Tom Palen,a broadcaster, pilot, writer, and our Guest Columnist! Archives
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Marvin10/2/2018 It was nearly noon on Saturday. Heading home, I noticed the leaves along the four-lane highway between Duluth and Two Harbors were starting to change. Turning yellowish green; some trees were already bright red and gold. With the first sign of fall colors, comes a steady stream of traffic, heading north on Highway 61.
I don’t know how people know the colors are turning. It’s like birds at a feeder. Our feathered friends just seem to know when more seed has been put out. Hungry for the wonder of fall, people flock in from near and far to take in the beautiful colors of Minnesota’s north woods. And who can blame them? Fall is a big part of the north shore magic that drew us to move here. About a half mile outside of town, traffic was already backed up on 61 coming in from the west. Road work in Two Harbors had cars, trucks and RV’s passing through narrow channels of orange barrels, posts and cones, changing and contorting the lanes as we knew them. Hustling to beat winter, workers in neon green vests, machines and equipment moved about busily. Intersections were closed, adding more disruption to the flow. It’s going to be very nice when it’s done, but for now the road construction has really slowed the heavy traffic through Two Harbors. I was caught in that line of traffic. Finally making it about midway through town, I decided to pull into Mc Donald’s. I would get lunch and try to write a story. The restaurant was busier than I have ever seen it. I ordered my meal, poured my drink, and set them on a table. An elderly gentleman with a cup of hot tea and a chocolate chip cookie in a small paper sleeve was looking around the restaurant for a place to sit. I looked around as well. I felt bad; I had just taken the last available table. It had four chairs and I only needed one. Just as I was about to offer the man a seat at my table, he asked me, “Have you got more people coming?” “Nope,” I answered, “I’m alone.” He asked, “Would you mind if I sat on this side?” “Well, it depends,” I said to him, inquiring, “you’re not going to try to sneak any of my french fries, are you?” We had a good laugh over that. He assured me he wouldn’t bother my fries. “I would love to have you join me.” I said, inviting him to sit down. He took a seat and I went to get some ketchup for my fries. When I returned, he had the lid off his cup of hot water and began gently steeping a tea bag. We shared some conversation about the weather, the traffic and how the town was buzzing with tourists today. “Do you live here in town?” I asked him. “Yes, just up the way.” he said, then asked,”How about you?” “No, but I’m not far. I live in Silver Bay.” “Silver Bay? Do you work at the mine?” He queried. “No,” I told him, “I was a broadcaster for thirty-five years. I sold my radio stations in Iowa and we moved up here.” He told me, “I worked for the Erie Mine Company. It was hard work but I didn’t mind. It was a good job and it paid good. But they went to swing shifts, so I quit. That just wasn’t for me.” The man wore a plaid wool shirt with brown and grey checks and a green, worn cap that had a Minnesota logo of sorts. I think it was a forestry hat. He reminded me of my uncle, John. I knew he had stories to tell. “I lived in Chicago for awhile, but it was too big. I like it up here in the woods. I’ve always liked the woods.” He said, “I wanted to work with the forest service, so I looked at schools for training. There was one in Alaska that really had my interest, so I went to Alaska. When I got there, the school was closed and I ended up a 75 MM gunner in the army.” He paused for a moment, then said, “That’s a big gun; and it’s loud. Those shells went off right next to my ear. That’s why I’m hard of hearing now.” I asked him, “Did you like Alaska? There are a lot of woods up there.” “I didn’t like Alaska much.” He recalled, “It was cold. Too cold, and too dark. In the winter it’s dark all the time. That wasn’t for me, so I left there.” He seemed to be thinking about those army days, then changed the subject. “I got out of the army and went to school on a GI bill. I studied forestry and went to work for the forest service. I started in St Louis County and I’ve worked all up and down the north shore. I like Lake County the best.” He broke off a piece of his cookie, ate it and sipped his tea. “I married a Swede.” He boasted. A smile came over his face as he fondly remembered a day long ago, “She brought me a sandwich and a cup of coffee one day when I was working in Dinky Town, way out west by the ocean. I thought, ‘I really like that girl.’ So I kept an eye on her. I’ve been married to her 50 years or so. We’re still married. She’s a good lady. We had a few arguments along the way, but we just got through the rough parts and it’s been pretty good.” His smile was beautiful as he talked about her; his love and respect for her was clear. I needed to get going, but was so drawn in by his stories, I stayed longer. “I’m surprised I never got killed out in the woods.” He said, “Oh yeah?” I replied, encouraging him to tell me more. “One day I was walking in the woods and my gun went off. It really stunned me, and I dropped to my knees. But when I looked at my rifle, the safety was on and my gun hadn’t fired. About that time a man came running toward me and screaming. He was shooting at a deer and didn’t see me. That bullet went right past my ear!” He said. Holding his index finger and thumb about an inch apart next to his head, he showed me how close it was. “The man thought he shot me and started throwing up.” My new friend laughed, “I almost got killed, but I made it out okay.” “That’s the way it was back then. Some people didn’t have any money and they depended on deer to feed their family.” He recounted, “I was out calling on a man one day, talking to him in his yard when his dog walked up. The dog was carrying a good size bone from the hind leg of a deer in his mouth. It was fresh.” A compassionate look came over his face as he shook his head and said, “I didn’t say anything about the deer being taken out of season. The man was doing his best to feed his family. That’s how it was back then, but I’ll bet the next time he took his deer a little deeper into the woods to clean it.” We shared a good laugh about that. He told me a few more stories and spoke fondly of his property. “I’ve still got forty acres.” He said. There was a pride in his voice as he spoke about his land, “But I stay pretty close to town now days.” “Is your forty acres around here?” I asked. “Yeah, it’s not too far out.” He said with a vagueness in his voice. A skeptical look came over his face. “Why?” I chuckled, “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hunt, I was just curious if you still go out there sometimes.” He laughed about my answer. I began to gather my things, then stood up, offering him my hand, “It’s been a real pleasure being able to spend this time with you my friend, but I need to start for home.” I shook his hand, “I’ve really enjoyed listening, and I thank you for sharing your stories with me.” I told him. I am so bad about asking for names when I talk to folks, I was really happy when he asked, “What was your name?” “Tom Palen” I answered, he shook my hand again and said, “Tom, I’m Marvin. Marvin Maki, from Two Harbors.” I told him I was going to write a story about our meeting and would send him a copy. I exchanged contact information with him, and said, “Marvin, I hope I run into you here again! I’ve really enjoyed our time together.” He said, “Well I was sure glad you let me sit here. I liked having company; someone to talk with.” I was feeling pretty blessed abut spending time with Marvin. I got in my car and pulled to the edge of the street, feeling hopeless as I looked at the solid line of traffic as far to my left as I could see. A car on the road stopped. The driver motioned to me, waving her hand, letting me into the traffic. I waved back to thank her. I noticed more trees changing. The colors of the trees and bushes along the north shore are beautiful, as are the people who live here, and those who come to visit. Tom can be reached for comment at Facebook.com/tom.palen.98
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The Business Meeting9/25/2018 My wife doesn’t get to see her cousin, Bree, who lives in Texas, very often. This past summer while we were in Ankeny, Iowa, Bree was visiting her sister, Kelly, in Runnells, just southeast of Des Moines. A mere 30 minute drive - we went down to visit.
A cookout was planned for dinner. Kelly diced potatoes, sliced mushrooms and other veggies to roast in the oven. I boiled the brats in beer, Melissa put her special touch on the baked beans and Kelly’s husband, Kris, stood by, ready to man the grill. The team effort paid off as we ate well. Very well. Night time came. With the promise of a trip to an amusement park the next day, the kids had to go to bed a little early. Kelly and Kris said goodnight to their daughter, Jadyn, and son, Jax, sending them off to bed. Bree sent her son, Max, to bed, then seemed to prepare for battle. A combination of being in a house that was not his own, adults still being up, additional company in the house, and the anticipation of the amusement park the next day, would cause any nine-year-old boy a good bout of insomnia. Such was the case for poor young Max. Telling him to go to sleep that night was as ineffective as it would be on Christmas Eve. Shortly after being put to bed, Max reappeared in the kitchen. Bree took Max back to bed again; then again, and again. On the last trip to the bedroom, Bree issued the final warning: “If you don’t stay in bed this time, you’re not going to Adventureland, tomorrow!” Max must have taken her seriously, as he didn’t return to the kitchen again. The adults congregated around the kitchen and dining area, enjoying cold beers and good conversation; telling stories, catching up, and reminiscing about the old days. All the while, my mind was distracted by an upcoming business meeting. It was the kind of business you would rather conduct in your own home, but that wasn’t possible tonight. As my tummy grumbled, Melissa announced, “Hey! The Perseids meteor showers are going on.” Then suggested, “Let’s go out on the deck to watch for them.” “Good idea!” I replied with sincere enthusiasm. The adults made a line and marched single-file, through the door, out to the deck...all except me. I lagged behind, anticipating a moment alone. Everyone was outside. The kids were all in bed; even Max, who hadn’t been seen nor heard from in nearly thirty minutes. It was quiet time; this was my chance. I headed for the board room, so to speak, around the corner. I pulled the door closed, pushing the button to lock the handle and turned on the fan. I checked to assure the necessary paper work was on hand to conduct such a meeting. Everything being in order, this meeting could be kept short and I would be able to adjourn, rejoining the company without anyone even noticing my brief absence. I turned around, prepared to take my seat and call the meeting to order. Just then the vanity door flung open violently, slamming into the wall with a loud bang! A high pitched, frightful, shrieking, “RRRArrrhhh!” came from the cavity of the cabinet, where there was thumping and commotion going on. “This house is possessed!” I thought to myself, nearly jumping out of my skin. I screamed like a girl! “Sweet Lord Jesus, save me!” I cried out, looking toward the heavens for refuge. Suddenly, something wiggled and slithered out from the cabinet. It was like watching a fast forwarded movie of a caterpillar awkwardly emerging from it cocoon. It would turn into the monster that was to devour me! The creature stood upright. It was skinny; bone white; wearing nothing but a pair of black brief underwear. For a moment I thought it might be Batman without his cape, mask, leotards and super-hero boots. The creature lunged toward me, laughing hysterically in my face, it taunted, “I got you! I got you Tom!” I immediately denied it, “You didn’t get me! I knew you were in there all the time!” He responded with shrilling laughter, “No you didn’t! I got you good!” Before I could retaliate, the white creature threw the locked door open and escaped running away, down the hall, laughing, “I got you! I got you...” I heard his feet thumping on the staircase. He was going to retreat to his bed before his mother found out he was up again. He had committed his heinous crime, then fled the scene and he was going to get away with it. Where is the Justice? Still in shock, I stood there, breathing heavily; my heart racing. I thanked the Lord for saving me from the accident that could have easily happened. Since I no longer had to go, I buckled my belt, washed my hands and joined the rest of the adults on the deck. I told the others what had happened, and we all enjoyed a good laugh. Pointing to the sky, someone said, “Wow! Look at that one.” Someone else declaring, “There’s another!” Meteors zipping across the sky offered entertainment to all, except me. My mind was still on the conference room where a business meeting should have been held, but was abruptly cancelled. My thought was, “You better watch your back, Max Meyers! I’m not going to forget this! Revenge will be mine!” Instead, I smiled conceding to his victory. “Well played, sir. Very well played.” Tom can be reached at Facebook.com/tom.palen.98
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Traveling With Kids9/19/2018 ![]() Every parent with more than one child has dealt with it. On a long roadtrip after the kids have played numerous rounds of the “Alphabet Game,” finding all the letters on signs; when they’ve worn out the game of “I Spy With My Little Eye...” you come up with new suggestions for them. “See how many license plates you can find from different states,” or one of my favorites, “Let’s name the capitols of every state.” You sing songs - as many as you can think of—and still, they get bored. Out of boredom, the kids will taunt one another. Bickering back and forth, “Stay on your own side;” and “that’s mine!” are commonly heard. “Eventually comes the plea, “Dad, will you tell her to stop touching me!” As the parents, you do the right thing: turn up the radio and act like you don’t hear it for as long as you can. You hope they they will work matters out on their own without your intervention. Sometimes the childish behavior can be very humorous, though you dare not laugh out loud—that could weaken your position of authority. Eventually centrifugal force will take over. The smallest curve in the road can cause one child to lean or slide into the the other child, pressing them against the side wall of the car. “So sorry. Dad took that corner kind of fast.” For every action there is an opposite and equal reaction - except in this scenario where each reaction becomes a little stronger than the one before. They will push their foot against the side of the floor board, pressing even harder to emphasize dad’s erratic driving. Saving the ultimate threat as your ace in the hole, you use the three system: “You’d better both be on your own sides of the car by the time I count to three! One! Two!” Generally order has been restored by the count of two. But, order never lasts long and you are forced to count again. The children become willing to test you, so you resort to fractions. “One! Two! Two and a half! Two and three quarters! Two and seven-eighths! Two and fifteen-sixteenth’s ...” You soon realize you lost them at “two and a half!” Their dispute will continue until you finally snap. “That’s it! I have had enough!” You declare, then unleash the ultimate threat, the grand-daddy of them all: “Do NOT make me pull this car over!” Such a threat is usually effective. If not, a deceleration and light touch on the brakes, while letting the tires touch the rumble strips, or gravel shoulder will instantly bring an angelic change in juvenile behavior. All the while you’re left wondering what would happen if you did pull the car over? You might end up being like a dog chasing a car - what’s he gonna do if he catches one? Traveling with pets is no different. Our cat, Edgar, thinks he’s funny. He is small enough, he can sleep most anywhere he wants in the car - but, he chooses to sleep in the big space that belongs to our dog, June. My wife and I both told Edgar to move. Aloof to our orders, he acted like he couldn’t hear us. June said, “Edgar, please get out of my spot.” Edgar smiled with his eyes closed and didn’t budge. June said, “Edgar, move and let me lay down. I’m tired.” Edgar continued smiling with his eyes closed and replied, “I can’t hear you. I’m asleep.” June gave in, “Fine Edgar, I’ll share my space with you.” June sat down in the seat laying her head on the top of the seat back. Edgar woke up. In shock and disbelief he said, “You are not sitting on my head! Yes, you are. You’re sitting on my head.” Edgar opened one eye, his other eye pressed shut. “You’re squishing my face June! Get off my face right now!” He demanded. June sighed and said, “I can’t hear you. I’m sleeping.” Oh the joys of traveling with children. Tom can be reached for comment at Facebook.com/tom.palen.98
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Why Do I Have to Learn This?9/11/2018 ![]() I’m sure every kid has done it at some point. I know I did on more than one occasion. I sat in school, trying to focus on an assignment, wondering, “Why do I have to learn this? I’m never going to use this in real life.” The subject could have been math, English, history, or any course that didn’t seem interesting to me at the time. Thankfully, my teachers were very persistent and they pushed me to get the work done. As life goes on, I find myself saying, “I wish I would have paid more attention in...” far more often than the times I asked “Why do I have to learn this?” In my senior year of high school, I took vocational auto mechanics. Three hours every day - fourth, fifth and sixth periods. As a kid, I dreamed of being an over-the-road truck driver and in high school I thought this is a class where I will learn things I might actually use someday. In this class we did more than just study the books. We did a lot of hands-on work; from oil changes to tune-ups, we changed shocks and struts and replaced exhaust systems. We rebuilt starters and alternators. We learned how to analyze a car, determine the problem, and fix it. It was a fun class and I was learning things I could actually use in real life. Ken Corbett was the auto mechanics teacher; a very neat, well groomed man. Every day, he wore a pressed, dark green mechanics shirt tucked into his matching pants. He always wore a belt and polished black work shoes. Somehow he never seemed to get dirty. He was a fair man, often gruff and to the point, but he had a soft side too, and I really liked him. One Friday, after taking attendance, he asked, “Who wants to do a complete engine overhaul on a little four cylinder Bobcat?” For those who don’t remember, the Bobcat, made by Mercury, was basically the same car as the Ford Pinto. No one was raising their hand. If he would have asked us to overhaul a Chevy Camaro, a Ford Mustang, or a Dodge Charger, every kid in the room would have been waving their hand in the air, bouncing out of their seats, begging for rights to that project. I looked at my buddy, Kenny Ware, and quietly asked, “Do you want to do the overhaul together? Me and you?” “Sure, why not? It’ll be fun.” He said. I raised my hand, “Palen?” Mr. Corbett said, “Do you want to do it?” Waving my finger between myself and my friend, I answered, “Kenny and I will work on it together.” Mr. Corbett turned around and wrote on the chalkboard, “Bobcat. Palen and Ware.” While he was writing, he said, “It will be here Monday. Make sure any projects you’re working on get finished up today, because you’ll be on the Bobcat every day until it’s done,” He turned back toward us. Taking a red shop rag from his back pocket, he wiped white chalk dust from his hands, “Unless you’re waiting for parts. Then you can squeeze in some other small projects.” Monday came. Kenny and I looked around the parking lot outside the shop, but we didn’t see a Bobcat. “It must already be inside.” Kenny said. “Yeah, it must be.” I agreed. We went inside and looked in the shop. There weren’t any cars inside yet. “We must have overlooked it in the parking lot.” Kenny said. “Yeah, we must have.” I agreed. The bell was about to ring and anyone who wasn’t in their seat when it rang would be marked down as being tardy. Kenny and I rushed to our seats. The bell rang. Mr. Corbett sat at his desk and called out names. A response of “here” or “present.” followed each name called. He called out “Ware?” “Hey.” Was Kenny’s reply. Mr. Corbett laid down his yellow, number two pencil, looked over the top of his glasses, sighed and said, “Mr. Ware. You may answer ‘here’ or ‘present.’ You will not answer ‘hey.’ Hay is for horses and we work on cars in this class - not buggies.” He picked his pencil up again, “Ware?” He called out. “Here.” Kenny answered. Mr. Corbett stood up and went over the schedule of who would be working on what projects for the day. “I don’t want any cars pulled in until the Bobcat gets here. It’s going to be here awhile. We’ll put it in the front space, so it doesn’t have to be moved once the engine is pulled.” About that time we heard the garage door open and a fairly high pitched humming noise that sounded more like the hydraulic transmission of a tractor than a car. The engine was coughing and backfiring. It didn’t sound good at all. Everyone jumped up from their desks and ran to the shop. Larry Claybaugh, the auto body teacher, pulled up in a Bobcat - not a Mercury, but a skid steer Bobcat. He lowered the front bucket to the floor, turned off the engine and climbed out of the cage. “What is this?” Kenny asked. Mr. Corbett walked to the side of the machine, pointing individually to each big red letter, he read them out loud. “B-O-B-C-A-T. Bobcat.” He said, grinning. “This must be the Bobcat you and Palen are going to overhaul.” The whole class was laughing; everyone except Kenny and me. “Uh - We assumed you were talking about a Mercury Bobcat.” I objected. “You know what happens when you assume...you should have asked more questions before taking the project.” He replied. Kenny protested, “But we thought you were talking about a Mercury.” Corbett wasn’t going to budge. “Life isn’t always what you think it’s going to be.” He said, “Now get to work.” “We can’t overhaul this!” I insisted. “Why not?” Corbett barked back. “We don’t know how.” I answered. Mr. Corbett just shook his head, “You didn’t know how to time an engine when you got here either. I taught you how to do it. You’re not here because you already know how to do all this. You’re here to learn.” He handed me a thick service manual, “Now, you can start by reading this and learn how to pull the engine out of a Bobcat.” Mr. Corbett turned and looked at the rest of the class, who were standing around to see how this event would play out. “I thought I gave you all your assignments. Let’s get on them - unless you’d rather go back to the classroom where I can give you a three-hour written test.” The boys scattered about the shop to start their work. Mr. Corbett walked back over to Kenny and me. His softer side came out. “Boys, quit worrying. You’re making this more than it is. Once you’ve pulled the motor, it’s just another four-cylinder engine. You’ve got the overhaul manual and you’ve got me when you have questions.” He paused to let that sink in. He opened the big steel door on the back of the Bobcat. The latch handle was greasy. He looked at his hand, then his gruff tone returned, “You’re going to need an engine hoist to lift that back door off. It’s heavy, so call me when you’re ready. I’m going to help you do that - I don’t want anyone getting hurt...” He pulled a red shop rag from his back pocket and wiped the grime from his hand as he turned and walked away, “Bower! What are you doing? That’s not where you’re supposed to be...that starter isn’t going to install itself! Now get to work!” I thought about Mr. Corbett the other day. Cars have changed so much, I wouldn’t even begin to know how to overhaul an engine. Honestly, since high school, I’ve only changed my own oil half a dozen times or so. After I purchase five quarts of oil, the filter and such, I’d only save a few bucks and I have to figure out what to do with the old oil. It’s just easier to let the shop do it. As much fun as I had in Ken Corbett’s auto mechanics class, in hindsight, I could have said; “I’m never going to use any of this in real life.” Being on the road as much as I have this year, I’ve managed to neglect and put off projects at home that need to be done. One of those projects is cutting, splitting and stacking firewood for the upcoming winter. I was getting worried that if I waited much longer, the wood won’t be seasoned, dry enough to burn. Loggers generally don’t want to deliver less than a full truckload of logs, which would be about a fifteen-year supply of wood for us. That’s way too much! Plus, getting a semi truck down our narrow little road would be way more work than it was worth. I only needed two full cords at the most, which, cut and stacked makes about six face cords of firewood. I found a logger who would sell me the smaller amount of wood, if I could pick it up myself. Fortunately, I have my trusty dump truck, Old Blue. She’ll hold exactly one full cord at a time. I came home with my first load of logs. I would cut the eight-foot logs into 16” lengths while they were in the truck, then split them with my log splitter and stack them. The chainsaw was running great and I had new chains with really sharp teeth. The logs were cutting easy and soon I had a big pile. I shut off the saw and jumped out of the truck to start splitting the logs. I pushed the little bulb to prime the engine on the log splitter, turned on the choke, set the throttle about half open, then pulled the cord. Then, pulled the cord again and again! Stupid log splitter! I pulled and pulled, but it wouldn’t start. Maybe I flooded the engine. I let it sit awhile, then tried again. I pulled again and again and again until my arm literally hurt. In frustration, I kicked the tire and cursed the log splitter. It was getting dark anyway, so I picked up my tools and called it a night. The next morning, I tried to start the machine again. It still wouldn’t start. I called Jeff, a friend who has done some mechanical work on my truck. “Can you work on a small engine; a Briggs and Stratton?” I asked him. Jeff said that he could, “Give me a call Wednesday.” I forgot, I was calling him on Labor Day. Darn! I needed to get this wood cut. I had a road trip coming up later in the week, and I was worried my firewood wouldn’t have time to cure before the heating season, plus, I still had another load to pick up after this. Maybe the air filter was plugged. I removed the cover. It looked good, but I went ahead and cleaned it anyway. I pulled the cord. Nothing. Maybe the fuel is bad. I removed the fuel line and drained the tank. I filled it with fresh gas and tried to start it again. Nothing. I removed the spark plug wire. If I could keep it close to the plug tip and pull the starter rope, I would be able to see if it was getting a spark. The spark plug was on the front of the motor and the starter cord was on the back. I couldn’t do both. I got my socket wrench and removed the spark plug. It was pretty dirty. I called the auto parts store to see if they had this type plug, but no one answered. I called the hardware store on a chance they would have it; again, no one answered the phone. “Why isn’t anyone answering their phone?” I asked aloud, then answered myself, “Because it’s Labor Day, that’s why.” I went to the garage and found a couple clean shop rags. I soaked the end of one with clean gasoline and wiped the oil from the tip of the plug. There was still crud between the electrode and the ground electrode. I smiled because I knew the proper names of the parts of a spark plug. I used the thicker hem of my t-shirt to run through the gap and remove the build up. I recalled Ken Corbett telling me, “Never blow on a spark plug with your mouth. You’ll end up spitting on it and it won’t fire if it’s wet. Use the air hose.” After blowing the spark plug clean with an air hose, I reinstalled it in the motor. I gave the engine two pumps on the gasoline primer, opened the choke and set the throttle halfway. “Come on baby! Show me some magic.” I said, then pulled the cord once. The engine sputtered and died. I pulled the cord again, and bamo! She was running! I let it warm up for a few moments, then closed the choke and pushed the throttle to high! She was running “smooth as a baby’s bottom,” Mr Corbett used to say. I picked up the first log, set it in the cradle and pulled the level. The hydraulic cylinder extended smoothly, pushing the steel wedge to the big log. The motor beared down. The machine whined and growled a bit. There was the sound of cracking wood and the log snapped, splitting into two pieces and falling to either side of the machine. I put my hands in the air and danced, “Yes! Yes! You show that log who’s boss!” I looked up to the sky, still dancing, “Thank you, Mr. Corbett!” I could see him smiling, as teachers will do when a student follows their direction and something goes exactly as it should. I think I heard him answer, “See, Palen? See the trouble a dirty spark plug can cause and how a clean spark plug will fix your problem.” I could also imagine him saying, “Don’t stand there patting yourself on the back. Those logs aren’t going to split themselves. Get to work.” I took a clean shop rag from my back pocket, wiped the grease from my hands, then tucked the rag back in my pocket again. I put my gloves on, looked at the wood splitter and said, “Here we go baby, let’s get this done.” and I picked up another log and set it in the cradle. As I worked, I thought about the pioneers and how hard they must have worked to cut and split enough wood by hand to last a winter; keeping an uninsulated building at a comfortable fifty degrees. History. I looked at each log deciding how many pieces to cut it into. Math. I wrote this story and thought: did the log splitter bear down? Or bare down? English. I smiled, thinking about how many times I questioned, “Why do I have to learn this? I’m never going to use this in real life anyway!” I looked at my completed stacked piles of wood; enough for the winter, then I thanked every teacher who pressed me to get the assignment done, whether I wanted to, or not. Tom can be reached for comment at Facebook.com/tom.palen.98
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Lemonade 50 Cents9/4/2018 Driving down West Howard Street on a sunny Saturday afternoon, I noticed two young ladies, actually little girls, sitting behind a table on the corner. They hollered and waved vigorously at me as I went by. I gave them a return toot of the horn. A lemonade stand. How cute! I dug into my pocket to find the smallest bill I had on me was a twenty.
The site took me back a bunch of years to Madison, Wisconsin. Along with my siblings, we would set up Kool-Aid stands. As enterprising youth, we hoped to make a few dollars. “Who knows?” I thought back then, “If this works well, I could make a living at this. The problem was that we lived on the dead-end block of our road. There wasn’t enough traffic going by our house, and honestly, we drank all the product ourselves. I had an idea. We should move our stand one block to the west onto Buckeye Road. It was a busy street with a lot of traffic. That we did and we made pretty good money at ten cents per glass. There were some logistical problems; whenever our pitcher ran dry, we had to send someone a block away to replenish our stock. We lost business when people would stop to buy a glass of Kool-Aid and we didn’t have the merchandise on hand to serve them. Although we assured them it would only be a couple minutes until more Kool-Aid arrived, they were not willing to wait. “You have to run faster.” We would tell the one going for a fresh pitcher. Running with a full pitcher caused spillage and made for some very sticky staff. We learned to use two pitchers, which solved the problem, but there were other issues. Disputes arose over whose turn it was to run back to the house for more Kool-Aid, which led to the question, who is the boss? There were heated conversations as to whom should work which position and who would handle the money. I personally enjoyed the marketing end of the business - that is, hollering and waving vigorously to draw the attention of drivers going by. The troubles within our business were becoming increasingly more difficult to overcome. When Mom’s sugar canister was empty, we tried making a pitcher of fruit flavored Kool-Aid without sugar. That didn’t go over well and the customers complained - some even asked for their dime back. Poor product quality and turmoil amongst the staff led to our company shutting down. Despite the few issues, we had fun. At the end of the day we were hot and sticky. We did well, but when we divided our receipts among the partners, we ended up with only around a buck each. I decided there had to be an easier way for a eleven year old kid to make a living. That’s when I discovered Grit Magazine. Media! That’s where the real money was...but that’s a different story. I pulled the twenty dollar bill from my pocket and continued to drive to the Kwik-Trip at the corner of Baker and Broadway streets. I bought a medium size cup of ice with a lid and a red straw. Now I had plenty of smaller bills and some change; enough for a glass of lemonade and a tip. Returning to their location on Howard Street, I signaled to turn left, parking on the side road. With my cup of ice in hand, I walked toward their stand. A small square table, painted white, had two standard size sheets of paper hanging down, taped to the front. Each bearing a hand-drawn advertisement in colorful crayon. In the breeze the signs were pushed back at an angle under the table top and I couldn’t read them. Behind the table were two small wooden chairs, painted pink. They looked like miniature, old fashioned, oak school teacher’s chairs. On the table top there was a pitcher of pink lemonade with two poured glasses to the side, a container of ice cubes and a cash box. Spare glasses were in a box below the table. “Would you like to buy some lemonade?” One of the girls asked. “How much is it?” I inquired. In unison, they answered, “Fifty cents.” I smiled, “Do you girls negotiate prices for a larger purchase?” They looked blankly at each other. “How much would you charge me to fill this cup with lemonade?” Both girls turned to their supervisor for advice, who was sitting in a lawn chair behind them, reading a book. Dad closed his book and spoke up. “To negotiate means he’s asking you to give him a price to fill a bigger cup than what you’re serving.” “How much should we charge?” Asked one of the girls. Dad was going to make them do the math, “How many of your cups will it take to fill his bigger cup.” The girls studied the glasses for a moment, then answered, “Probably two.” Dad then asked, “and how much are two glasses of lemonade?” They smiled, knowing the answer, and replied together, “One dollar.” Dad then explained, “Okay, but since he’s buying in bulk and he brought his own cup and ice, you should give him a little price break. How about seventy-five cents?” The two girls looked back at me and said, “Seventy-five cents, sir.” “Well,” I said rubbing my chin, “my cup might hold a little more than two glasses, so how about one dollar and you fill it to the top?” “Okay,” they replied. One of the girls held my cup steady with two hands while the other picked up their pitcher, also with both hands. Her tongue was sticking out a bit from the corner of her mouth as she focused on pouring the lemonade without spilling it. My cup held nearly all the lemonade that was left in their pitcher. She stopped pouring when the glass was full, within a half inch of the top. “Perfect!” I said. The girl set the pitcher down and said, “That will be one dollar, please.” I snapped the lid on my cup and handed her a bill, “Here’s one dollar for the lemonade,” I said, then handed another dollar to her partner, “and here’s a tip for your great service.” With a big grin, she turned and said, “Daddy, we got a tip!” Rightfully so, Dad smiled with pride, “Good job, girls!” He told them. I took a drink from the straw in my glass and asked, “How long have you two been in business?” One of the girls wrinkled her face with thought then replied, “About and hour and a half.” I followed up, “Has business been good? Are you selling a lot of lemonade?” “Yes,” one girl said, the other added, “Lots of cars have been stopping.” I wished them continued success for the afternoon, and chatted with Dad for a few minutes, telling him what a great job he was doing with his kids. As I was turning to walk back to my car, the two girls were hollering, “Lemonade!” While waving vigorously at another car. Mom came out the front door of the house with a full, fresh pitcher of lemonade. I started to say, “When I was your age kid, my mom didn’t refill our pitcher - we had to get our own. Had to walk a mile in the scorching heat to get more Kool-Aid; barefoot; in the snow; uphill both ways.” But, then I thought, “Geesh, that makes me sound old.” As I pulled away in my car, I took another pull of lemonade and thought how summer is nearly over. I wondered: How much better off would this world be if more parents put down their devices and had their kids put down their devices to open a lemonade stand in front of their house, on a sunny Saturday afternoon, on Howard Street in your town, USA. Tom can be reached for comment at Facebook.com/tom.palen.98
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Tribute to Mollie Tibbetts8/29/2018 Dear Mollie,
I am so sorry for what happened to you. Although we never met in person, I knew you. Through social media, newspapers, radio, and television, I learned who you were. A happy person who was kind to everyone and helped whenever and wherever you could. A girl with ideas, hopes and dreams. A young woman with a bright and promising future. A small town girl on your way to doing great things; to make a difference. A compassionate soul, you loved, and were loved. Sadly, I learned your name and came to recognize your face from pictures and advertisements posted by people getting the word out that everyone should look for you. Wanting to help, I looked for you, too. In my travels about the country, I looked for you at every truck stop and gas station; every rest area and motel; every cafe and restaurant. I kept an eye out for you in grocery stores and in passing cars. In big cities and small towns; even places that were no longer anything more than a name on a map; a crossroad where travelers pass through. I looked for you, Mollie, but I could not find you. You were not there. I dreamed that I might find you and stay by your side, offering you protection, while waiting for help to arrive. You see, Mollie, you were my daughter, too. From the moment it was made known that you were missing, you became the daughter of every father who heard your story. Every mother claimed you as their own daughter and every son and daughter saw you as their sister. All questioned, “What if Mollie was my daughter?” Or, “What if she was my sister?” We were all looking for you. But we could not find you. I listened for you, hoping to hear your voice calling out, “Here I am.” But I could not hear you; your voice had been silenced by one who meant you harm. When I heard your body was found, my heart broke. The search was over, but did not end the way we hoped nor envisioned. There would be no joyful reunion with your family. Along with so many others, my tears fell. As fathers, we grieved with your dad, asking, “Why? Where did I fail you? What more could I have done? Should I have done more to protect you?” Mothers sobbed and mourned with your mom, wondering, “Why my child? She was my innocent baby.” Brothers and sister cried, “Why? She never hurt anyone. She didn’t deserve this.” We wept as individuals, and together as your family. You were too young to be taken away. Only God knows when each of us will depart this world. Some will question, “Where was God during all of this? Why didn’t He save you?” In truth, He did. At the very deepest, darkest moment in your life, when you were hurting the most, He reached His hands to you, softly calling, “Come to Me, Mollie.” He freed you from your torment; lifting you from the grip of your assailant. Taking you into His arms, holding you close to His chest, He brushed your tears away. Your crying subsided, giving way to His consolation, comfort and peace. Your broken body healed; your suffering over; no one can hurt you ever again. I am sorry for what was done to you, Mollie. In disbelief that such a thing could happen, I still find myself looking for you, as do others. Now we know where to find you: safe and free on a path where angels trod. Fly high, dear child. Fly high. To share this story, visit our website at fairmontphotopress.com Tom can be reached for comment at facebook.com/tom.palen.98
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"As Ye Sew..."8/21/2018 It’s a beautiful thing to plant a seed then patiently wait. Soon it will sprout and before long you will enjoy a sweet, fragrant, flower. Ahhh...
I plant seeds myself, but most of my seeds are sewn outside the garden. Let me give you an example. My father-in-law comes from a family of eleven children - a large and close family. They have a reunion every year with the siblings taking turns to plan the annual event. I think that’s pretty cool. We have been fortunate to make it to most of the annual events, including this year’s gathering which was held in Ankeny, Iowa. Coming from a large family myself, it’s always fun for me to watch the interaction of the Carlo kids, and getting to talk with each of them. The Carlo boys all have something in common with a lot of men - hair loss, with the exception of Gail. “How is it possible?” I asked Gail. “What do you mean?” He replied a bit confused. “How is it in a family of eleven kids, you ended up with all the good looks?” I asked. Gail blushed and said, “Oh, I don’t know about that.” “It’s true,” I assured him, “you’re far and away the best looking of all the Carlo boys...and the hair! How did you manage to keep that beautiful, full head of hair when your brothers all lost theirs?” Gail continued blushing, and I moved on. A few minutes later I was talking to his brother Clark. He wrote a book which is something I aspire to do myself one day. Clark was telling me he enjoys reading my stories, which flattered me and caused me to blush. To divert the attention away from myself, I asked, “How is it Clark, that in a family of eleven kids, you ended up with all the good looks?” Now it was Clark’s turn to blush a little. “I mean it,” I assured him, “you’re far and away the best looking of all the Carlo boys.” I left Clark blushing and moved on. I was talking with his brother Roger. Roger and I share a common talent - making pies. We both love making pies, and I have to say, he makes the best blackberry pie I’ve ever had; I’d put his blackberry pie up against anyone’s! Roger’s arm was in a sling following a recent shoulder surgery. “How did you do it?” I asked him while we were standing next to the dessert table. Roger explained, “Well, I had my daughter roll out the crust for me since my arm is in this sling and...” I interrupted,” “That’s not what I meant. I was wondering how it is that in a family of eleven kids, you ended up with all the good looks?” Roger blushed, “Oh, I’m not so sure about that.” I assured him, “I mean it. You’re far and away the best looking of all the Carlo boys!” I left Roger blushing and moved on. I was talking with his brother, Adrian. Quite the innovative one, he had made discs and cues to play shuffle board on the smooth tile floor at the venue where the reunion was held. “How did you do it?” I asked Adrian. He explained, “Well I used PVC pipe to make the handles and oversized metal washers to make the discs and I...” I interrupted. “That’s not what I meant.” I said, “How it is in a family of eleven kids, you ended up with all the good looks?” Adrian blushed. “Why don’t you go grab a stick over there and we’ll play shuffle board.” “I mean it, Adrian,” I assured him, “you’re far and away the best looking of all the Carlo boys.” I left Adrian there blushing and I went to get a cue. Adrian and his teammate, Steve, beat Clark and me, 50-35. A new team came on the court to challenge the reigning winners. I went over and talked to Fred. Fred and I talked bout large families. I am in the middle of my family where Fred is the baby in his. “I guess you have bragging rights.” I said to Fred. “What do you mean?” He asked. I explained, “My baby brother always says, ‘Mom and Dad quit having babies after me because you can’t do better than perfect.’” We shared a good laugh over that. “That’s true.” Fred agreed. “How is it, Fred, that in a family of eleven kids, you got all the good looks. Maybe that’s why you were the last kid - your parents knew they couldn’t have a better looking kid than you!” Fred blushed and made some reference to me being full of bologna. “I mean it, Fred.” I assured him, “you’re far and away the best looking of all the Carlo boys.” I left Fred blushing and I moved on I headed to the dessert table looking for a slice of blackberry pie. I was too late, it was gone. My disappointment would soon subside as I looked about the choices on the table top. “Ooo. Hello brownies!” Enjoying one of the moist, delicious, chocolatey treats, and then another. I looked around the room to make sure no one noticed me mowing down the brownies. I had talked with each of the Carlo boys, individually assuring them, they were the best looking of all - except my father-in-law, Phil. I’ve already told him he’s far and away the best looking of all the Carlo boys. Some times men will say things like this when pursuing “favorite son-in-law” status. My seeds were planted. I snickered a bit imagining a day when this flower bed would bloom. Some day the boys would talk; one would declare, “I’m the best looking.” Another would challenge, “No, I’m the best looking.” Only to have third claim, “No, it’s me. I’m the best looking,” and so on. Eventually one would say, “Tom told me...” and then they would be on to my shenanigans. The flowers would come to blossom and we would all enjoy the blooms. Although the thought caused me to giggle, the truth is not all seeds germinate. The Carlo boys are good men; and make up a handsome lot, indeed. But each is too modest to ever boast claims of being any better looking than another. It was good getting to talk with each of them; the fun conversations we had and the laughs we shared. The reunion was well planned and carried out, everyone had a great time. I tip my hat to Adrian and his daughter, Adriana, who planned this year’s festivities, and I look forward to attending next years get together. I should however, be careful in planting such seeds of mischief. It could backfire on me some day. After all it is said: as ye sew, so shall ye reap. Tom Palen can be reached at Facebook.com/tom.palen.98
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Hathaway, Montana8/14/2018 I was heading home; eastbound on the long stretch of I-94 through Montana. I saw a sign for a rest area two miles ahead. I thought to myself, “I’ll stop there.” After driving for a really long time that day and well into the night, I needed to pull over to rest; maybe stretch my legs for a bit.
I started contemplating the things I need to get done yet this summer on the outside of my house. I considered the date. We’re already halfway through August. Fall comes in September, less than six weeks away, and brings with it cooler weather - then winter’s cold and I won’t be able to complete my outdoor work this year. I shook my head in disbelief. Where did summer go? I really need to get on the stick and get those projects done. “I should have started earlier,” I said out loud, talking to myself. Then answered, “Yes, you should have.” Talking to yourself is one thing - but a conversation? I must be tired. As a cluster of lights went streaking by outside the passenger window, I said, “And I should have taken that exit for that rest area.” Not a problem, the GPS shows there’s another rest area in...seventy-eight miles? Yikes! I’m not going to make it that far! Exit 117 was just ahead; the turnoff for Hathaway, Montana. I could turn around there and go back to the westbound rest area. I started laughing. Hathaway - like Jane Hathaway. Do you remember her? She was Mr. Drysdale’s assistant on the television sitcom, The Beverly Hillbillies; a level headed liaison between his constant scheming; his love of money - and reality. Jane was always dressed professionally in a business suite. A skirt and a jacket, and she was never without her clutch purse held with both hands in front of her. Her hair was short with tight waves - never a hair out of place. A very practical woman in every aspect except her car. I loved her car; a 1963 Dodge Polara convertible. “I’m going to own that car one day.” I would tell myself each time she slowly pulled into the Clampett’s driveway. - but for now, I turned my Subaru onto exit ramp 117. At the end of the ramp, I decided to stop and pulled onto the shoulder. I rolled down my window and turned off the engine. It was almost two-o-clock in the morning. There wasn’t any traffic on the interstate and the wind was calm. Silence. Total silence and with the new moon approaching, it was very dark. Within a few minutes, my eyes started to adjust to the darkness. I was far enough from the rest area to not be affected by the lights. There were no house, farm or street lights. Nothing. Just dark and stillness. The sky was very dark, but not black. It was a steely blue, lighted only by the stars. As my eyes dilated, I could see more stars, then even more stars and still more. Totally content and at peace, I smiled. This is why they call Montana, The Big Sky State. Leaning against my car, looking up in awe, I said, “Wow! There must be billions of them!” Big ones and little ones. Some very brilliant and some meek and dim. Some seemed closer, while others were more distant. Some shined as a solid light, others twinkled. Together, all the stars in the sky looked like glitter! It’s overwhelming trying to comprehend that there are no two alike! Each star is unique. I tried to focus on just one; a small star sitting in a small dark field by itself, softly dancing. I wondered what it would be like to be that star, way out there on its own, in its own space, away from the others.. I imagined that star looked back at the Earth, seeing all the people and saying in awe, “Wow! There must be billions of them!” Big ones and little ones. Some very brilliant and some meek and dim. Some seem closer and others more distant. Some shined like a solid light while others twinkled. The star must have thought, it’s overwhelming trying to comprehend, there are no two people alike! Each one is unique. I wondered if that star ever focused on just one person. A small person, sitting in a small dark area by themself, relaxed and gazing toward the heavens. Perhaps the star wondered what it would be like to be that person, way out there, on their own, in their own space away from the others. I wondered if that star which I focused upon, was looking back, focused on me. A simple person, sitting at peace in a dark space on the side of the road near Hathaway, Montana. No matter who, or where you are - you’re never alone, for someplace up there high above the Earth, a star is watching you, too. You can comment or reach Tom at, Facebook.com/tom.palen.98
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Muddy Gap8/8/2018 I was on my way to Mesquite, Nevada. The problem with my Garmin GPS is it will often take me on some wild routes that make no sense at all. I will admit to seeing some spectacular parts of America, that I wouldn’t have seen had it not been for her quirky calculations, but when I am on a time schedule, it’s best to look over the route on Google maps. I can combine the best of the two sources by entering specific towns into my GPS, along the way. Such was the case this day on my way to Mesquite. I programmed several cities and towns, taking some state and county highways through South Dakota and Wyoming; backroads that would save me a lot of miles and time. For some reason, the GPS couldn’t find Muddy Gap, so I entered Three Forks, Wyoming, very nearby. The Garmin couldn’t find that either. I entered Rawlings, Wyoming, and the screen produced the route I wanted to take. I headed down the road. At the intersection of US 220 and Wyoming State Highway 200, I came upon a service area; the sign read, “Three Forks. 24 Hour Pumps. C-store - Lodging and More.” I chuckled as I turned in, “Well I found Three Forks.” It was a simple place that seemed lost in time. Most of the driveway was gravel with a combination of concrete and asphalt around the fuel islands and in front of the convenience store. An overhead canopy with red trim shaded the pumps from the hot sun. The store was a white metal building with a red and dark green stripe. To the left, on the east end of the building there was an old mobile home with a wooden staircase on the right side. Some of the skirting was missing from the trailer, and a small window air conditioner looked like it could fall out. A red band of chipped and peeling paint around the top, and a dark green band near the bottom, tied the trailer with the rest of the business complex. The top band had white hand painted letters that read, “MOTEL.” After filling the tank, I went inside to get an ice tea. There was black lettering on the front of the building on either side of the door. To the left, “Three Forks” and to the right “Muddy Gap.” I asked the cashier, “Is this town Muddy Gap, or Three Forks?” “Both and neither.” She replied leaving me confused. “Three Forks is on that side, and Muddy Gap is on this side of the road. They’re both junctions. Neither is a town.” She explained, then complained. “We don’t exist. You ought to try getting a package delivered out here; no one can find us, everyone just stops in.” “Is the motel still open?” I queried. “Yep. Do you need a room?” She asked. “No, I was just curious.” I replied. She offered, “Well if you ever need a room, just let us know. We usually have one available.” I thanked her, picked up my ice tea and headed out the door. On the way out, I passed a lady coming in who was wearing a blue shirt, familiar to the Midwest, sporting a big red and white Chicago Cubs logo on the front. “Nice shirt!” I said, adding, “You’re a long way from home.” She smiled and said, “Thanks!” Outside there was a man wearing a Cubs hat. “I have to assume you’re with the lady inside wearing the Cubs shirt.” I said, “you just don’t see a lot of Cubs logos in Muddy Gap, Wyoming.” We shared a good laugh about that. He nodded toward my truck. “I noticed your Minnesota plates. What part of Minnesota are you from?” Since no one except folks from the north shore seems to know where Silver Bay is, I gave him my standard answer, “We’re an hour up the shore past Duluth, on Lake Superior.” “Oh yeah?” He said, “we’re on our way to Babbitt to my wife’s family reunion!” My eyes lit up, “Really! Do you ever go up Highway One, through Finland?” “We sure do.” He answered. I said, “Well then you drive right by my house! Could you stop in and let my wife know you passed me; Tell her I’ll be home in a few days.” We shared a pretty good laugh over that. I started thinking about how many times recently I’ve run into people in far away places, who are also from the north shore. Last summer we were camping at Fort Pickens, Florida on the Gulf of Mexico. A lady noticed our license plates. “I’m from walker Minnesota. Have you ever heard of it?” She asked. “I sure have,” I told her, “I go to Backus quite often and you’re just up the road from there.” She asked where we were from. Since she was from our state, I told her we lived in Silver Bay. “Really?” She said pointing to another camper, “My friend over there is here camping with her brother who lives in Two Harbors.” What a coincidence. Two Harbors is just thirty miles from our house. Speaking of Two Harbors, this spring we were in Northern California hiking in the Redwood Forest. Among the huge trunks of the giant trees, I struck up conversation with a man on the same trail. He asked if we were from this area. I told him, “No,” then gave him my standard answer; “we’re an hour up the shore past Duluth, on Lake Superior.” “What a small world.” He said, then told us, “We’re on our way to a nephews wedding in Two Harbors.” A small world indeed. Just a couple weeks ago we were on the summit of the Guanella Pass, way up high in the Rocky Mountains, just outside of Georgetown, Colorado. A lady noticed the plates on our car and said to my wife, “Minnesota? I’m from Burnsville; south of the twin cities.” Melissa replied, “Oh yeah? We’re from Silver Bay, on the North Shore.” A third lady, from a different party, over heard Melissa. “Silver Bay? Hey, we’re practically neighbors! I’m from Duluth.” The world is getting smaller. In February we were walking along the beaches of Mobile Bay. A man noticed our license plates, this time we were riding with Melissa’s parents. “How did you folks from Iowa, end up all the way down in Gulf Shores, Alabama?” I told him, “That’s my father-in-laws car, they’re from Iowa and spend winters here. We used to live in Ottumwa, but we live on the north shore in Minnesota now.” “Really? What town?” He queried. “Silver Bay,” I answered, “Have you ever heard of it?” He smiled, “I live in Maple Grove, down in the cities, but I was raised in Knife River, and I went to school in Two Harbors. We go back to visit several times a year.” Yes, a very small world it is. There was another group we met on the beach of the Pacific Ocean in Southern California. The man noted our license plates and told me he was from California, but his friends lived on the north shore. “Really?” I asked, “what town?” The man answered, “Well he’s from the other side.” “What do mean, the other side?” I queried. He held his open hand as if to shield his mouth from his friend. He lowered his voice and explained to me, “He’s Canadian.” We shared a good laugh about that. “Well it’s all one big happy north shore; Canadians and all!” I said, his friend said, “That’s right, eh?” We shared another laugh. How silly of me. I wondered why haven’t been asking these people their names all along? I certainly should have been. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again - not here at Muddy Gap junction, in Wyoming. The folks on their way to Babbitt, we’re Frank Anderson, and his wife, Sherry Slade Anderson. “Does your wife spell her name, S-h-e-r-r-y?” I asked. “That’s correct.” Frank answered, “She spells it ‘the right way.’ Just ask her, she’ll tell you.” We shared a good laugh, and each went on our way. I drove to Nevada thinking how cool it is that I meet so many people around the country who are from the north shore, and how it would make a neat story someday. When I arrived in Mesquite, I helped a man set up his new Scamp. It was hot! 116 degrees. Hotter than any temperature I have ever experienced. It was so hot, I would sweat just standing still in the shade. When I was done I stopped by the grocery store to get a few things for the trip home. It was all my air conditioner could do to break the extreme heat on the short drive to Smith’s Grocery. I parked and stepped out of my truck. The scorching heat rising from the black asphalt nearly took my breath away, yet all the other people were walking about like the heat was no big deal. On my way inside, I caught up with a lady and asked her, “Excuse me, ma’am. Is this weather hot?” “Not really,” She replied casually, “Why?” I explained, “I’m from northern Minnesota, and it seems really, really hot to me.” She giggled a bit, “It’s not too bad.” She said, then asked, “Where in Minnesota?” I gave her my standard answer, “We’re an hour up the shore past Duluth, on Lake Superior.” “Oh really?” She said, “do you mean like Lutsen?” “Ah, you know the shore?” I asked, she smiled and replied, “I grew up on the Gunflint Trail on Seagull Lake. Christian Knudsen was my grandfather.” We had a nice conversation and during that time I remembered to ask her name. “Kimberly LaBronte.” She said, “My last name was Horns when I lived up there. Most of my family were Knudsen’s...” It never ceases to amaze me how small the world is - and getting smaller all the time. I think of all the people I’ve met around the country who are from the north shore...and the people from Iowa that I meet out and about. It seems to not matter where you’re from or where you live now, people are like waves on Lake Superior, and the North Shore is like home - where ever that may be. They leave, and come back, leave and come back.. On my way home, I passed Muddy Gap junction in Wyoming and thought about the Anderson’s: waves making their way back to shore, and when they reach the shore - they’ll once again roll back out to sea.
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The Hot Seat7/31/2018 There are many fun things about traveling with our cat, Edgar Allan. He is such a character, he makes every trip a bit more interesting. I like the way he will roam around the car as he pleases, as if he owns the vehicle.
He’ll come from behind my seat and step around the headrest onto my shoulder. He’ll sit and look out the windshield for a bit, then climb down my chest to sit in my lap for awhile. He’ll meow at me, then I meow back to him, and he meows again. After our conversation, Edgar will head butt me; rubbing his face against mine, get his ears rubbed, then depart between the seats, returning to the back. If he is going to see Melissa, he generally will come up front between our seats, crossing the center console, then into her lap. Melissa will bring out his food dish and let him eat while sitting in her lap. Edgar is beginning to figure out the switches around the car and how they work. Occasionally, he will step on one, lowering a window on his own. We don’t like that and he doesn’t really like it either, especially if we’re driving on the highway. The rushing wind scares him a bit. June sure enjoys it and will take the opportunity to poke her nose out the opening into the wind. I know one of these days he is going to step on the door lock button, locking us out of the car. I can envision that once he’s locked us out, he will look at us through the window saying, “I didn’t lock the doors - June must have done it.” But I am prepared as a Boy Scout for that day to come. Anytime Edgar is left in the car while I’m filling the tank with gas or cleaning the windshield, I always carry a spare key in my pocket. There are always plenty of cushions and soft things in the back of the car for Edgar to lay on. He pretty much decides on the space he wants, and our dog June can have whatever space is left over. If Edgar sprawls out too much, June will push him out of the way and take some of the space back. Sometimes, June will just lay on top of the cat, causing Edgar to meow. Inevitably, June will catch a scolding from Melissa. “June! Get off him. You know better! You’re too big to lay on Edgar.” Edgar can be antagonistic, starting a scuff like a youngster who will provoke a sibling to draw a parental response. I think Edgar’s meows are often dramatic, like that little kid crying up a storm for attention when he’s not really hurt. Edgar will often chuckle a bit when June has been scolded. Despite their occasional little spats, June and Edgar get along really well. They are travel buddies and good friends. We often catch June using Edgar as a pillow, and vise-versa. Sometimes, after sitting on Melissa’s lap, Edgar will get up to go his way. Nonchalantly, when passing through the front seats, Edgar steps on the switch for the passenger seat warmer. A few moments later, Melissa will cry out, “Edgar Allan! Did you turn on my seat warmer?” Edgar ignores her, aloof to her troubled situation. If we have beverages in the cup holders he will affectionately come to sit in your lap, facing the center of the car. As you stroke his soft black coat, he begins purring then will quietly start chewing on the straw in your drink. “No Edgar!” Melissa scolds him, then shoos him away to the back of the car. Edgar seldom loses a contest. He will go to the back of the car and sit on top of a tote, looking up front and patiently waiting. Then Melissa calls out as her tushy is roasting, “Edgar Allan! You did that on purpose!” Of course he did. You took his straw away, you meanie! I laugh when he turns on her seat warmer. He always turns it to the high setting, never low, then goes to wait for a response. It just never gets old. The other day it was particularly hot outside. Edgar came up front to sit with Melissa and eat his food, then returned to the back with June. A few minutes later, Melissa called out, “Edgar Allan! You turned on my seat warmer after I was kind enough to feed you?” I started laughing. As a matter of fact, I laughed harder than usual when he did it this time. Maybe it was because of Melissa’s response, or the way he completely ignored her again. Or maybe because he is so coy when he does it, or maybe... Wait a minute. Why are my legs and backside getting so hot? They’re practically on fire. I cried out, “Edgar Allan! You’re not funny! You’re supposed to be one of the guys, you know, on MY team!” Edgar sat on top of the plastic tote with his front paws curled under his chest. He closed his eyes to rest as he smiled over my discomfort. Melissa turned her head, looking out the passenger window. There was a suspect innocence about her and I think I heard her snickering under her breath. Short of a confession from one of those two, I guess I’ll never know who turned on my seat warmer on that day. But one thing is for sure, Edgar makes traveling more fun and interesting. I just hope he’s not planning to keep drawing her into his shenanigans. |