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June 2024
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Clean Glasses3/23/2022 Ah, March. The month comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. This year March came in like a lamb, so theoretically, the month should go out like a lion – weatherwise, but we'll have to wait and see.
There's a lot to celebrate in March; Saint Urho's Day, Saint Patrick's Day, Fat Tuesday, and Ash Wednesday, followed by Lent and spring. Fat Tuesday came early this year, catching me off guard, and we didn't do anything festive. But it did cause me to yearn for New Orleans and some good Cajun-style food. It took me two weeks, but on March fifteenth, I finally made some Louisiana Red Beans and Rice with Andouille sausage, a spicy little dish with a nice glow. (Beware the Ides of March.) We enjoyed this meal with our last bottle of Yuengling beer, which we bootlegged into Minnesota from Texas. The month moved along, and we came to the first day of spring. Usually, I consider spring in northern Minnesota to be the second coming of snow. But this vernal equinox brought us a gorgeous sunny day with temperatures in the mid-forties. Melissa and I put on shorts and went out to the deck to bask in the sun; I even took off my shirt to catch some rays – good ole, natural vitamin D. Our black cat Edgar Allan and dog June Bug came out to join us, contrasting my pastie white torso and legs. Our patio furniture remained snowed in stored underneath the deck. So, we laid blankets and beach towels out on the wood top and enjoyed the day laying out in the sun – just as a southerner may head for the beach on an exceptionally nice first day of spring. Sunbathing in forty-five-degree weather may sound crazy to some of you, but you'd have to understand the warmth and intensity of the Minnesota sun. Around one-o-clock, a few clouds rolled in, bringing a breeze with them. But, just that quick, forty-five degrees was way too cold to be outside wearing just a pair of shorts. So, with goosebumps covering my arms and legs, we gathered our blankets and retreated indoors. Melissa walked into the living room with a broom and a vacuum. It appeared she would start cleaning, so I tried to slither back into the kitchen quietly. If I could escape out the back door, I could resume goofing off elsewhere on this first day of spring. But unfortunately, it was too late – she'd already spotted me. "You could take these area rugs out on the deck to let them air out?" I tried to reason with her, "Honey, it's way too nice out to be working inside. Let's go do something fun." "Do you know what day this is?" Was she testing me? "Of course, it's the first day of spring." As soon as I said it, I knew I should have answered, "March twentieth?" But, instead, I'd just set her up like one volleyball player sets up another to spike the ball and score! She smiled as she seized the opportunity I offered. "That's right, honey, it's the first day of spring, and we're doing some spring cleaning." She handed me the rolled-up rugs, and I headed for the deck. I tried to sneak down the hallway toward the bedroom back in the house. But it was too late; she'd already seen me. Over the noisy vacuum, she suggested, "Why don't you bring up the mop and bucket from the basement? We'll clean the floors today." I started to tell her I'd rather not but quickly recognized – that wasn't really just a suggestion. Melissa kept cleaning while I was mopping the floors. Finally, the house was starting to look good. I glanced out the window at the sun reflecting off the snow in the yard. Although this day felt like spring, there was snow forecasted for the next two days. I swished my mop in the hot, soapy water bucket, then squeezed out the mop head and began swabbing the floors again. I laughed, "Spring in Minnesota – the second coming of snow." Looking out the windows at the yard gave me an idea. I decided to open a few windows to let the fresh air make its way through, airing out the house as part of our spring cleaning. "This glass could use a good cleaning, too," I said as I raised the sash. Our windows tip inward, making the panes easy to clean. I thought about my dad cleaning the windows when I was younger. First, he would remove the storm windows. Then climb his stepladder with a small pail of soapy water and a rag. After washing the window, he would clear the water with a squeegee. Then, he'd pull a clean, soft cotton rag, usually an old cloth diaper, from his back pocket and polish the glass. Finally, Dad would carefully inspect the glass for any missed smudges or, worse yet, streaks. If he found a spot or streak, Dad would huff his hot breath on the spot, then move his rag in small circular motions, cleaning the defective area. Next, he'd come off the ladder to inspect the glass from the ground. If the glass was sparkling clean, he would go back up the ladder to hand the screen over the window for the upcoming warmer days. Dad was a stickler for clean glass. The windows on his car were always spotless – inside and out. On occasion, one of the kids would touch a window in his car. "Doggone it. Look at that. You left fingerprints on the glass." He'd complain, "You don't need to touch the glass to look out the window." Then Dad would go to the truck, get his little bottle of glass cleaner, and clean the affected area. Dad was the same way with his eyeglasses. He was constantly cleaning them, and mine too. I started wearing glasses when I was about two years old. My dad would take my glasses from my face and hold them up to the light. "How can you see through these?" He would huff a couple of times if we were outside, covering my glasses with steam from his breath, then polish them with his handkerchief. He would use his soft cotton shirttail if he didn't have a hanky. I liked it when Dad cleaned my glasses. He would go to a sink inside the house and let the water run until it was hot. Dad rubbed the bar soap between his hands, then cleaned my glasses with the suds between his fingers. Next, he'd wash the lenses and the frames, even the bows. After rinsing my glasses, he'd set them on the edge of the sink. Then Dad dried his hands and used the hand towel to dry my glasses. When they were dry, he'd polish the lenses with his hanky. Dad always expressed the importance of having clean glasses. When he put the glasses back on my face, they were warm. He'd work the fitted bows around the back of my ears with his warm fingers. His touch was gentle and felt good. After Dad cleaned my glasses, the world always looked like a whole new, brighter place. Then, he would pull his black plastic comb from his pocket to groom my hair. Those were beautiful memories. I made those same memories with my daughter Delaney, who also wore glasses as a little kid. I would take them from her face and hold them up to the light. "How can you see through these things?" Now I do the same thing with my granddaughters. I wonder if someday they will have the same fond memories. The spring weather was still around when we finished cleaning the house. I put a chocolate cake in the oven and fired up the Weber grill. Melissa asked if I'd like a beer with dinner. After the incident a few nights earlier, I decided just to have water. Several nights earlier, Melissa asked if I'd like to share the last Yuengling beer. (Bootlegged in from Texas) "Sure," I said. She poured half the bottle of Yuengling into a small glass for me. I drank the brew before eating our Louisiana Red Beans and Rice dinner. Then I rinsed the glass and set it on the kitchen counter, or, at least, I thought I did. Later, after dinner, Melissa and I split a Snickers bar while watching a movie. I wanted just a couple of swallows of milk, so I went to the kitchen. There was no need to turn on the lights; the light from the fridge would suffice. I also didn't see the need to dirty another glass – I'd just use the same glass I used for my beer. I poured a little milk into the glass and drank it. "YUCK! This milk is spoiled." I declared. Then I remembered, I intended to but never drank the rest of my beer. Instead, I poured the milk into a glass that still had some warm beer. Yuck! I'm trying to decide if I should close this story with a reminder from Dad of the importance of always having clean glasses - even drinking glasses, or write it off as Beware the Ides of March.
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Locked Out3/15/2022 I sensed something had moved on the couch. It was uncomfortable, causing me to wake up. I opened my eyes and saw a three-quarter round blue oval with the letters "DVD" floating aimlessly about the air on the far side of the room. I thought I was hallucinating.
It turns out the movement on the couch was our thirty-five-pound dog, who was now attempting to sit on my head. I quickly realized I had fallen asleep on the sofa watching M*A*S*H. My wife must have opened the bedroom door upstairs for June; either she needs to go out, or Melissa sent the dog to retrieve me to come to bed. I checked the clock on my cell phone; I couldn't go back to bed. It was time to get up, but why was it so dark outside? In the kitchen, June was ready to eat. "You're going to have to wait a moment while I put my breakfast in the microwave." First, I put oatmeal in the bowl, then added cinnamon, raisins, and water. Next, I chopped up some fresh peaches that were leftover in the refrigerator, stirring them into the mix. As I placed the bowl in the microwave oven, I noticed a flashing yellow light on the side of the neighbor's house. According to the microwave clock, the recycling truck was an hour early! Argh! I don’t like that feeling of failure when missing the recycling truck. I ran to the back door, fumbling with the knob to open the spring-loaded lock. I grabbed the full recycling bin from the enclosed porch and then kicked the door with my foot behind me to make sure it latched. There was no time to run outside and around the house; I’d cut through inside. I was careful to avoid spilling anything as I ran through the kitchen and dining room with the open top receptacle. "Get out of my way, cats; I have to get through!" I balanced the red plastic container against my hip with one hand while I grabbed the door handle with my other. Opening the French door, our cats Salem and Eve bolted between my legs and around my feet, tripping me up as they escaped into the living room. I started to stumble and hit the recycling bin against the other half of the still latched French door. The door banged and rattled; the tin cans and glass bottles clanked together like a giant rattle. A few of them spilled onto the floor. I was surprised we didn't wake the whole neighborhood, let alone everyone in the house. "Come on, June," I said, gathering the falling cans, "they won't wait!" My tennis shoes sat next to the front door, but there was no time. The truck had already passed our house. It was now in front of the neighbor's house to the west. I had to catch him; the bin wouldn't hold another week's worth of recyclables. "I should have just taken it out last night when I was thinking about it." Somehow, I thought I would magically change my ways overnight and I'd get up early enough to run the trash out before heading to work. I have that same intention every week. The man was very nice. He saw me running down the sidewalk and signaled for the driver to hold up. He crossed the grass boulevard to meet me. I handed him the bin and waited as he sorted the materials, tossing them into his truck. The cold concrete was rapidly chilling my feet through my socks. The crisp twenty-degree morning air felt refreshing as I stood there in my flannel pajama pants and thin v-neck t-shirt, but I knew I couldn't stay out very long dressed like that. A crow in the trees across the street began to caw. I felt he was laughing at the sight of me standing there in the cold. The man handed the bin back to me. I thanked him for waiting and wished him a good day. While we walked up the front steps, the crow continued to chatter. "Come on, June Bug, let's go get breakfast," I said, opening the porch door. Inside the porch, I reached for the knob on the front door…dang! Salem and Eve stood on the other side of the glass door, snickering from the living room at the man and the dog that locked themselves out of the house. I was trying to be quiet, "Salem, buddy. Can you open the door?" "Sorry," he said, holding up his paw, "no opposable thumbs." It's an awful feeling when you're outside a locked door, with your keys on the other side - especially when it's cold outside and you're wearing pajamas without shoes. I imagined the mail carrier would eventually find my frozen body later in the day. Fortunately, I had checked the time earlier, so my cell phone was in my pajama pants pocket. I could avoid ringing the doorbell. My daughter Annie was not happy to see me but did come down to let me in. Annie went back upstairs. June and I went to the kitchen. I enjoyed my oatmeal with peaches and toast made with a slice of homemade bread. June was looking forward to her morning bowl of Iam's mini chunks dog food. As we ate together in the kitchen, I noticed a flashing yellow light on the side of the neighbor's house to the west. I glanced at the clock on the range. "Wow, the garbage truck is running early, too." I set down my bowl of oatmeal and headed to the back door to get the trash can. I picked my phone up from the counter to double-check the time. It was an hour fast. "What the heck?" Suddenly it clicked with me, "It's daylight savings time. No wonder everyone is early." I set the phone back down. My tennis shoes were next to the front door, but there was no time to grab them. "Let's go, June," I said while I fumbled with the knob to open the spring-loaded lock on the back door. I pulled the door shut behind me so the cats wouldn't get out. "I should have taken the trash out last night when I was thinking about it, "I grumbled. June ran ahead and barked at the trash truck as if to say, "Hold on, Dad's on his way." Each time I stepped on a small stone in my stocking feet, I let out a little curse. "Oochie, ouchie, ouch…." The hollow plastic wheels made a boxy noise as they rolled briskly down the sidewalk. The engine whirred, then the air brakes hissed and squeaked as the big truck pulled up, stopping in front of our house. I was just rolling around the corner with the can. The man walked over the grass to meet me. My feet were getting cold standing on the concrete while he emptied the can. Then, he finally put the trash can back by the curb, "Have a nice day," he said. My socks got wet in the frost, crossing the grass to retrieve the can. I pulled it to the back door; June followed. Inside the enclosed porch, I reached for the doorknob. "No way." I saw my phone on the kitchen counter through the glass – on the other side of the locked door. June and I walked around to the front door. With hope, I reached for the handle – no such luck. Instead, through the glass, I saw Salem and Eve looking at me, snickering, "Sorry, no opposable thumbs," Salem said. Across the street, the crow chattered in the park. "Caw, caw, caw," he said. "You did it again, didn't you?" Then he flew away laughing to tell his friends. "Caw, caw, caw." Dawn was just breaking as I rang the doorbell. It's a loud bell with three long brass pipes that resonate a nice tone across the wooden floors and through the house. I heard two feet hit the floor upstairs, "Really, Dad?" Annie rambled down the steps, unlocked the door, then stomped back up the stairs to her bedroom. She didn't say anything. The cell phones automatically adjust for the time change; I have to set the other clocks manually. I ran through it aloud, "Fall back. Spring forward. Dude, you're running late for work." I'd have to set the clocks later. I took a quick shower, got dressed, and ran down the steps. June tried going out the front door with me and trampling over my tennis shoes, kicked one forward into the door jam, which stopped the door from closing. I pushed the shoe back into the living room with my foot. Then I reached in my pocket for my car keys while explaining, "Bugs, I have to go to work. You need to stay here and guard the house." As I spoke, I felt around my empty pocket. "Good catch, June Bug." I went back to get my keys off the dining room table, then gave my dog a brisk rub on the head. "Thanks, June. I don't know if Annie would have been so understanding a third time."
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One Good Turn3/1/2022 I keep a running list of people I want to mail cookies to, and thet list was growing. I would also be driving my granddaughters to southern Minnesota in a couple of days, and they're always up for Papa's Ginger Crack cookies. So, I baked about eighteen dozen. Then, after hand-delivering several bags of fresh cookies, I packed and mailed five dozen more. I put the rest in a bag to take to Addison and Evelyn.
I met my daughter at work to trade my truck for her car. (It gets better mileage) I moved the things I needed to the car. Then I grabbed the bag with eighteen cookies handing them to Sydney, "Do you want some cookies? You'd better grab a few before the girls get to them, or there may not be any left." Sydney reached into the bag, laughing, "Ain't that the truth." On the road trip, the girls each ate four cookies. At our destination, Evelyn asked, "Papa, can we take the cookies with us." "Sorry babe, those are going home for John." I gave them kisses, and I headed back for Duluth. I hate returning a car with an empty tank. So, I turned off I-35 at the exit to go to a gas station on Superior Street. They usually have the best fuel price in town. I had to backtrack a few blocks, but it's worth it; I topped off the tank. Driving east on Superior Street there’s a fork in the road; to the right takes you up the hill to Mesaba Avenue - left continues on Superior to downtown, and I can get on I-35 from there. But, to me, it always feels like going right should keep me on Superior, so that's what I did. "Crap! Wrong-way again." No problem, I can take the first right, go downtown. I missed the first right turn because it was hiding behind tall snowbanks. So, I took the second…or was it the third turn? Anyway, I made my way downtown, then turned left on Superior. I can get around downtown Duluth, but the unlighted street signs were hard to see in the dark. "Darn it, that was Fifth. I should have turned right," I said as I cruised through the intersection. "No problem, I'll get on I-35 at Lake Avenue. A few blocks later, I came to a traffic signal. "Is this Lake? No? Yes?" I was talking to myself. The traffic light turned green before I saw the street sign. I started to go straight, then second-guessing myself; I began to turn right, then straight, then saw the Pizza Luce sign on the corner. "This is Lake Avenue," I said and committed to turning right. Meanwhile, the oncoming car had no idea what the heck I was doing, and he started to turn left in front of me, then hesitated, then turned anyway. So, we were both turning south on Lake Avenue at the same time. No problem, with two southbound lanes, there was one for each of us. I needed to move to the left lane; the ramp to I-35 comes up quickly. It was awkward trying to change lanes with the other car over there. I had my signal on, and he backed off to let me over. That was nice of him. The ramp to I-35 North comes up so quickly it always feels like I'm turning onto the ramp coming off the interstate. If I hesitate and miss the turn, I have to drive into Canal Park to turn around and come back. I almost missed it again tonight but quickly made my turn onto the ramp. That's when the driver of the other car turned on his lights. The red, amber, blue and white were all so pretty and flashy! With my hands on the wheel at ten and two with open palms, the officer came up to my window. His greeting was unusual, not "Good evening," or "May I see your driver's license?" Instead, "Do you know why I'm standing here outside your window on the side of the road?" For some reason, that struck me as being very funny. I started laughing. (The cop probably thought I was drunk to boot.) Then, I told him exactly what I did, "Of course I do, but was it my first or second erratic turn that caught your attention? Because whenever I'm going to make a couple of uncoordinated, erratic turns, without signaling, I always do right in front of a cop." By now, the officer was laughing too. He reminded me, "Don't forget that smooth lane change, too." I started laughing again. "I figured you were just lost but have to make sure you’re safe to be driving." He asked me who owned the car, where I'd been, where I was going, had I been drinking – all the routine questions, then, "Can I see your driver's license?" He took my license and went to his patrol car. While I waited, I started laughing alone again about the whole situation. Although my turns were not pretty, I didn't do anything illegal other than failing to signal; I doubted he would write me a citation for that. He was just checking to make sure I wasn't drunk, and rightfully so. That's his job, and my driving display did give cause for suspicion. The officer handed me my license, "At least you weren't speeding this time." Hmph. He must have checked my driving history. After telling me to drive safely and have a good night, he turned away. "Hey, wait a minute," I called out to him. I reached across the seat and offered him the bag of cookies I had saved for John. "Here, I want you to have these." "For what," he asked? "For pulling me over and doing your job. I appreciate you keeping the streets of Duluth safe." I was being sincere. "That's okay, you don't have to do that," he said, politely declining. But I saw the way he looked at those cookies. "No, seriously. I want you to have them," I said, reaching further out the window, "One good turn deserves another." He commented on my turns not being so good, and we shared a laugh about that. "Seriously if you don't take them, I'm going to leave the bag of cookies here on the side of the road. Don't make me litter!" He thanked me, took the cookies, and went to his car. For all I know, he may have thrown them away to keep me from littering, but I hoped he would enjoy them. I'd hate to think I gave away John's cookies for nothing. I turned off London Road, heading to my daughter's house. A teenager was standing at the end of a driveway in the T intersection. I was going to drive by, but it was cold and dark, and she looked distraught. As I turned right, I noticed the car was off the driveway, in the snow. I rolled down my window and backed up. "Are you stuck?" She said that she was and seemed happy when I offered to help. I didn’t mind lending a hand, I was having a good night, and one good turn deserves another. A second teenage girl got out of the driver's seat. "I must have turned the wheel the wrong way, and my car kind of slid into the snow," she explained. "We tried to dig it out, but it won’t move." Three aluminum scoop shovels were standing upright in the snow to the side. They had cleared a lot of snow trying to free the car, but it was still in deep. Snow was up against the passenger side and under the vehicle. Both front tires were in ruts where she'd spun the tires trying to get out. We weren't going to get the car unstuck without a lot more digging. Pointing to my car, I said, "This is my daughter's car, and I can't use it to get you out. But I'm going to get my truck at her house, just a few blocks from here. I have chains and everything we'll need to get your car out of the snowbank. I'll come back in a few minutes, and pull you out." I returned a few minutes later. There was a third teenager with them now. "Look," she said, pointing to the car with excitement. "We got it to move quite a bit." "I see that," I said, "That's awesome." Unfortunately, the car was on a slight slope, and they only moved it deeper into the snowbank. I couldn't get around them in the narrow driveway to pull the car forward with my chain, and I didn't want to pull it back any deeper into the snow and chance damaging their car. The bumper of my truck and her car lined up well. I folded a packing blanket into a small thick square, handing it to one of the girls. "I'm going to push you out of the snow. I don't want to scratch my truck, or your car, so hold this here.” I showed her where I wanted the blanket. “I'll pull forward slowly until I pinch the blanket between the bumpers. With the blanket positioned as a buffer, I told the girl driving, "Put your car in neutral, and I'll push you forward." "Do you want me to put it in drive and give it some gas to help," she asked? "Nope. You just steer the car to the middle of the driveway. I'll do the rest." She got in her car. I made sure my truck was in four-wheel drive, and checked to ensure no one was in front of her. Then I called out the window, "Straighten your wheels." I started forward slow and easy. My truck had no problem pushing the small car until it rolled freely out of deep snow. I stopped, "Put it in park," I said, then backed away from her car. I got out of my truck and picked up the blanket. The driver got out of her car. The three girls gave grinning looks and glances to one another as if to silently say, "We did it! We did it." I felt like once I left, they would cut loose and do a victory dance. That’s what I would have done when I was sixteen. I looked at the passenger side of their car. "It doesn't look like you hurt it at all," I said with a reassuring smile. "Clean all the snow out of your wheel rims; otherwise, they'll shake when you drive." The driver looked at me with relief, "Thank you so much for stopping to help us." "No problem at all," I said and wished them a good night. I backed out of their driveway. As I pulled away, the three girls were in the driveway waving. I gave a couple of toots on the horn and drove away smiling. I felt good about my good deed. A lot had happened in a thirty-minute time frame, and it all started with a couple of non-typical turns downtown. Granted, they weren't pretty turns, but they got the job done. After all, one good turn...
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House Paint and Rainbows3/1/2022 Our house in Winona, Minnesota, sat on the corner of Baker and Broadway streets. The house was brown with darker brown trim. Unfortunately, the houses on either side and several more places nearby were also the same color. So boring! There must have been a sale on brown house paint when all this happened.
The old brown paint was faded, chipped and peeling. We planned to give the house a whole new look that would stand out in the neighborhood. When people drove past, they would say, "Now that's a beautiful home." But, unfortunately, before repainting, we decided to sell the house. Brenda, our realtor, raved about the home's interior; its soft, warm colors and beautiful hardwood floors were inviting to all who entered. "What are you going to do with the outside of the house," she asked? It was almost September, nearing the end of the house buying season, and my schedule was full. I didn't see where I would find time to paint the house. I told Brenda, "We'll give the buyers a five-thousand-dollar painting allowance; they can have it painted whatever color they'd like." "That's not a good idea," Brenda said, then explained, "The interior of the house is beautiful, but I can't sell the house if I can't get prospective buyers inside." "We'll leave the curtains open," I replied in jest. But, having just met Brenda, she wasn't sure how to take my sense of humor. "First impressions and curb appeal are everything," Brenda said. "The exterior paint will drive potential buyers away. People want a house where everything's finished and ready to move in." I tried to reason that the interior was ready to move in, but my wife sided with the realtor. Brenda and Melissa started talking about colors. Meanwhile, I started trying to figure out how I would make time to paint the house in the next couple of weeks. Unfortunately, I couldn't find a professional house painter on such short notice, but I still made a few calls. A day later, I got a call from a painting company. He had a job cancellation and could start our house on Saturday. Unfortunately, we'd be out of town that day. "No problem," he assured, "Just pick your colors, and we'll take it from there. Perfect! We gave him a deposit and shook hands. We chose a soft, buttery shade of yellow at the paint store. With white trim, it would look great, and it would be the only yellow house in the neighborhood. So, with that decision made, we loaded the car and headed out for the weekend. While we were driving home Sunday, Brenda called. "I just drove by your house," she said. "Please tell me you're not painting your house that color." Melissa and I were taken aback by her comment. We thought it was a pretty color. We told Brenda we'd get back to her. It was nearing sunset when we turned north onto Baker Street. As we got closer to home, we were nearly blinded by the extremely bright sun in front of us. "Wait a minute; we're going north; the sun sets in the west." I was confused. Melissa, also blinded by the same intense phenomenon before us, blurted out, "Good Lord! That's our house!" We were shocked. "They must have got the wrong color paint!" Before us was an obnoxiously bright, neon yellow house, like lemon-twist yellow, but worse! The sight of it made my mouth pucker as if I'd been sucking on a lemon slice. Melissa called Brenda to assure her this was not the color we ordered. I called the painter and told him to stop painting until we talked. Monday morning, I met Ray. Ray was an old hippy who worked for the contractor. He had a laid-back demeanor and an appreciation for everything in life. I liked him right away and he was very knowledgeable about painting. Unfortunately, the three-quarter by two-inch sample didn't represent its final appearance when applied to a house. Ray was an artist who also painted houses for the past fifty-plus years. "House painting pays the bills," he said. "Art is hit and miss. I gotta eat, man. You know what I mean?" Considering his wisdom, I had to ask: "Ray, when you saw the color of this paint, did it occur to you to call the homeowner and make sure this is what they wanted?" "No way, man. I never question anyone's taste," he said. Ray moved his open hand through the air, making an arch. "The rainbow's hues are infinite, brother; there's someone who loves every shade in the spectrum." He looked at me as if I should feel what he said rather than hear his words. Still, I challenged Ray, "But lemon-twist yellow? That didn't raise any red flags?" Ray looked deep, "I think this color is pretty, man. You don't like it?" I assured him we did not, at least not on the house. I told him we'd be changing the color, knowing it would understandably cost us more. "Whatever you want, man. I just swing the brush. You know what I mean?" Being gun-shy of anything yellow, Melissa and I opted for a new color scheme: Cavern Moss Green with Adobe White trim. The problem was that I now couldn't get ahold of the contractor. A few days later, I ran into Ray in a store. I told him I couldn't get ahold of his boss, "He's not returning my phone calls." "He's an old friend of mine," Ray said, "but he can be kind of shady, too. If I don't get paid at the end of the day, I don't come back tomorrow. You get me, brother?" I asked Ray if he would paint the house if I paid him. "No way, man. I was just trying to help my friend. I'm getting too old to be painting two-story houses." Ray gave me some advice. "If you want your house painted before it snows, you better get on the ladder and do it yourself. You know what I mean, man?" I fully understood everything Ray was saying. I had to change many things at work, but the house painting was complete about a week later. Brenda stood on the sidewalk with a realtor's yard sign. "Now, this is a beautiful home." Brenda had the house sold in a couple of weeks. Before I set out to paint the house myself, I ran into an old friend and artist, Richard Dutton. Richard was an art history instructor at Indian Hills Community College. He also taught painting, drawing, and other art-related courses. He was an amazing artist – his watercolors were spectacular. I told him about my issue, "I can't believe Ray didn't call to make sure we wanted that wild color." Richard was wearing a fiddler's cap, an open collar shirt, and a tweed sports coat. He smiled, "Why would he call you? It was the color you picked, right?" He had me there. Richard explained, "There are a lot of colors in the rainbow; there's somebody out there to love each one of them." I asked Richard if he was still painting. "Yes, sir," he replied. I wondered if he would like to come to Minnesota to paint my house. "I'm not a house painter," he said. But I argued in jest, insisting he was. "You painted Mom and Dad's house." (In 1983, Mom commissioned Richard to paint our farmhouse, which became a famous painting within our family.) Richard smiled, "Thomas, I did that painting because I liked your mom. There's a big difference between painting a house and a painting OF a house. Besides, watercolors don't hold up well in the weather – especially Minnesota's harsh weather." We shared a good laugh about that. Years later, Melissa and I had moved to northern Minnesota, where we bought a house to remodel – inside and out. One day I called Richard, "How would you like to paint my house for me?" "Are we really going to have that conversation again," he asked, laughing. I explained that I had planned to have our house done by Melissa's birthday. But unfortunately, I had overestimated my ability and was so far behind schedule there was no way it would happen. I explained, "I commissioned a local artist to paint a picture of our house as it would be when finished. They had six months to do it and kept assuring me they would have it done on time. Then, three days before Melissa's birthday, they bailed on the project, saying, 'I can't visualize what I'm supposed to be painting.'" I asked Richard if he could help me out. Richard liked Melissa, referring to her as one of his many favorite students. I knew she also held him in the highest regard. "Richard, I don't think a twenty-dollar Walmart gift certificate would mean as much to Melissa as having a Richard Dutton painting of our home." I was really buttering him up. Richard had questions: "When's her birthday?" "May twelfth," I replied. "That's in three days," he said. "Why can't you have the house painted by then?" "Because it's still snowing here in May," I justified. "Tom, I've told you before, I'm not a house painter," Richard said, then sighed. "But I'll do this because I like your bride." We shared a good laugh about that then discussed the details. I emailed Richard a photo of the house from the angle I wanted. The picture showed an absolute construction zone. The house covered in white house rap lacked a front door, and there was no siding. The yard and driveway were a muddy mess. "This is what you want me to paint," he questioned? "Would you like me to fix the ruts in the driveway?" "Yes," I replied, "But I also need you to install the front door and the siding. Then, put in the new garage doors, and landscape the yard." Richard kept laughing. "While you're at it, build the steps on the front porch, and can you pour a concrete driveway and sidewalk?" "Now I have to finish building the house, too?" Richard chuckled sarcastically, "I'll see what I can do." I felt better knowing he was on the job. "What color is the house going to be," he asked. "Cavern Moss Green with Adobe White trim." I sent him a photo of our Winona house. "It's the same colors I wanted you to paint our house a few years ago." We shared another laugh about that. A couple of weeks later, the painting arrived. I planned a special dinner that night and presented the framed artwork to Melissa. She loved it. Her face really lit up when she saw in the bottom right corner, 'R. Dutton.' "Mr. Dutton painted this?" I knew right then I had given her the best birthday present. Even though it was belated, she hung it on the wall of our (unfinished) north shore home and would treasure this for years to come, as the house progressed around it. For my sixtieth birthday, Melissa contacted Richard and purchased a painting called Lake Wapello Trail. Although he painted this award-winning piece in southern Iowa, the scene looks very similar to a road near Devilfish Lake, out on the Arrowhead Trail near Hovland. One of our favorite camping and canoeing spots. I suspect other people along the north shore may have some of Richard's paintings, too, as he's participated in Plein Air events in Grand Marais. I was saddened to learn that Richard had recently passed away. I cannot fathom how many lives he's touched as a teacher, an artist, and a friend. Let alone as a husband, father, and grandfather. Although he will be dearly missed by so many, I will always envision his round glasses, mustache, and mischievous grin. He would want us to remember him and smile rather than mourn. Richard would encourage us to always seek joy and beauty in life. When sunlight reflects through raindrops, it creates a beautiful rainbow; therefore, it must be watercolors. Whenever I see one, I will look for the end of the rainbow; not seeking a pot of gold, but to see if I might find a signature: R. Dutton.
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Skinny Jeans2/16/2022 I was installing the oak trim boards in my house. I purchased unfinished wood, so each board and trim stick had to be clear-coated with the polyurethane finish – hand-sanded between layers.
Each day, I'd calculate the amount of wood I would need for the next day and make sure I had plenty of boards finished, dried, and ready to go to avoid a work stoppage. After midnight Monday morning, I finished applying the second coat of varnish on the trim boards I would need for the day's work. Then, I cleaned up my brushes and headed for the shower. Before getting in the shower, I decided to go ahead and toss my work clothes in the washer so I would have clean clothes to wear. I don't wash my work clothes with any other regular laundry. I lifted the lid on the washer to make sure it was empty. Then, I set the dial to the "regular" cycle and pulled the knob. Water began flowing into the washtub. I added a small amount of liquid detergent to the water then removed my t-shirt and jeans, tossing them in with the rest of the work clothes. "I might as well wash my socks too," I said. Standing barefoot on the concrete basement floor, wearing only my boxer shorts, I shivered. "It's chilly down here." I tossed the socks in with the load, closed the lid, and went upstairs. Sunday had been a long day. I worked late. I was cold, tired, and my body hurt. So, the shower felt especially good. After I washed up, I decided to stay in the shower longer. I stood under the stream of hot water, letting it soothe my aches and pains. Besides, I had to wait on the washing machine. I shut off the water, toweled off, and put on clean pajamas. I had every intention of staying awake long enough to put my clothes in the dryer, but that didn't happen. While sitting on the couch, listening for the washer to complete its cycle, I fell asleep. A few minutes after waking in the morning, I remembered my wet clothes were still in the washer, and I had no other clean work jeans to wear. "Dang! Not having work clothes is going to throw my whole day off schedule." I had to first coat the wood I needed for Tuesday to be dry and ready for sanding and the second coat in the evening. I wasn't going to chance getting varnish on a pair of good jeans, and varnishing boards in boxer shorts just didn't seem right! "What if a neighbor comes knocking on my door? What would the dog think?" My dog June followed me down the steps. "If I can remodel an entire house alone, I should certainly be capable of handling a simple load of laundry on my own, right?" Although I spoke rhetorically, June answered anyway. "Apparently not." Smart-aleck dog! Surrendering to the notion that I was just going to be behind schedule, I put my clothes in the dryer then went upstairs to have breakfast while they tumbled to dry. With my right foot on the first step, a lightbulb lit up over my head; I had an idea. I turned around quickly, nearly tripping over the dog. I walked back to the dryer with June at my heels. I turned the heat setting to high. "That'll make my jeans dry faster." I gave June a rub on the head, "I am a genius." June gladly accepted my gesture of affection but continued looking on with skepticism. "Are you supposed to do that?" "Why not? It won't hurt anything." I replied. June warned, "Mom never uses the high heat setting when she does laundry." I justified, "Well, mom's not here now, is she?" I could see the doubt in June's eyes. "Look, this will speed the drying process, getting me on the job closer to on schedule." I didn't want to hear any more from the dog. Changing the subject, I announced, "Hey, this is Monday." I slipped on my snow boots to take the trash to the curb wearing my pajamas. June ran off to the yard to do her morning business. I grabbed the mail on my way back to the house. By the time I fed the dog, ate my oatmeal, and brushed my teeth, I heard the dryer's buzzer sound off. So, I hurried downstairs; June followed. When I bent over and opened the dryer door, a blast of hot, dry air hit me in the face. I reached inside to grab my clothes. "Ouch!" My forearm touched the zipper and metal button on my jeans, and they were hot! Upstairs, I tossed the clean clothes on the bed to fold later. Next, I took a T-shirt, shook it in the air a few times to cool it down, then put it on. It was still warm and felt good. Next, I grabbed my jeans, putting my left leg in first, then my right leg. I tried to pull them up. “Holy crikey! I must have put a pair of my wife's jeans in the washer with mine. Oh, this could be bad.” I quickly removed the jeans, inspecting up and down the pant legs. "This is not good, not good at all!" I came across numerous dots of dried varnish on the denim fabric. I thought I had ruined a pair of her jeans...until I came upon a leather patch embossed "Wrangle." Confused, I looked the jeans over again. Yep. They were mine. I put them on again and pulled them up. I struggled with the button. I took a very deep breath and sucked my stomach in as much as I could. I still couldn't fasten the button. "How in the heck do girls wear those skinny jeans?" I tried a trick I had seen women do on TV shows, I laid on the bed, getting psyched up, then counted, "One, two, three, GO!" I simultaneously inhaled, arched my back, and sucked in my gut while trying to pull my waistband together. I was so close I couldn't give up. I held my breath, giving one final tug; I managed to fasten the button. I was afraid to exhale, fearing I would blow the metal button off my jeans. I imagined it would pop off with such force it would shoot right through the newly finished sheetrock ceiling. Trying to avert any damage, I thought, "Hurry Tom, get the zipper up." June looked on with merciless glee as I wiggled about, tugging on the metal tab to close my fly. Finally, finally, I had fastened my jeans. I laid there for a moment to rest. When I stood up, I inhaled against my will, gasping. I think I shrieked a little too. "Ay, Yi, Yi!" I'd learned a whole new meaning of the term sung! "How could they be so tight?" I wondered. "They fit perfectly last night." June was laughing. "Do you suppose this is why Mom never uses the high heat setting?" I gave her a snarling look of disapproval for her "I told you so" attitude. "Not to worry, my little canine critic. I've got this." Jeans are always a little tight coming out of the dryer. I placed my outstretched leg on the edge of the bed then began reaching for my toes. An exercise regimen of bends and stretches should do the trick. I felt the jeans were loosening up, but not enough. Maybe some squats. That'll stretch them out! I began the first squat. "Ouchy! Ouchy! Ouch!" Another not-so-good idea. Things got pinched that aren't meant to be! June was laughing even harder. "Why don't you try the splits next? That might help!" I had had an actual situation on my hands...or should I say, on my legs. To complicate matters, I wasn't sure I could get them off. I was determined to avoid calling 911 and was able to wiggle free. Using common logic and obvious reasoning, I deduced: "Now, if these jeans got this tight by drying them on high heat, putting them back in the dryer on "cool down" should reverse the damage. June looked at me with repeated concern, "Mom never does that when she's doing laundry." "Well, Mom isn't here right now, is she?" Another failure. The "cool down" setting didn't help; it just consumed more of my valuable time. I managed to squeeze back into the ill-fitting britches. The thought of trying a different pair of jeans hadn't even occurred to me. "I guess I'm just going to move a little more cautiously until the denim stretches back out." While walking down the hallway with a window casing in my hands, I peered through a doorway. June was lying there sprawled out on the bed. "Get down! You know Mom doesn't want you on the bed!" June didn't even raise her head; she just answered, "Well, Mom isn't here now, is she?" Smart-aleck dog. I suppose I had been working for about a half-hour when I finally got some relief. First, the distressed denim gave way while I bent over to pick up some more boards. Then, when I felt the cool breeze, I realized I had ripped out the crotch of my pants. I couldn't have cared less how ridiculous I looked. It didn't feel too bad, and the jeans seemed to fit better, so I kept working. Then, I thought, "What if a neighbor comes knocking on my door. What would the dog think? Maybe I should change my pants." And so, I did. Fortunately, the next pair of jeans went on without such a fight. Although I didn't get started on my work when I wanted to, it had been an educational morning. First, I learned the importance of proper heat settings. Additionally, I now understand what girls go through putting on those skinny jeans. But I have to say; there is no way a girl can know how a guy feels when he wears those skinny jeans. Yikes!
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Beans2/9/2022 Everyone knows that Yogi is smarter than your average bear. When he was about to get in trouble, his companion Boo-Boo would intervene to keep Yogi from getting into trouble with Ranger Smith. Yogi's problem always seemed to involve a picnic basket.
Ranger Smith placed the "Do not feed the bears" signs around Jellystone Park. Still, visitors would leave their baskets unattended, and the bears would find them. Probably because Yogi was known to use a pencil to cross out the word "not," making the sign read "Do Feed the Bears." Yogi was always on the lookout for a "pic-a-nic basket" and just couldn't resist stealing one at every opportunity. I loved watching those cartoons of Yogi Bea and Boo-Boor when I was growing up. I grew up, did a lot of camping where bears live, and eventually moved to the north woods. I learned the importance of not only not feeding the bears but the necessity of proper food storage to keep your camp, or picnic site, bear-proof. Bears and people just don't make good partners when sharing the same food basket. Still, I inadvertently feed the bears and other animals. We put out hummingbird feeders in the spring in anticipation of their return. Bird feeders with different seeds draw various birds that are fun to watch year-round. But unfortunately, keeping squirrels and raccoons out of the bird feeders is an ongoing quest, and in reality, a lost cause. The birds and squirrels will spill and drop seeds. But nothing goes to waste around here; the deer and the bears gladly come around to clean up the ground below the feeders. Although we have had bears in our yard in the past, we don't see them anymore. This is because June has well-marked our yard, keeping the bears at bay. (Dogs and bears do not get along and will keep their distance from one another.) We still see bears in our neighbors' yards, but they don't have dogs. Our neighbors tell me they also see bears going through our yard from time to time, but way outback. So the bears stay clear of our house - June's territory. The bears will stay clear of June's area, but the deer come right up to the house for the treats under the feeders, all the while keeping a vigilant watch for that dog. I've even seen hoof prints in the snow ON our front porch a couple of times. The deer can't reach the feeders hanging on the porch railings from the ground. So, one deer was brave enough to come up attempting to rob the sunflower seeds on the porch! We enjoy the wildlife around our home and welcome all the animals. When I am cooking and have carrot, potato, or apple peelings, I'll put them in the yard for the deer. If I have fresh fruits or vegetables that have aged, I put them out as well. The grouse are particularly fond of apples. There are different theories on feeding wild animals. Some say you shouldn't; others say it's okay; each has logical reasons to support their position. But, this story is not to debate the issue. Every fall, we have mice and voles that seek winter nesting inside our garage. I put food out for them too. Of course, the seed I set out for critters in the garage is inside a live trap. When I catch mice, I release them near the creek down the road. They can find new places for suitable nesting or become part of the food chain, the circle of life. We've been feeding the mice for a long time. When Melissa and I were dating, she lived in a cute little cottage house in the country. One day, she went into her kitchen, where she saw a mouse run across the floor, taking shelter behind the refrigerator. Expressing no desire to be roommates with a mouse, she told me she would buy a trap. I assumed she would get a typical mouse trap – a rectangular piece of pine with a very sensitive latch and a wire that held a spring-loaded copper-colored bar. It's the kind of trap that makes a very distinct snapping noise when it goes off; and hurts like the dickens if it trips in your hand while setting it. I'm not afraid to admit I was always (and still am) a little scared when arming one of those old mouse traps. The basic mouse trap came in a two-pack for a dollar nineteen. Instead, Melissa bought a clear plastic live trap. I questioned her, "You paid almost twenty bucks for a mousetrap." "I don't want to hurt him," she justified. "I just want him of my house." The same day she placed the trap next to the refrigerator, she caught the mouse. It was a grey mouse with a short, fat little body with a relatively short tail. His head seemed too big for his body, but I suppose it had to be. The mouse had huge dark eyes, big, perky ears, and long whiskers on his fat little cheeks. Melissa took the trap about ten feet outside the back door to release him. She had more mice in the house than she knew. Every morning when she woke, she had another mouse in the trap. Then, there would be another when she came home from work in the evening. There'd also be yet another mouse in the clear plastic box if Melissa came home for lunch. Each time, she'd set the rodent free and put more bait in the trap. It was interesting that she only ever caught one mouse at a time, in a trap that would accommodate several. After about a week or so of this, I finally spoke up. "You do realize that's the same mouse you're catching over and over again." She adamantly denied it. "For Pete's sake, you catch him, then release him just a few feet outside the door, and he comes right back in." She claimed I had no training or knowledge on mousology. "Come on, Melissa. Look at his body. Look at his face: the big eyes, giant ears, long whiskers. It's the same darn mouse every time." She continued to deny my claim. "Why don't you stop setting the trap and just put some food out if you're just going to keep feeding him?" Her response was sharp and to the point. "Why don't you mind your own business? This is my house, and I will take care of the mouse problem as I see fit. I don't need your help." Wow. She really put me in my place and continued to set me straight, "Besides, Beans needs to eat, too." "Beans?" I was taken back. "Yes, his name is Beans, and he'll quit coming back when he wants to. Now, why don't you mind your own business." From that instance on, anytime I would see Melissa setting Beans free in the yard, I would roll my eyes or shake my head – but I knew better than to say a word about it/him. In truth, I admired the compassion and affection she showed to a simple field mouse. It was just another reason I fell in love with this girl. Eventually, Beans stopped coming around. Melissa moved to a different house. We got married and moved together to northern Minnesota. Beans will come up in conversation from time to time, and to this day, she gets a little defensive should I poke fun at that situation. Just the other day, actually, a few weeks ago, I noticed something strange in the kitchen. "What on earth is a live Asian beetle doing crawling across the counter in January?" I was baffled, "They usually go away for the winter." So I took a small paper towel to pick him up carefully, to avoid squishing him. (They stink bad if you squish them.) I was going to wrap him in the paper and dispose of him by way of flushing. Lord knows there's probably a massive colony of Asian beetles in our septic tank. Melissa came running into the kitchen, "No! No! Don't hurt him." Once again, I was puzzled. Melissa approached the counter, pushing away my hand of devastation. "Watch this." She opened a sealed container, pinched off a crumb from a Harvest Glory Muffin I had baked, and set it on the counter about an inch away from the bug. The beetle made its way, climbing on top of the morsel. I must admit I was a bit amazed as I witnessed the tiny bug consume the entire crumb but still complained, "This is why I make muffins?" "Just be quiet, so you don't scare him." Melissa watched, too, as the small, round bright orange bug with black dots enjoyed the meal. "Now watch this," she said when the bug had finished eating. Melissa took a toothpick, dipped it in water, placing a tiny speck on the counter. The Asian beetle crawled to the water and drank it all until no sign of water remained on the surface. "That is amazing," I said. With affection, Melissa reported, "He's been coming around for a few days now." I could tell she's been feeding him daily and had become attached to the beetle. Like a little kid who found a puppy on the way home from school, I was almost expecting her to ask, "Can we keep him." But, she doesn't need my permission to keep a pet pest in the house. I started to speak, "You do realize…." My wife gave me a firm, cold glare. "Never mind," I said, retreating to the bedroom. I needed to pack for a trip that June and I were taking. While I was on the road, Melissa called one day to report concerning news. "The beetle showed up for breakfast this morning. He's moving kind of slow. I'm worried about him." "Melissa, you realize…never mind." I quickly changed the subject. "How are the deer doing." Melissa was excited to report, "There's a baby buck that started coming around. I can't wait for you to see him when you get home." Each day, she updates me on the birds, the squirrels, the grouse, the deer, the beetle, and the new young buck. This morning I sent Melissa a text: "Did you name the Asian Beetle?" I received an immediate response, "I'm not telling you." Yes, from Beans on – we feed the wildlife.
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Moon Shadows2/2/2022 It had been one of those nights when I slept so well I awoke before the alarm went off. I put on my robe then went to the kitchen. The LED lights on the humidifier glowed, illuminating my path down the hallway. The dim lights seemed a little brighter because my eyes were dilated; still, the soft green light was easy on my eyes.
My dog slept peacefully on her bed next to ours. June didn't wake nor follow me down the hall. That was very unusual as she's always is excited about her first visit to the yard in the morning, breakfast, and perhaps the prospect of someone throwing her toy to play catch, even in the dark. No, today I walked down the hall alone. I wondered how cold it was outside. I knew the temperature was supposed to drop below zero, and the winds were forecast to provide us a bitter wind chill. The house was chilly, so I pulled the collar of my robe, closing it more snuggly. The stillness of the morning was gentle. Outside I heard the metallic sound of something moving; it almost sounded like rusty hinges on an old sign swaying back and forth in the winds. But there are no signs near here. Maybe it was coming from the neighbor's sawmill just down the road. I stopped in the hallway to listen. It was like sweet music with an easy rhythm trying to lure me back into a slumber. But, it would remain a mystery from where the noise came. I was not interested in finding its source – just its song. Although my steps were silent, my bare feet were getting cold. I adjusted my robe again and went back to the bedroom for my slippers. Each step I took produced a soft clacking noise as the heel of my slippers contacted the wooden floor. It's a sound that annoys my wife, and I didn't want to wake her, so I continued, tip-toeing to the kitchen. At least for a few steps until I was distracted, then returned to my usual step. I heard the boiler kick on in the basement. Then, the radiators sounded off a moment later as the hot water ran through the cold pipes, changing their temperature. It makes a crackling sound, like wood burning in a campfire. It is a beautiful sound that fills the soul with comfort and warmth; it's a sound of assurance that heat is on the way. Down the hall and across the living room, I could see a brightness coming in the windows. The grey clouds had cleared during the night, letting the moon shine brightly, casting her light over the frigid north woods and into my house. In the kitchen, there was something odd about the windows. They were moonlit but with darker areas shading parts of them. I could see it from the end of the hallway in the living room windows as well. The illusions were very distinct in the large bay window, where it almost looked like cobwebs had filled the corners. But too much area was affected, and the lines were much too coarse to be cobwebs. I realized I was seeing shadows cast from trees and branches in our yard by a very bright moon in the dark sky. The Light bounced off the white snow bed in the yard, making the morning brilliant. The brightness coming into the house created framed squares on the oak floor. Each is like a painting with a unique pattern of moonlight and shadows. It was simply amazing. From the kitchen window, I looked over the backyard. The shadows from the pine and birch trees were so vivid they were almost surreal. Even the birdbath, topped with its mound of snow, cloned its own image from the light. I turned to the window and noticed my silhouette cast over the kitchen floor, again framed in the moonlight. Walking room to room, my shadow was there, in every window I stood before as if it was following me. I began to question if I was awake or was I dreaming. The sign, the wind, the boiler, the pipes, my slippers touching the floor blended to create a symphony. I wanted to dance with so much music, but everyone was still fast asleep; I didn't have a partner. That's never stopped me before. It was all too much for me to try keeping my feet still. So I started softly singing with the orchestra, an old Cat Stevens song: "I'm being followed by a moon shadow. Moon shadow, moon shadow." I danced, but I was not alone. My own shadow became my partner, keeping perfectly n step with me. We danced our way toward the kitchen. Once I stepped out of the framed moonlight, my shadow left me, returning to the darkness. As I moved into each new frame, my partner rejoined me. "Leaping and hopping on a moon shadow. Moon shadow, moon shadow." I would make some oatmeal for breakfast. Opting not to disturb the magical darkness, I didn't turn any lights on. Without wearing my contacts, I would have to squint to set the timer on the microwave. I felt pretty proud of myself; Going to bed early, getting such a good rest through the night, and waking to a morning outpouring with serenity and solitude. I became curious just how much time I had until my alarm would go off and looked at the clock on the stove. The clock was wrong, but the microwave and coffee machine clocks read the same. Perhaps we had lost power for a while. I picked up my cell phone. The cell phone is independent of the power grid and always has the correct time. "Oh my! It really is 1:27 in the morning." There is something special about getting up, preparing to start your day, and then realizing you can go back to sleep for another three and a half hours. Not wanting to wake anyone, I tip-toed back to the bedroom. In the moonlight, I could see my wife's face. She was so beautiful and content. Our two cats, Salem and Eve, were fast asleep on her pillow, resting against the top of Melissa's head. I carefully climbed back into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. June, sleeping next to our bed, took a big breath, relaxing as she let the air flow back out from deep within her. I turned on my side, facing my wife. I held her hand, and she took a deep breath, Salem and Eve both started purring, and I smiled, "Cats. Cat Stevens." I gazed at my wife until I lulled myself back to sleep, softly singing in my mind, "I'm being followed by a moon shadow. Moon shadow, moon shadow."
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More Rottener1/11/2022 June and I were on our way to Massachusetts when I received a text from my daughter Annie, "How is your Wednesday?"
I replied, "Good. On my way to Masschusettes, which most people can't even spell, let alone point out on a map. Lol." I was laughing about my text, then re-read what I'd written. "Oh no!" I gasped, then quickly sent Annie another text, "Guess I should spell check myself before mouthing off. Bahahaha." (I had to write 'Bahahaha, as my flip phone doesn't send emojis or, obviously spell check.) Annie is a school teacher; surely, she would catch the typo. So, to prove I knew how to spell the state correctly, I fired off another text, "Massachusetts. M-A-S-S-A-C-H-U-S-E-T-T-S. Massachusetts. Would you like me to use it in a sentence?" Annie wrote back, "Hahahahaha, yeah, you'd better be careful about your spelling." (She had to spell out, 'Hahahahaha' because my flip phone doesn't get emojis either.) Although we were hundreds of miles apart, I knew we were sharing a good laugh about that. One of my blessings is my ability to travel around this great country; meet people in far-away regions, and communicate despite our language difference. Even though we may both be speaking English, the different dialects are most interesting. People often tell me Minnesota people talk funny, meaning they have an accent. Not so. Like everyone else, we spell our state with only one o; pronounced, Minnesoota, as if it had two long o's. The same is true with the word 'hoome' and others. When we first moved here, I would ask where something, or someplace was. They might answer, "A boot ten miles from here." It took me a while to understand that people were not referring to winter footwear when saying a boot. (Spelled, a-b-o-u-t) In other states around the country, I hear people pronouncing words differently, and sometimes they phrase a sentence differently than we did when living in Iowa. We've lived in Minnesota for seven years now, and I've still not adjusted to some terminology. For example, if a person drives a semi, I'd call them a truck driver; one who drives children to school is a bus driver. But, in Minnesota, people will say, "She drives bus, or he drives truck." And it could be me; a couple of months ago, I heard someone use these same terms in Oklahoma. Although I truly enjoy the different dialects around the country, I don't think I can ever get used to Minnesotans and northern Wisconsinites calling tater-tot casserole, tater-tot hotdish. It’s casserole (to me anyway). A big terminology difference I noticed involves carbonated beverages. In the mid-west, we call such a drink pop. Other parts of the country call it soda or cola. In the south, it's all coke. Years ago, at a café down south, I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke. I thought the waitress was poking fun at me when she asked, "What kind of coke do you want." I asked what kinds of coke they offered? "We have Coca-Cola, Pepsi coke, orange coke, strawberry coke, or lemon-lime coke (7-Up). We also have diet coke (TAB in the pink can; diet Coca-Cola didn't come out until the early eighties), and root beer." When I told her I just wanted a regular coke, she asked, "What flavor." I also enjoy the way people will spell and use a word the same but pronounce it differently. For example, this morning in the mail, I received a gift of handmade pecan pralines from a friend in Texas. I know of at least two ways to say the word pecan and four ways to pronounce pralines; one must say it correctly according to the region you’re in, lest ye be labeled a tourist. Regional terms are also fun; in some areas, 'you guys' refers to a group of people regardless of gender. If I understand southern English correctly, y'all can mean one person, or two people. But when addressing a group, a southerner will say, all y'alls. Last week in Massachusetts, I overheard a conversation among a group of men having coffee in a restaurant. The man who caught my attention had an accent; I would guess he was from New Jersey. He kept referring to an adomaduh. It made no sense to me, so I listened more keenly. I swear it sounded like he was trying to say "Mah-na Mah-na." Do you remember the Sesame Street Character Mahna Mahna? He was a purple Muppet with the wild orange hair that wore a fuzzy green tunic and yellow sunglasses. The only words he ever said were his name. He sang a song with the two pink Snowths with long eyelashes, horns, and yellow lips? I thought the guy was saying his name, Mahna Mahna. As the man in the cafe continued talking, I figured out he was talking about a crooked car dealer. "It's just wrong when someone tampas with an adomaduh." When I got up to leave, I stopped at the man's table and asked if he was talking about an odometer. "That's what I said. The crook tampas with adomaduhs." I started laughing, but I was the only one, so I awkwardly exited stage left and out to my car. Driving the rest of the day, I kept singing, "Mahna Mahna. Do doo be-do-do. Mahna Mahna. Do do-do do. Although I could not get that song out of my head for the life of me, I do love the various accents, dialects, and terminology used around America. But, let's be honest, if we all spoke proper English as it was initially written, life would be far less exciting. After the road trip to Massachusetts, it was good to be back home where everyone speaks a language I understand. I brought a load from the car into the house while June ran out into the yard. Our black cat Edgar Allan, standing on the back of the couch next to the front door, gave me a head butt and greeted me. "Did you bring that rotten dog home with you," he asked? Now, Melissa and I will sometimes refer to them as "that rotten dog" or "that rotten cat." But only in a loving manner when one of them has done something naughty or mischievous. I set down the bags that I was carrying. "Edgar, you are not allowed to call June a rotten dog. That term is reserved for people use only. Besides, June is not a rotten dog; you, on the other hand, can certainly be a rotten cat," I said as I gave him a scratch behind the ears. I had a good laugh about that, but I was the only one laughing. Edgar defended himself, "Yeah, but June is more rottener than me." "Edgar, your grammar is atrocious in so many ways, in any region…and you call yourself Edgar Allan." I shook my head, laughing, but I was the only one laughing, so I went outside. So, there I was, correcting the grammar used by a cat; me – the same guy who misspelled 'Massachusettes' while poking fun at people who can’t spell Massachusetts.
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The 1906 Ellington12/23/2021 I went to an estate auction just to see what was there. It was July, and it was hot. A couple of items interested me, but I wasn't sure I wanted to wait for them to come up for bid in the heat. So, I went inside the house to see what was there, but mostly I was hoping to find some air conditioning to escape the hot weather.
I fell in love the very moment I saw it on the east wall in the living room. I knew it would probably sell cheap because people don't want these big old things. Most folks consider them an albatross; they just want to buy the bench or the stool. So, I decided to stay and wait for it. A few hours later, the auctioneer said, "What we have here is an antique piano and bench. We'll be selling them separately, starting with the bench. Whoever buys the bench can have the piano if they want it; if not, we'll sell the piano next." The piano was gorgeous, an antique upright-grand. The unique rounded corners made of dark quarter-sawn oak, the wood carvings on the sheet music boards, the sculpted legs, and hand-carved beading on the edges made this a breathtaking piano. The center keys had been replaced with modern plastic, but the original ivory keys remained on high and low notes. The piano bench was nothing special; a late sixties piece of furniture that did not match the piano. Jim, the auctioneer, asked, "Who'll give me two hundred to open." Auctioneer's always start high. He chanted a few seconds, then asked for one hundred. A man called out a bid of two dollars and fifty cents. "We've got two and a half; who'll give me five?" I raised my hand. The other bidder rapidly went seven-fifty; I raised my hand for ten. He took twelve and a half, and I nodded my head for fifteen. The other man bidding, looked at me and said something obscene, then walked away; it shocked me that he said it. No one else was bidding; Jim paused his auction cry, glanced over the crowd, then announced, "Sold for fifteen dollars," I held up my card, "to number one-seventeen." Then he addressed me, "Tom, do you want the piano or just the bench?" I laughed; Jim knows me, "All I wanted was the piano, but I'll take both." The other man who was bidding approached me, asking if I wanted to sell the bench. "Sure, twenty-five bucks," I said with a smug tone. I could tell he was annoyed with me, "You only paid fifteen." "Yeah," I replied, "but then you said what you said to me, and if that isn't worth ten bucks, I don't know what is." The man glared at me briefly, then repeated his rude comment. "The price just went up to fifty," I said to him as he turned away; in the spirit of a live auction, I added, "Do I hear more?" I bought several cool items that day – the piano was the prized treasure among them. When I got home, I told my wife I had purchased a baker's cabinet, some other things and then told her about the piano. "It's going to look great with that antique piano bench you bought in Winona." She asked where I would store it since we were still finishing the remodeling of our home. "Oh yeah," I casually mentioned, "I bought the house, too. I'll keep it there for now." (That's another story that didn't end as well.) The piano sat in the house for a few months; I wanted to move it to our home, ready to play before Christmas. So, I called a man named Paul Kennedy, a piano tuner. I was told Paul was a real enthusiast for old pianos. "I'll come right over," he said. I explained the house didn't have any utilities connected, and it was dark. "I have a flashlight on my phone," he said, determined to come that evening, "I can be there in ten minutes." "You better give me thirty minutes," I told him and hung up the phone. When I got to the house, Paul was pacing on the front porch. After a brief introduction, I unlocked the door. Paul rushed right in to look at the piano. "Holy cow, this is amazing," were his first words. He ran his hands over the top and the sides. "I can't believe this," he said, then opened the keyboard and played a few notes. "It's not far out of tune," he said, then pulled the piano forward to look at the soundboard, "Do you have any idea how cool it is to find this complete? I usually find pianos like this in pieces in boxes and baskets." Now, I was in love with this piano at the very first sight, but Paul's excitement made my affection seem like puppy love. "You need to get this moved into a warm space; the cold, dry air isn't good for it," Paul said. He wrote down a few notes, including the serial number, and promised to be in touch soon. Less than an hour passed when I received a call from Paul. I barely said hello, when he started, "Your piano is a 1906 Ellington, upright grand. Ellington is an upscale piano built by Baldwin in Chicago…." Paul finally took a breath and asked, "Can I come to see it again in the daylight on Thursday." Of course, I agreed and told him to call first. By Thursday, the piano had already been moved into our house, having a couple of days to acclimate. Paul sat down and started playing lightly. "It's really held its tune well." As he played, I could see the dust floating in the sunlight coming through the front windows. Finally, he stood up, "Can I ask what you paid for the piano?" "I gave fifteen dollars for the bench; the piano was free," I told him. "This piano, restored, is worth about twenty-six thousand dollars on the west coast when sold by a reputable dealer." Paul handed me a card, "This is a friend of mine; he's a collector and a dealer. He'll give you six thousand for it, sight unseen, based on what I've told him – but now that I've seen it in the daylight, he'll give you at least eight." "The piano isn't for sale," I told him, "It has a history here in Ottumwa, and I'm going to keep it." Then I told Paul I wanted him to clean it up and tune it. It was terribly dusty inside. Paul made a clicking noise and pointed at me, "That's what I wanted to hear." Before I knew it, he removed the movement and keyboard from the piano cabinet and carried them out to his car. "Wait a minute," I said with concern. "How much is this going to cost me?" Paul just laughed, "It'll be very reasonable. Trust me; I am more interested in seeing this Ellington play again than a paycheck. I'll be back on Monday – say three in the afternoon?" Paul returned on Monday bringing in the keyboard first; he had removed the white plastic tops from the center keys and replaced them with natural ivory from other antique pianos he'd collected for parts. Then he pulled the toe board, got down on his hands and knees, and started cleaning with tiny brushes and a vacuum. When he finished cleaning, he reassembled the piano, sat on the bench, and began to strike keys. Next, he used a tool to turn pegs, tuning the piano. Then, when he finished, Paul started playing the piano with enthusiasm and spirit – It was magnificent! When I remodeled our house, I removed all the carpet and refinished the hardwood floors. Any floors that weren't wooden were ceramic tile. The entire house became part of the instrument with all the hard floors. The sound resonated from room to room; it was music unlike any I'd ever heard from a piano before. I was absolutely in awe at the sound and the tone of this piano that was over one hundred years old. Then I told Paul some of the Ellington's history. "Delilah was the name of the lady who owned the piano. I talked to her sister, Dorothea, who lived next door, and she told me a lot of stories: "It's a fabulous instrument, an upright grand, you know." I smiled and continued listening. "The piano came from the Ottumwa Opera House; they bought it new. Then, in the early twenties, they traded it in for a full-sized grand piano at that music store next to the South Side Drug. Dad bought the piano, used, for Delilah to learn to play. She was pretty young then. “The piano company delivered it and set it up on the west wall. Dad insisted the piano be kept perfectly tuned, so he had the tuner come by once a month to check it. Everyone in our family was a musician, so when Dad saw the tuner walking down the sidewalk with his case, he called for Mom and us girls to come to the living room. A few neighbors and friends would see him coming, and they came to the house with their instruments too. After the tuner looked over the piano, we all started playing. It became a regular event for people to gather at our house on Sunday evening for a music jam once a month. Other people came just to listen. The piano never seemed to need much tuning; we figured Dad just wanted folks to get together for the music. I think the piano tuner wanted the same thing because he never charged Dad to tune the piano. "Several years back, I was over visiting Delilah; she said to me, 'help me move this piano to the other side of the room.' I told her I would not; I said, 'Dad had them put that piano on the west wall. It's been there for over eighty-five years, and that's where it's going to stay.' Well, a while later, I was back at the house, and I'll be darned if that piano hadn't been moved to the east wall. So I asked Delilah, 'who moved that for you.' I kept a close watch on my sister. I didn't see anyone going in or out of her house. Finally, Delilah told me she moved it herself, a few inches at a time until it was on the east wall. Can you imagine that? That woman, at ninety-one years old, moved that piano across the rug no less until it was where she wanted it." Dorothea's eyes were welling, and she changed her tone of voice, "Well, I suppose that's just stubbornness for ya." She went on to say, "Dad built that house in 1917 – my sister and I were just babies when we moved in. I suppose Delilah was about six years old when Dad bought the piano." Dorothea paused as she reminisced. "She lived there her whole life and never did marry; that piano was her love." Her eyes were welling up thinking about her sister; Dorothea said, "You best be going now; I need to fix some supper." When Paul had finished tuning and playing the piano, he stood up, motioning for me to take the bench, "Sit down, play it; tell me what you think." I blushed, "I don't play the piano; I always wanted to, but I don't." "Oh, your wife plays?" I told him she did not. "Do your kids play?" I said they do not. Paul seemed confused, "If no one in your family plays, why do you want a piano?" "Because I like to cook," I answered, leaving Paul more baffled. "How do you cook with a piano?" "I don't cook with the piano," I replied. "I cook a nice meal and invite people who can play to come to dinner. Then, when we've finished eating, I hand them a ticket and tell them, 'Pay or play – nobody eats for free.'" We shared a good laugh about that. We said our farewells, and Paul went on his way. One day, I decided to go through the piano bench. I knew there was some sheet music and such in there; I wanted to clean it out and probably get rid of the bench. I found several pieces of music that Delilah had composed. "Maybe I'll keep these with the piano," I thought. Next, I found a couple of letters addressed to Delilah from John; each letter had a military return address. I opened the first letter; it was handwritten: "My dear, sweet Delilah…." My heart melted at the greeting. The letter went on; "I tested out in the military, so they'll be teaching me a trade. When I get home from the war, I'll have a skill, so I can get a good job to provide for you, if you’ll marry me one day, and start a family." His letters were the sweetest love letters I'd ever read. I took the letter to Dorothea, asking if she wanted them. "No, they should stay with the piano." Maybe she had seen the letters before. She went on to tell me, "Johnny never came home from Germany. Delilah never married, never even courted. The piano would be my sister's only love for the rest of her life." The story moved me very much; enough to go home and start planning. I called a friend of mine, a wonderfully talented pianist, to invite him and his wife, Marta, to a dinner party. I told Michael, "Be sure to bring cash or a good variety of sheet music to play; nobody eats free around here." I also invited Dorothea, arranging to pick her up and drive her back home. She seemed excited to come for dinner and hear the piano being played again. I was looking forward to hearing more of her stories. The day before our dinner, Dorothea called me, "I'm afraid I can't make it tomorrow evening." I offered to postpone the event for her, but she declined. "I just can't..." she paused. "I just can't hear it played by anyone else. I'm sorry." That was the last time I spoke to Dorothea. I tried several times to call her but only got the answering machine. Dorothea passed away within a few years of her sister. It was a difficult decision, but we left the piano in Ottumwa when Melissa and I moved to the north shore. We sold it to a young man who had a sincere interest in Ottumwa and the area's history. With his strong appreciation for the piano and its history, we were confident we left the piano with the right person. Every time I look at a picture of the Ellington, I recall all of the love stories it holds. The love from their dad, the piano tuner, the neighbors, and friends. I feel the love between Dorothea and he sister, Delilah. I feel the love and hope in Johnny's letters, and I share Delilah's pain when Johnny didn't return from the war. I understand her true passion for the piano that became her lifetime love. I also feel the love, joy, and appreciation of the young man who owns it now. For well over one hundred years, every note of every song played on that piano has entertained and comforted many. There is no doubt in my mind it will continue to do so for another hundred years.
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June and Sully12/7/2021 "My gosh, how old is she? Isn't she nine or ten?" my cousin Sarah guessed in awe.
I tossed the ball again, "She's eleven and a half," I replied as June emerged victoriously from the stairwell with Sully in close pursuit. She set the ball, covered with dog slobber, in my hand. "Woof, woof," June spoke with excitement, "Throw the ball again, Dad, I'm ready" I tossed the ball down the stairwell to the lower level of the house. June and Sully both took off chasing the ball; June was two full strides in the lead. This game of catch had been going on for nearly four hours, with only short breaks. Sarah shook her head, "I think June is wearing Sully out." Sully is a two-and-a-half-year-old, handsome Golden Retriever. His picture-perfect appearance is typical of his breed. He has those big, brown puppy dog eyes that will melt your heart. His soft reddish-brown coat is wavy and features stylish cowlicks. Whisps of longer blonde hair trail on each of his lanky legs, flowing down to his toes. When Sully wags his tail, the longer hair flows like the groomed mane of a show horse, cantering through the breeze. Sully stands half again taller than June; he weighs thirty pounds more and is physically fit. June, nine years his senior, still carries the girlish figure of her youth; she refuses to act like a dog in her senior years. Age consideration aside, the two dogs get along well. June will often yield way to the larger canine; not because of the size difference; June just plays smarter. You might say she chooses her battles wisely - unless there's a tennis ball involved. Both dogs love to chase and catch the ball and become quite competitive when the yellow fuzzy sphere appears. I threw the ball down the stairs again, June took off in the lead, Sully followed close behind. June was just getting ready to start down the steps. Trying to turn the corner while running, Sully slipped on the ceramic tile floor. He went sliding by, feet first, like a baseball player trying to beat the ball to home plate. Sully crashed into June's rump as he passed. June was launched down the steps like the runner who crashed into the catcher. She tumbled for a bit before regaining her footing. Sully quickly caught up, and the two charged across the family room. One of the dogs bumped the ball with their nose. The ball ricocheted off the stone fireplace and bounced down another set of steps going to the lowest level in the house. Sully was in the lead but slammed on his brakes, stopping short, allowing June to fly by, down the steps. June returned to the living room with the ball. At the top of those steps was a white round disc on the floor; I thought it was a smoke detector that had been removed for some reason. My cousin Andy explained, "The cat food dish is down there, and he'll clean it out every chance he gets. If Sully gets too close to the disc, he gets a little tickle from his collar, so he doesn't go near those steps." I learn new things every day. That also explains the smoke detector on top of the cat box upstairs; all this time, I thought their cats must eat some bad things if Andy felt it necessary to mount a smoke detector on the litter box. Although June came upstairs with the ball, Sully had the ball a minute later. He held it between his teeth, making a lump under his lip; he looked like a baseball pitcher with a big wad of chew tucked in his cheek. June turned to me with despair, "Sully has my ball." "Well, how did he get it from you?" I explained like a coach, "You have to protect the ball, cover it up; you can't let your opponent take it away like that. It's his ball now; possession is everything in any game using a ball." Sully laid down, gnawing on the ball, unwilling to give it up. Sully is bigger, but June plays smarter. What she did next amazed me! While Sully laid with the ball in his mouth, June went to his pile, bringing me one of Sully's favorite toys. I tossed the object into the dining room. June flinched, stomping her front feet as if she was going for the toy. Sully dropped the ball and ran to retrieve the toy before June got there. As soon as he ran, June calmly walked over, picked up the tennis ball, bringing it to me. I laughed but was indeed amazed at her thought process. At first, I thought June's ploy was just coincidental until she did it again and again! The next time June baited Sully, Sarah also witnessed it. "Come on, Sully! June is bluffing for Pete's sake, and you fall for it every time!" Sarah shook her head, "Sully, you’re so gullible." I was proud of my crafty little girl. The following day, June and Sully were looking at my computer screen while I went for a refill of coffee. I had started writing a story titled 'June and Sully.' "Why is your name listed first," Sully demanded to know? June pushed a few keys on the laptop, bringing up a different page I had opened. "Look here, Sully," June explained, pointing her paw at the screen. "According to the American Kennel Club, Golden Retrievers are the fourth smartest breed of dogs. Do you know which is the smartest?" June pressed another key, scrolling the screen, "It says here, Border Collies are the smartest breed." June gloated to her playmate, "That's why my name is listed first." June went to find a ball; Sully climbed on the couch to nap in the warm sunlight coming through the front window. Watching this exchange between the dogs, I said, "June, that's not exactly correct." "I know," June said, smiling, "You obviously listed the names in alphabetical order." Then she presented a tennis ball covered with dog slobber, "Can you throw this for me, Dad?" |