalds – this time right off the end of the ramp. I took that exit. When I was walking toward the restaurant, I could see a girl with two sizable duffle bags on the ground, standing near the entrance. People seemed to be going out of their way to avoid her. She had stopped a lady and I could see they were talking briefly. The woman shook her head as if saying no, then went inside. Another couple stopped, the man shook his head, and they walked by. As I got closer, I could see the girl was pretty young. We made eye contact, then she quickly looked away. She would glance toward me, then look away again. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face flushed. I could tell she had been crying. She seemed like she wanted to address me, but was afraid, or, too embarrassed to say anything, so I asked her if she was okay. She started crying again, “No, I’m really not.” she said. Breathing hard, through her sobs, she asked me, “Are you going anywhere near Portland.” “I could be.” I responded, “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on.” The girl explained, “I just got kicked out of rehab because I lost my temper and told one of the counselors what I thought of them.” I told her she probably shouldn’t have done that. “I know,” she said, “and I’m sorry I did it but it’s too late now.” She went on to tell me she only had a couple dollars and didn’t know what she was going to do. I asked if she had friends in Portland and she said, “My dad lives there.” “Do you have a cell phone? Can you call him?” I asked. She explained, “You’re not allowed to have a phone in rehab so my dad has mine.” I offered her my phone to call him. She dialed a couple different numbers and when the party answered she would say, “I’m sorry. I dialed the wrong number.” She looked despondent and said, “I can’t remember his number, it’s in my contacts on my phone.” I suggested she call her own number. When she dialed it, I could hear a message in her voice, “This is Emily. Leave a massage.” She handed the phone back to me. “It went right to voice mail. He doesn’t have it turned on.” She began crying again, “I just want to go home to my dad, but everyone I ask says they can’t help me.” That really got to me – she needed her dad. I could only imagine one of my own daughters being stranded and scared and having no one to turn to. I could only hope and pray that someone safe would help my child. “Emily,” I said, “I have to sit down and work on my laptop for about an hour. If you want to wait for me, I will be driving right through Portland on my way back to Minnesota. I will give you a ride.” She was genuinely appreciative, thanking me over and over again. I asked if she had eaten anything, she said, “No, I only have about two dollars on me.” I went to get an ice tea for myself and bought Emily a sandwich and a drink. When I came back, she fumbled nervously with the sandwich, “Can I ask you something?” I nodded, yes. “You’re not going to kidnap me, are you?” Her question broke my heart. She was so scared and yet so desperate she was willing to accept a ride from a complete stranger. I forced a smile, and said gently, “No Emily, I’m not going to kidnap you. I’m going to get you home safe to your dad.” I asked her how old she was and she told me twenty. I opened my iPad and brought up a picture of my kids to show her. “Emily, I have a daughter just a few years older than you. I hope if they are every stranded and in trouble, someone safe comes along to help them. You are safe.” With that said, she seemed to relax and ate her sandwich. I was trying to write, but couldn’t stop thinking about Darrel at the rest area that morning, and now Emily. He was hungry – she was scared. Both of them just needed a little help, but people just passed them by – going out of their way to avoid any contact. I couldn’t concentrate. I put my laptop back in the bag. “Come on, Emily. I can work on this later. Let’s get you home to your dad.” As we walked to the car I said, “I probably should have mentioned, I travel with my dog, June. I hope you’re okay with dogs.” “I love dogs.” Emily replied. I put her bags in the back of the car, then introduced Emily to June. We had a nice visit during the two-hour drive to Portland. She explained to me that she was in rehab for a drug addiction, and she really wanted to stay sober. “I’m six weeks clean from being in rehab and I want to stay that way.” As we got closer to Portland, I told her that when I give people rides, I will only drop them off at a public place. (For my safety, I won’t take them into a residential area.) I dropped her off at the market where her dad worked. I got her bags out of the car and we said our farewells. As she started to walk away, I called to her, “Emily?” She turned around, “Get back into another rehab program. You’re not the only one who struggles with a drug addiction. They will help you.” She set her bags down and came back to give me a hug. That made me feel pretty darn good. As I headed for home, I kept thinking about the two people I’d met that day. I wondered why the good Lord keeps putting me in places where I run into such people whom I am able to help out. I don’t know why He does it, but I am sure glad He does. I started thinking about the coincidences in my life. The day before I, Tom, was at St. Thomas the Apostle Church, where I met Father John, of all places – in the john. Father John gave the best homily with the most in-depth history on the gospel, I had ever heard. I felt blessed and truly inspired by his homily. Would you like to guess what the gospel reading was? That’s right – the parable of the Good Samaritan. I said a prayer for the new people I had met over the last day and a half – Father John, Darrel, Emily and a special man named Fred. I prayed for each of them, calling them by name, because I think everyone likes to hear their name… |