​There’s on old saying; When in Rome, do as the Romans. I have not been to Rome, but I have been to Canada many times. That concept applies to all countries – not just Rome.
 
Canada and America are much alike. We both drive on the right-hand side of the road and slow traffic should stay in the right lane, except to pass. Other things are similar, but a little different.
 
We both like doughnuts. In the U.S. we have Dunkin Donuts.  Canada has Tim Horton’s.  In the states one can buy almost anything at Walmart, while up north Canadian Tire has it all. On either side of the border a big yellow M is a burger joint and the long-haired lady wearing a crown, inside the green circle is coffee.
 
Language can be a barrier in some parts of Canada, but I do okay understanding a little French. When visiting our friends to the nord, knowing your directions is a good idea: nord is north, sud is south.  Quest will take you west, and est is the same as our east – it’s just missing an a, which surprises me, in a country that uses the A so frequently, eh?
 
Other common French words I understand are overt, which means open. Aret is stop. Reduced speeds will debut (begin) ahead and resume to normal at the fin (end) of a school zone. Other words and terms can be figured out if you just think about it. Speed Measuring Warning Devices Are Prohibited. (No radar detectors.)  Most Canadian’s speak English. I know I’m in a French speaking area when I’m greeted, “Bonjour Monsieur.”  
 
Pictures on highway signs are helpful and mean the same in both countries. A bed with a roof is a motel. A fork and knife will lead you to restaurants and a pump means you can buy petro at the next exit. 
 
I had to brush up on my metric conversion skills when I started traveling to Canada.  I still get a little excited to see gasoline (petro) at just $1.26 but the thrill quickly diminishes when I remember, that’s per liter, or, $4.77 per gallon, which seems really expensive until you calculate the US/Canadian currency exchange rate, then it’s only $3.57 which is still higher, but not as bad as it seemed. Oh my! All those conversions combined with the extreme run-on sentence, just gave me a headache!
 
An American traveling in Canada should be aware of our differences. For example, in the United States, OPP is a 90’s rap song. It means Other People’s Property. In Canada, OPP is the Ontario Provincial Police, who will come after you if you have OPP in your possession! The OPP will also be there should you fail to correctly convert miles, to kilometers-per-hour.
 
Both our state troopers and OPP officers are nice people, so long as you stay on the right side of the law. I’ve learned, a heavy foot in America is also a heavy foot in Canada and both law enforcements agencies are on the lookout for speeders.
 
The other day I was entering Sarnia, Ontario, Canada, from Port Huron, Michigan. Traffic was heavy. I was in the righthand lane pulling my Scamp trailer.  Coming over the tall Blue Water Bridge that spans the St. Clair River below, I could see the lines were long at the border crossing. I was trying to read the overhead signs to see if there was a special lane for RV’s and campers.
 
The far-right sign read, Trucks. The lane I was in said, Nexus and the rest of the lanes were open to all traffic. Not knowing what Nexus means, I had my signal on, trying to merge left.  Every car inched up closer to the vehicle in front of them and no one was going to let me move over. Getting closer to the booths, I finally just stopped, waiting for an opportunity to merge left, but the impatient driver behind, laid on his horn and wasn’t going to let up until I started moving.
 
There was a pickup pulling a camper and another towing a boat and several cars ahead of me. A motorhome was at the head of the line, so I assumed I was okay to be in this lane with my Scamp. This line was moving faster than the others, still uncertain, I kept trying to move to the left until I reached the concrete barrier dividing the lanes.
 
I pulled to the booth with my driver’s license in my extended hand. They always want your ID first. Ignoring my ID, with a monotone voice, the officer asked, “What’s your plate number?”
 
“My plate number?” I repeated, never being asked that before.
 
“Yes. Your license plate number. What is it?” He asked.
 
“I don’t know it right off hand. Can I get out of my car to read it?”
 
He seemed perturbed at my question, “It’s on your vehicle registration.”
 
I shuffled through the glove box but couldn’t find the registration. I looked in the center console, the side door pockets and sun visors, then confessed, “I can’t seem to find it.”
 
“Give me your Nexus card.” He said.
 
Feeling ignorant, I answered, “I have no idea what a Nexus card is.”
 
“You’re not a Nexus member?” He snapped in disbelief. Moving from perturbed to the edge of angry, he said, “Yeah, get your plate number.” He snatched my license from my hand and hastily slid his window shut as if slamming the door in my face.
 
I got out to read the number on my license plate.  I kept repeating it until I got back in the car, grabbed a pen and quickly wrote the number on the palm of my hand. When he opened his window, I read the plate number to him. He was irritated, “What are you doing in this lane?” I explained I was trying to move over and…  Disinterested in my answer, he interrupted me, “It’s marked halfway out the bridge!”
 
“I know.” I said, “I saw the signs. I didn’t know what Nexus meant and I was trying to move left but as you can see, traffic is backed up, bumper to bumper and no one would let me move over.” Then I asked, “Is there someplace I can I turn around and go back to another lane.”
 
“No! You cannot turn around.” It seemed he thought I was trying to pull something over on him. He demanded, “Why were you even in the right lane to begin with?”
 
Becoming annoyed with his rude attitude, I took a deep breath to stay calm before answering him. “Because U.S. rules call for trucks and slower vehicles to stay in the right lane.  Since everything behind me is still the United States, I was simply following U.S. law and IF you allow me to pass through, I intend to follow the Canadian laws on the other side to the best of my ability.” 
 
The man glared at me. I had much more to say to him but quickly considered my dog, June. Her health papers and rabies vaccination documents were in the same plastic sleeve with my vehicle registration and proof of insurance - lost. I was in no position to get smart or challenge him at this point.
 
He handed me a card upon which he had checked several boxes.  “Take this to the building over there.” I asked if I would need to pay a fine or something there. “Yep.” He seemed to answer with delight. “You’ll have to see an immigration officer. They’ll tell you how much the fine is and next time, stay out of the Nexus line!”
 
IMMIGRATION?  Good Lord! This was starting to sound serious. I pulled ahead having visions of spending the next 20 years in a Canadian prison.
 
At the next building, two officers directed me where to park. The younger one greeted me, then asked why I was sent there. When I handed him the card and explained briefly what happened, he asked, “Why were you in the Nexus lane?” I started to explain, but he cut me off. “You’re going to have to see an immigration officer.” He saw June and said “You can’t take your dog in the building.” He pointed to a small kennel that looked like a jail cell. “Leash your dog and go put it in the cage.”
 
I was concerned for June. I was the one who messed up. There was no need to send her to the cage. “Can I leave her in my car? She’d be much more comfortable in here.”
 
“It’s too hot to leave a dog in a car,” he said, “she has to go to the cage.”
 
It wasn’t that hot out and we were parked under a canopy, completely out of the sun. “I can leave the air conditioner on for her.” I was almost pleading. I didn’t want June going to jail.
 
He was adamant, “You can’t leave your car running unattended. She has to go to the cage.” 
 
The second officer stepped up. He was more compassionate, sensing my worry. “If you leave your car running, do you have a way to lock the doors and get back in?” I assured him I did, presenting my spare key. “Okay, go ahead and lock it up. She can stay in the car while you’re inside.”  Completely relieved, I thanked him and went into the building.
 
I stood line waiting my turn.  Without looking up, the agent called out, “Next.”  I walked to his window and handed him the citation card.  “What’d you do?” He took the paper, still not looking at me.
 
“Apparently I went through the wrong line.” I answered.
 
He looked at the card, then looked up at me. “Why were you in the Nexus lane?” I explained again, telling him I didn’t know what Nexus meant. “Have you been to Canada before?” I told him I had been there many times. “And you don’t know what Nexus is?”
 
“I’ve only been through at Port Huron a couple of times. Normally I enter at Grand Portage, Minnesota, near Thunder Bay.  I’ve never noticed a Nexus lane there.” I told him.
 
“Nexus is at every point of entry. Go to the waiting area until your name is called.”
 
In the waiting area there were several people.  I’ve never been to jail before but I could imagine this is what it felt like in a holding cell at the county pokey.  I struck up conversation with another inmate - a young man, “What are you in for?” I asked. His name was Jeremy.
 
Jeremy went through the Nexus lane too, not knowing what it was. He said, “When they saw my Airforce ID, they told me to report to immigration.” He expressed his frustration saying, “I’m about to just turn my truck around and go back to the States. I don’t need this BS.” I suggested he not do that. “Why? What can they do if I decide to turn around?”
 
I explained, “Once sent to this building, if you drive away, they’ll assume you did something illegal and they will come after you. If you get into a rift with Canadian Immigration, I got a hunch the Airforce isn’t going to be happy when you return from leave.”  He agreed.
 
Our attention was diverted when four officers wearing protective gear marched out the front door. A few moments later, a fifth officer went rushing by with a rather enthusiastic canine wearing a badge.  I hoped and prayed they weren’t going near my car with their dog – June would go berserk! 
 
I couldn’t tell where they went, but a female officer came back to the waiting area. “Who left a dog outside in their vehicle? We’re trying to work our drug dog and your dog is distracting her.” Oh my gosh!
 
My heart raced instantly. This was getting worse by the minute and I didn’t have June’s papers with me.  Jeremy and I responded simultaneously. “In the white Subaru?”  “In the red truck?”
 
“The dog in the red truck is trying to jump out the window. You’re interfering with an official border patrol search. You need to restrain your animal – now!” She was serious and forceful.  Jeremy went outside with the officer.  Another lady got my attention and waved for me to come to a window where she was. Saying something in French I didn’t understand, she pulled my arm moving me to a place where I could see what was going on. I was grateful and stupidly said, “Gracias.”
 
From the window, I could see the officer escorting Jeremy to put his dog in the cage.  Sitting in my driver’s seat, June was intensely watching the commotion, but not barking at all. “Good girl June Bug.” I whispered, “look, but do not bark!” I was very proud of her.
 
The drug dog and handler made circles around a dark blue Dodge Caravan. The dog was very curious about the open tailgate.  Officers removed luggage from the van, setting it on the ground.  The dog sniffed a couple bags, then started pawing at one.  An officer opened the bag, looking inside.  The handler pulled his dog back and began petting her with praise, then gave her a treat or something from his shirt pocket.
 
I too praised the canine for a job well done. I wanted to watch the bust playout, but a voice called, “Thomas?  Thomas Palen.”
 
At the window the interrogation began. “Why did you try to go through the Nexus lane?” I explained I had no idea what the Nexus lane is.  He explained, “It’s an express lane. You have to be pre-qualified with a background check and have a currently paid-up membership.” He went on to say, “Sometimes people will try to bring things into Canada that they shouldn’t. They think they’ll get right through in the Nexus lane, but our officers are very well trained to watch for such people.”
 
Then came a barrage of questions: Why were you in the right lane? Do you have any marijuana with you?  Have you been to Canada before? Why are you coming to Canada today? Do you plan to buy any marijuana in Canada today? How long will you be here? Do you have cash amounting to more than $10,000 Canadian? Do you smoke marijuana? Any guns, alcohol, or drugs, including marijuana? Have you ever smoked marijuana?  I answered all his questions.
 
He paused, “Have you ever been arrested before.” I assured him I had not. “If I detain you to do a background check, will your answers prove to be true?” I told him they would. He looked me in the eye, “Are you telling me the truth?”
 
I raised my right hand, “The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.” He cracked a smile and asked why I said that. “Because they always say that on Judge Judy and she’s a Canadian so I figured it was the appropriate thing to say.” I actually got a little chuckle out of him over that.
 
“Is she Canadian?” He inquired.
 
I shrugged my shoulders, “I think so; maybe; I thought she was; I don’t really know.”  (She’s not, she’s from New York)
 
He pounded my citation with a big red rubber stamp, scribbled something on it, then tossed it in a small white basket to the side. “I’m not going to fine you today, but you better start paying attention to the information signs and watch your speed. The OPP will be watching it too.”  He handed back my license, “You’re free to go.”
 
I thanked him and walked away, wondering why Other People’s Property would be watching my speed. Then I remembered I was now in Canada. The Ontario Provincial Police would be watching my speed.
 
“Express lane my foot,” I grumbled walking to my car.  Excitement and anxiety made the time pass quickly, but I was detained for just under one hour.
 
June and I both avoided a jail stay and I learned a lesson: if you don’t know what a word means, you better find out before proceeding. I overted my car door and debuted our journey across Canada.
 
Leaving the entry point, I reminded June, we all have to follow the rules. “When in Rome, do as the Romans and when in Canada? Well, do as the…French?” We shared a good laugh over that.  I set the cruise control at 100 kilometers per hour. With a full tank of petro, we headed est on the 402 toward Niagara Falls.

Every now and then you see or hear something so far from being normal (whatever normal may be) that it causes you to say: “That’s messed up.”
 
The kids were coming for the Fourth of July weekend. The house was in good shape, but there were a few things I wanted to do before they arrived.  Even when the house is clean, I feel like I should clean it again before company arrives. At times I get distracted, or just forget things, then end up rushing to finish my tasks at the last minute. Determined that wouldn’t happen this time, I did something I doubt any man has ever done in the history of household preparation – I made a list.
 
The problem was, I had six days. Some of the tasks couldn’t be done yet. If I mowed the grass today, it might need to be cut again by Wednesday. I couldn’t go shopping yet, lest some of the groceries would no longer be fresh when the kids arrived. Waiting until Monday to start working on my list seemed the logical thing to do.
 
Monday came and I wanted to get started, but I needed to finish some writing I was doing.  Just like that, it was afternoon, then evening and time to make dinner.  Not to worry, I still had two days to get everything done - well, almost two days.
 
Tuesday came. I was up early, ready to start on the list. Oops, I forgot about an appointment in Duluth to have my car serviced and I needed a haircut.  There was still no rush. My oil change was scheduled at eight a.m. Afterwards I would get my haircut and be home well before noon to get started on the list. 
 
I ran a couple other errands while in Duluth then stopped in Two Harbors on my way home to do my grocery shopping. I forgot to get Hershey’s Chocolate Bars for s’mores, but I could get them at the Holiday gas station in Beaver Bay. I still forgot them. I finally got home a little past noon, or so I thought. I looked at the clock. “3:49 p.m.? That’s messed up.” I said out loud, knowing there was no way it could that late. I checked a second clock. 3:52 p.m.  Humph.
 
I was getting a little concerned, but not worried - yet. I still had 24 hours to get my chores done – probably more because I knew our daughters wouldn’t get out of Waterloo, Iowa on schedule which would give me extra time.  I figured at best they would be on the road at 3 or 4 pm, arriving between 11 pm and midnight.  I stripped the guest bedroom and master bedroom sheets and started a load of laundry. 
 
While the laundry was in the washer, I could check Facebook and a couple items I was watching on eBay. A couple new, similar items had been posted. I checked them out and just like that it was after eight p.m. I shook my head, looking at the clock, “That’s messed up.” I said it as if this was all the clock’s fault.  No problem. I could still get some work in that night. “I’ll go to bed early and get up at 6 a.m. and have all day tomorrow to get things done.” 
 
I put the sheets in the dryer and started a load of clothes in the washer. In the kitchen I grabbed my list, drawing a line through item four; wash bedding, make the beds. “First thing checked off - I’ve got this.” Looking over the list, I smiled, drawing another line though item one: get groceries.  Feeling confident I boasted, “I’m so far ahead of schedule…” 
 
While the sheets were in the dryer, I turned on the TV then laid on the couch to watch an episode of M*A*S*H.  The opening theme was playing and just like that, my alarm was going off. Why did I have an alarm set for the late night?
 
Confused, I rubbed my eyes then looked at the screen on my cell phone. 6:40 a.m.? “That’s messed up,” I said, then shuffled to the kitchen to double check the time. The green LED digits on the stove read 6:40; the microwave clock concurred.  Resetting my alarm for 7:30, I went back to lay down. After hitting snooze multiple times, I rolled off the couch at 8:20 a.m.  June and Edgar were looking at me. “Alright guys, up and at ‘em. We’ve got a lot to do today.”
 
Edgar immediately jumped on the couch, curling up on the center cushion to claim the warm spot I left.  June was standing in front of the couch, eyeballing the cushion to the right of the cat. I went down to the basement and returned with a laundry basket of fresh linens.  
 
Edgar was sprawled out on the couch, sleeping on his side. To make certain there was no room for the dog, he had his front paws extended way out beyond his head, and his long tail stretched toward the other end. June was sleeping on the floor in front of the couch. I just shook my head and said, “That’s messed up, Edgar.” 
 
"Come on June, let's go make the bed.” I said carrying my basket to the guest bedroom. June followed close behind. Edgar came flying down the hallway, into the bedroom, one hopped the bed and crash landed into his window hammock. Pulling one suction cup loose from the glass, the corner of the cat bed dropped. Edgar started to fall through but caught the fabric with his front claws and pulled himself back up. June watched it all, saying, “That’s messed up, Edgar.”
 
Edgar laid in the hammock, June sat on the floor, both watching me make the bed. When I was done, June and I started back for the living room.  Edgar launched from the hammock like a steel ball being shot from a cannon. He one hopped across the smoothed bedspread on top of the bed to the floor. Nearly running over us as he passed, he went tearing down the hallway. In the living room, he jumped up and sprawled out in the middle of the couch making sure there was no room for the dog. June looked at him then surrendered to lay down on the floor. “That’s messed up, Edgar,” I said. That cat is smart - too smart. One day June's going to get even!
 
I went to start on the kitchen but remembered I hadn’t made the bed in the master bedroom. I went back to do that, then returned to the kitchen to look at my list. Edgar was on the counter, sitting on my paper. “Edgar, move. I need that paper,” I said.
“What is it,” he asked.
“It’s my list of things of things to do,” I answered.
“That doesn’t look like Mom’s handwriting,” Edgar noted.
“That’s because I wrote the list,” I explained.
Edgar looked at me, questioning with disbelief, “You wrote your own ‘honey-do’ list?” He shook his head, “That’s messed up, dude.” 
 
I gave him a glare, “It’s not a honey-do list, It’s my own to-do list.”  Edgar snickered until I shooed him off the counter. 
 
With the bedding washed and the beds now made, I drew another line through item four. It felt like real progress to mark another, well actually, the first completed task off the list. Reviewing the list, I pointed my finger to item seven: the kitchen. Being my favorite room, I find it fun to put a shine on the countertops, arranging and rearranging things so they’re just right.  I got side tracked thinking about what meals I would cook on which nights and lost track of time. Everything in the kitchen was done but I wanted to mop the floor again, which I planned to do when I mopped the rest of the hardwood floors in the house. 
 
About 3:00 I got a text message. I knew it would be from one of the girls letting me know they would be on the road within an hour or so. It was from my daughter, Annie: “We got on the road at 12:30. Just finished lunch. With gas stops, we should be there about 8:00.:
 
What? Now I was concerned, worried and a little agitated. I hadn’t even mowed the lawn yet. How on earth could they be on the road ahead of schedule? That’s messed up!
 
The floors in the house looked good; I had cleaned them just a few days before, but I wanted to hit them again. It just seems like the thing to do with company coming.  I picked up my pace vacuuming the oak floors, then filled my mop bucket with warm water.  I like to use a little Murphy’s Soap Oil for the hardwood floors, and Pine-sol cleaner for the kitchen and bathrooms.  I mopped all the floors in the house.  The day was warm and humid. I was sweating and wondered how the floors would possibly dry in this humidity. 
 
Melissa walked in the door around 4:30. Rubbing her arms while walking to the hallway, she asked, “Why is it so cold in here?” Looking at the thermostat, she exclaimed, “60 degrees? Why do you have the air conditioner set at 60?” 
 
I answered quite smartly, “Because the air conditioner is a dehumidifier and I’m using it to dry the floors.” Then added, “I also have all the ceiling fans turned on high to help circulate the air.” That created a wind chill inside the house.
 
She shook her head. Pulling her light sweater closed for warmth. She repeated, “60 degrees?” Although she didn’t say it, I could tell she was thinking: that’s messed up. With the floors drying the only thing left to do was mow the lawn. 
 
I sat in the seat of the John Deere lawn tractor and fired up the motor. After letting it warm up for a bit, I started to back up. As the tractor started to roll, a bunny ran out from under the mower deck. I said, “That’s messed up rabbit.”  
 
The little guy ran about ten feet away and sat in the grass, right where I would start mowing. I went over to talk to him. He let me pet him a little. I lectured him, “Under the mower is not a good place to sit. If I would have started those blades, it would have been a bad situation.” I gave him a little nudge on the rump, “Get going now. I have work to do.”
 
The bunny hopped away running parallel to the firewood stacked under the edge of the deck. He stopped there – right where I was going to mow. I walked toward him to shoo him away, but now he was sitting in the grass about five feet in front of the wood. I looked again and the rabbit was still by the wood pile. I looked back and forth. He was sitting both in front of the wood pile and out in the grass. “That’s messed up.” I said, thinking I was seeing double! I looked ahead of me and there was a third bunny sitting next to the pine tree. Was I seeing triple?
 
All three were the same size – small bodies with great big back feet. Snowshoe rabbits. They must be from the same litter.  They all sat and stared at me. For a moment I thought the three of them were going gang up and attack me! It felt like a scene from a low budget horror movie. I walked briskly back to the tractor. 
 
When I came around the corner on the riding mower with the blades spinning, headed in their direction, the three bunnies scurried away seeking shelter under the low branches of the pine tree. I laughed thinking it would make another great scene for that flick.
 
In all I saw seven snowshoe bunnies in the yard while mowing, each retreated to that same pine tree. I kept an eye toward the base of that tree with each passing. Maybe they were plotting a sequel movie: Revenge of the Snowshoe Hares - The Bunnies Are Rabbits Now.  The idea was messed up; maybe I was catching some exhaust fumes from the tractor, or I was just getting tired.
 
I was worn out by the time I finished the lawn, but I felt good. Everything on my list done. The girls stopped at Black Beach, to spend some time on the shore of Lake Superior before dark, then arrived at the house around 9:00 p.m.  We had snacks, beer and good conversation before bedtime.
 
The next morning, I noticed water spots on the tile in my shower. Although the bathrooms were already clean, cleaning them again before company arrived seemed like the right thing to do, so I had put that on my to-do list. I wondered, had I forgotten to polish my bathroom shower?  No way, I thought to myself. I did everything on that list.  I dug through the kitchen trash can and found the sheet of paper. 
 
Item five was scratched off: main bathroom, shower/sink/toilet, etc. Item six was also scratched off: master bathroom, sink/toilet, etc.  “What,” I questioned without accepting responsibility. “Nobody wrote, ‘polish the master bath shower’ on the list?” I shrugged my shoulders, “That’s messed up.”

​We’ve all had one (or more) of those moments where something happens and just scares the daylights out of you. It’s not something as serious as someone getting hurt – it usually involves a material item, but boy can it make your heart stop! Just such a thing happened to me the other day. And I mean to say, it really scared me!
 
I make frequent stops at McDonald’s restaurants all over the country. There are several reasons for this. In order to make good time traveling, I need to make each stop count. If I am stopping for gas, I will often get something to drink and walk June, my dog who travels with me, at the same time. McDonald’s restaurants are usually close to gas stations.They serve a good cup of coffee and, I think, the best fresh brewed unsweetened iced tea, hands-down.  Their employees are always friendly and helpful and their Wi-Fi service is unmatched.
 
To use my iPad to look at anything online, I have to have wireless internet service (I do not carry a smartphone). No one has more consistently reliable, fast Wi-Fi service than McDonald’s. As they are remodeling their stores across the country, each restaurant is adding areas where people can relax and get online. Most of the stores now offer outlets to charge your device and some have USB ports available. Many of my stories are written in their restaurants.  
 
The other day, Wednesday, about 9:30 a.m., I stopped in Findlay, Ohio.  I refueled the truck, then drove across the street to McDonald’s. It’s easier for me to use my iPad than to start my laptop, especially if I’m only going to be online for a few minutes. I thought I might be doing some writing that morning, so I carried my laptop bag in with me as well. I ordered a cup of coffee and an English muffin, then sat at a small, round table, setting the computer bag in the extra seat on the other side.
 
Using my iPad, I re-checked my routes on Google maps, looked at few other things online, then started to think about what I was going to write. I was drawing a complete blank - writer’s block, and I had it bad. It was another 565 miles to our destination in New Jersey and we didn’t have time to sit around; if I wasn’t going to be able to write, I needed to get going. “I’ll try again later.” I said. I closed my device, went back to my truck and June and I headed down the highway, eastbound.
 
We did our business in New Jersey, and stopped for the night. Early the next morning I fed June her breakfast, then we headed out - westbound, toward home. About 9:30 I needed gas and saw signs for a McDonald’s ahead and a Pilot truck stop, together at the exit for Clearfield, Pennsylvania.  Perfect! Two birds, one stone.  
 
The weather was hot that morning, and there was no shade available.  I left the motor running with the air conditioner on to keep June cool, then parked the truck right outside the front picture windows of the restaurant where I could keep an eye on her. I locked the door with my spare key and went inside.
 
I only carried in my iPad as the writer’s block was still looming over me. I would grab a cup of coffee while checking Facebook, catching up on a little news and check weather along my route.  It was going to be a hot, humid day.
 
When I got in the truck it felt warmer than it should even on such a hot morning.  I checked the controls; the AC was on with the fan on high.  The temperature was set as cold as it would go and it still felt like hot air was blowing around.  Looking over my shoulder, I saw the rear window on the passenger side was wide open.  June must have stepped on the switch and lowered the window while I was inside. I rolled the window up, the truck cooled off quite nicely and we made our way down the interstate.
 
About ninety miles later, my mind became flooded with things to write about.  It’s funny how I can go from a complete blank to being overloaded with ideas. I had to start jotting down some notes before my thoughts slipped away.  I started making notes on a napkin.
 
Along with the ideas that were swarming my mind, I thought about other things too. For some reason I thought about feeding June that morning. I always put her food container right behind my seat, along with my laptop computer bag. I didn’t recall seeing the laptop bag this morning.  I reached for it, but it wasn’t there. I looked behind the passenger seat, and on the front floor. It wasn’t either place. I started to worry and pulled onto the shoulder, then halfway into the grass. 
 
I got out of the truck, opening the back, driver’s-side door. I looked all over; under the pillows and behind my bag, around the cooler.  I ran around to the passenger side and opened the door. June wanted to jump out to play. “Not now June. Go sit up front.” I searched the whole truck. My laptop was gone!
 
I felt sick. How many photos and memories are on that machine?  All the stories I’ve written are on that computer. My chest felt tight with anxiety; levels as high as I’ve ever known them.  I felt lost and alone. How could I ever recover what I lost on the laptop?  I started to panic. “Think man, think. What are we going to do?” 
 
The first thing I needed to do was calm down. Panicking has never helped in any situation – ever. Talking out loud to myself, I began to retrace my steps.  “Did I take it in with me for coffee this morning? I don’t think I did.”  Then I remembered the open window. “Oh my gosh. June opened the window and someone must have reached inside and stole my computer!”  Although I wasn’t panicking, I wouldn’t say I was thinking very rational thoughts yet either. 
 
I reached in my pocket for the McDonald’s ticket. The phone number for the restaurant was on there.  I called and asked for a manager.  I explained that I had been there about two hours earlier and asked if anyone had found a computer bag. He told me they had not.
 
I told him about leaving the truck running for my dog and the window being opened when I returned, then asked if they had outdoor security cameras on the front of their store.  I was hoping they would have video of someone stealing my bag. “The only outdoor cameras we have are on the drive-up,” he said. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”  I asked if the truck stop had cameras, He said he didn’t know, I would have to call them, then gave me the number for Pilot.
 
Again, I explained everything to the manager at the convenience store and asked if they had outdoor cameras.  “We do.” He said, “But all our cameras out front are pointed to the fuel pumps. We don’t have any that would show the McDonald’s parking lot.  I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”  I thanked him for his time and hung up.
 
Resigned to the fact that I would never see the laptop again, I still felt obligated to go through the futile efforts of trying to find it. I pulled out my envelope of receipts. I had stopped somewhere for an ice tea last night, but I couldn’t remember what town and couldn’t find the ticket. “That’s probably where it is.” I told June.  The next register tape was from the previous morning, when I stopped in Findlay, Ohio. I called the number listed.
 
“Thank you for calling McDonald’s. This is Brooke, may I help you?”  She sounded like a nice lady. I explained the situation and asked if by any stretch of the imagination, had anyone turned in a computer bag. “Can you describe the item,” she asked.
 
Just the fact that she asked for a description gave me hope. “It’s a black bag, nylon I suppose, it has a strap with a sliding pad to rest on your shoulder.  It has three compartments that are orange inside and a thin orange stripe on the strap.  There will be a silver HP laptop computer in the main section, the middle section has charging cords. And the third compartment is empty.” 
 
I was excited and hopeful and don’t believe I took any breaths or pauses between sentences. When I finished, Brooke said, “Yes, we have your computer here.” I think my heart stopped again; I couldn’t believe it. 
 
“You do?” I asked, astonished.
 
“Yes. We have a computer here that matches that description.” She said. Instantly the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders. I was liberated from the cloud of gloom that surely would burden me the rest of my life had I not found my laptop.  
 
 “I’m 89 miles away.” I told her, “My GPS says I will be there at 1:30 p.m.”
 
Brooke laughed a little. “Take your time and don’t get a ticket. The computer is safe in the office. I’ll be gone by then, but I will let the next manager on duty know you’re coming for it.”
 
I arrived promptly at 1:30. There was a manager walking back from the dining room toward the kitchen. Her name tag read, Amber. I told her who I was and what I needed; she smiled knowing exactly what I was looking for. “Let me go get it for you.” When she came out with the black bag, I felt like I was reunited with a long lost friend. I thanked her repeatedly and offered her a tip, or reward. “No,” she politely refused, “we’re just glad to help you get it back.” 
 
I went to the counter and ordered a large ice tea to go. On my way to the front door I noticed a lady sitting at a table with a sandwich in one hand and a paperback book in the other. I watched for a moment as she held the book, managing to turn the page one handed with her thumb and kept reading.  What talent, I thought to myself. Watching the way she held the book, I also thought society is way to dependent on devices – myself included.
 
I stopped at her table. “You’ve really got your hands full there, ma’am.” I said, then suggested, “I can handle that sandwich for you, if you’d like to use both hands for your book.”
 
She looked at me, paused, and said, “I’d rather you sit and read to me.” Then continued looking at me over the top of her glasses as if waiting for an answer while she took a bite from her sandwich.  I smiled. It turned out to be a darn good day after all.

​It officially starts the camping season all across America. If you don’t reserve a campsite ahead of time, your chances of getting a site on Memorial Day weekend are slim to none. This is especially true along the North Shore of Lake Superior and other such popular destinations around the country. We didn’t have a site reserved, so we decided to go to Sleeping Giant Provincial Park, in Canada. 
 
We actually prefer Canada for camping over Memorial Day weekend. It’s such a busy time, stateside and all the campgrounds are crowded. Since it’s not a holiday in Canada and still early in their camping season, campsites are readily available.  
 
We arrived in the evening, set up camp, then enjoyed the sunset. Melissa pointed out the rig in the space next to us, saying she thought it was the same camper that was there when were at Sleeping Giant last fall. I dismissed her thought as unlikely. “I highly doubt it’s the same people. After you’ve seen so many trailers and RV’s, they all start to look alike.”
 
A campfire was out of the question the first night because of high winds, so we retired to the Scamp for sandwiches, wine and a good book.
 
The next morning, we had plans that included hiking and exploring. I put June out around 8 a.m. to let her spend some time outdoors before breakfast. I thought I would throw the ball for her a few times which meant letting her off her leash. I chucked the ball high in the air. June got right under it and made an amazing catch. I threw the ball a several more times - some close and sometimes I threw it a good distance. Hearing voices approaching, I called June to come to me and put her back on the leash. Then I heard the voice say, “Well, I thought I recognized June.”
 
That was really strange, almost eerie. We were in Canada for goodness sakes. No one in Canada knows June!  I took a look around, but didn’t see anyone. June and I went inside where I reported to Melissa what I had heard. “I told you, I think that camper next to us is the same one that was here last year.” She reasoned. I thought maybe she had too much wine the night before, or, her imagination was running a bit wild.
 
I distinctly remembered those people from last year. The lady played the harp and each day we were serenaded with soothing music, floating through the air as her fingers danced and glided with grace over the strings. It was wonderful. But there was no music this morning, so it couldn’t be the same people.  I peeked through the curtains, looking their direction, but didn’t anything. I thought I was going to have to go out and investigate, then the man came out of his camper. His back was towards me, so I couldn’t see his face.
 
He was fairly tall and slender, wearing a camouflage hat, jacket and pants. The man last year wore a lot of camo as well.
 
“His name was Al.” I said out loud as I watched.  Then he turned, his profile was toward me as he looked out over the lake. “I think that is Al.” When he turned toward me, his white beard and glasses were a giveaway. “That is him.” I told Melissa, “That’s Al, the same man from last year.” I was really surprised – she was not the least bit.
 
I went outside to greet him. Offering my hand, “Al?” I queried, still thinking it was very unlikely to be him. He shook my hand and replied, “Well, I thought I recognized June.” The two of us enjoyed a nice chat. We were able to visit with him and his wife, Sally, a few more times over the weekend. It was certainly good to see them again.
 
I went back to our Scamp, we loaded some things into the car, then left to go hiking. Our cat, Edgar Allen, would stay behind to guard the fort.  The trail we chose would wind in and out of the woods and along the beaches of Middlebrun Bay, on Lake Superior. We checked out some tent camping sites on the trail as potential back packing adventures in the future.
 
Sometimes while hiking, I’ll let June off her leash. I know – it’s against the rules, but she sure likes to run from the front to the back of our group. She’s a herding dog and that’s her way of keeping her subjects together and safe. If we hear or see people coming, I will leash her right away. Occasionally, June will see the people before I do and she runs to greet them. I don’t like her doing that because not everyone is a dog person.
 
While we were hiking, another group approached us unnoticed. June ran ahead to them. I called her back right away and apologized. They responded, “That’s okay, we recognized June from the campground.” What? They knew her name?  That was really strange; almost eerie. We were in Canada for goodness sakes. No one in Canada knows June! They must have heard us calling her by name at the campsite or on the trail.
 
Several trees had fallen over the winter months. It was early in the season and they hadn’t been cut or cleared yet; they were still obstructing the path. We had to crawl under, or climb over them in order to continue down the trail.
 
While crawling under one large tree that blocked our way, I found a pair of sunglasses on the ground. They looked new. I guessed they fell out of someone’s pocket while they were passing under the log.  I set the shades on top of the fallen tree; perhaps the owner would come back looking for them and find them on the log.
 
When we were done hiking, we drove out to Silver Islet, a really cool little ghost town that was once a silver mining town on Lake Superior. We checked out a few other sights, then headed in to buy another bottle of LP gas for the camp stove. It was getting close to suppertime.
 
Back at the campsite, I got the stove from the Scamp and went to set it up on the picnic table outdoors. I saw something spooky that stopped me in my tracks – it was the kind of thing you would see in a horror movie. The sunglasses I found on the trail were now sitting on the picnic table in our campsite!  Okay, that was kind of creepy. I asked our guard cat how they got there. Edgar swore, “I’ll guarantee you nobody came onto this site under my watch.”
 
We were trying to figure out the mystery. Perhaps it was a ghost that followed us from Silver Islet. Maybe the ghost put the glasses there. It seems everyone else knows June, why not the Canadian ghosts too, eh?  More likely, it was the people we met on the trail who also knew June. They must have thought they were June’s sunglasses and brought them back for her.
 
After our camping trip, I was driving out to southern California with a Scamp. June went along with me, riding shotgun.
 
When we got to the lady’s house where we were delivering the trailer, I rang the bell. She came to the front door, “Hi.” Karen said, then, excited to see her new camper, she said “It’s so cute!” Something seemed to have distracted her as she looked toward her new Scamp in the street. Her eyes got wider. She gasped, politely covering her mouth with her hand, as a lady will do when she sees something that has her in awe.
 
I glanced toward the street. Not again, I thought to myself. Karen smiled from ear to ear – a smile as big as I’ve ever seen, then said, “And that must be June! I recognize her from her photos on Facebook.” As Karen marched out to greet June, I said awkwardly, “Um, hi. I am, um, Tom…” It seems everyone knows June.
 
On the way home we stopped for fuel in Mesquite, Nevada. The man on the other side of the pump island looked our way a couple times, then I overheard him telling his wife, “It’s June, honey.” You’ve got to kidding me. There is no way!
 
June sat smirking in the front passenger seat. It is not possible everyone knows that dog. I walked around to the other side of the pumps, “Excuse me, sir. Do you know my dog?” He was confused and asked what I was talking about.  “You just told your wife, ‘It’s June, honey.’ My dog’s name is June. Do you know her?”
 
“No,” the man laughed, “my wife was writing down our fuel purchase in our mileage log. She wrote 5-2-19 and I told her, ‘It’s June, honey.’ Meaning we’re past May and it’s now the month of June.”  We shared a mighty good laugh over that.
 
I finished fueling my car, put the nozzle back on the pump and twisted my gas cap until it clicked back in place.  I got in the car.  Now feeling pretty smug myself, I told my dog, “See, June. Not everyone knows you.” I snickered as we pulled back onto the interstate.
 
June just smiled and reminded me, “The score is 3-1, Dad. My favor.” She was trying to contain her snickering as she starred ahead through the windshield. Hmfph. I looked at the GPS. Only 1,783 miles until we’re home.

​Granted, doing business online is convenient but I like old fashioned service; I prefer to deal with people one-on-one, in-person when possible. It’s just more fun that way. For example, when I have an insurance premium due, instead of mailing the payment I’d rather take a check to the agent’s office working directly with their staff. One such company is in a town in which I no longer live – so each month I call the agency’s office to make my payment over the phone, always working with the same person.
 
The other day I called their office asking to speak to Denise. Whoever answers the phone will always inquire, “May I ask who’s calling please?” When Denise came to the phone, she already knew who was on the other end of the line. I was laughing. Mischievous thoughts ran through my head while I was on hold.
 
“Oh my gosh. What did you do?” She asked with concern, knowing my love of pranks.
 
Proclaiming my innocence I swore, “I didn’t do anything…this time…yet. “But whoever answers the phone always inquires, ‘May I ask who’s calling?’ Well next time I’m going to smugly answer, ‘I’d rather not say.’”
 
Denise chuckled nervously.  With skepticism she asked, “Why would you do that?”
 
“I’m going to tell them, ‘I’d rather not say because I don’t want to compromise her true identity – you know, the sanctity of the witness protection program must be respected.’” Denise and I shared a good laugh about that. “Then I’m going to tell them, ‘I’ve probably said too much already, but I will tell you this: she is an undercover spy and Denise isn’t her real name - it’s Dennis… …and she’s a guy!’” We were both rolling with laughter.
 
I knew Denise was blushing over the absurdity of it all. When she exclaimed, “Oh my Lord!” I wondered what her co-workers must think when she’s in her office, on the phone, cracking up laughing – surely, she can’t really be working! Trying to contain her laughter, Denise attempted to stear us back on track. Focusing on the actual purpose of this call, she asked, “Did you want to give me your account number to make a payment?”
 
Denise has provided me top notch service for many, many years. She’s a big part of the reason I continue to do business with their company, even though I have since moved. Besides, I can’t imagine having this kind of fun buying insurance online from a green lizard.  I like working with real people.
 
Interacting with our listeners and advertisers was always one of my favorite parts of being in the radio broadcasting business. I enjoyed visiting clients, taking them little gifts like coffee mugs, T-shirts, caps, note pads, calendars and other such promotional items bearing the station call letters.  I wanted to take them something different – something unique that no other radio station would take them, but I didn’t know what. I got an idea.
 
In the early 90’s I decided to plant a garden. I chose an area behind a second garage that was in my backyard. I carefully removed the sod, saving it for use elsewhere. I tilled the soil until I had a bed of loose, rich, black dirt. I measured off and pounded in stakes on each side then pulled strings taught between them making straight lines spanning the plot.
 
I dug little channels, carefully dropped my seeds, then gently covered them with dirt. I put in a few rows of green beans, peas, carrots, radishes and green and yellow bell peppers. I tried growing lettuce - that didn’t work too well for me, although the rabbits loved it. I avoided the sprawling vine plants like pumpkins, squash and cucumbers – I like them, but they take up too much space.
 
When I was done planting, I looked with pride at my garden.  It was beautiful. Each stake had an empty seed package stapled to it so that I would know what was in that row. I smiled dreaming of the bountiful harvest I would enjoy through the late summer and fall. I sighed realizing I forgot the sweet corn, then smiled, there’s always next year. Oh, and I also put in 125 tomato plants.
 
John Denver recorded a cover song written by Guy Clark: Home Grown Tomatoes. My favorite line was, “Only two things that money can't buy, that's true love and homegrown tomatoes.”  With a garden full, I could give them to all my clients and no other radio station was going to take them such a gift. I thought it was a good idea and people would appreciate tomatoes more than a note pad they were going to lose anyway.
 
The weeks ahead were challenging. I didn’t know a garden would be so much work. My plants grew almost as fast as the weeds. My friend, John Ohlinger told me to bag my grass clippings and lay them in the rows and between the tomato plants. That helped, but still – the work!
 
I suppose it was early July when my gardening friends said they were harvesting nice tomatoes.  My 125 plants were growing well but only produced small to medium size, rock hard green tomatoes. The weeds got away from me; some were as tall as the plants, others were bigger.
 
I stood looking over the mess that was supposed to be my garden.  The colorful little packages had either sun-bleached to white, withered scraps of paper or deteriorated completely leaving small rusty staples in the wooden stakes.  Defeated, I shook my head and said, “I should have just left the lawn alone.”
 
What went wrong? Maybe I planted too late. Maybe I didn’t water the garden enough. Maybe I didn’t till the soil deep enough. Maybe my soil didn’t have the right biological makeup for gardening. Maybe it was the weeds. Yes, it was the weeds fault, they ruined my garden.
 
I was getting ready to take my family out of town for a couple weeks. When I returned, I would mow down the lot of plants and weeds with the John Deere, till the soil and replace the sod. I walked away in despair.
 
When I got back in town, I started the lawn tractor and drove to the garden.  The back garage shielded the hideous growth from the house. I stopped at the edge and looked at the mess. I would have to remove the wire tomato cages, pull the stakes and gather the strings from the garden before I could mow it down. It was so tall, I wondered if the mower was going to be able to knock it down. Something was weird.
 
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  Among the weeds were 125 tomato plants loaded with big, bright red, ripe tomatoes. It looked like there were millions of them! Possibly billions! They certainly outnumbered the stars in the night sky.
 
I jumped off the tractor, waded into the jungle, picked a tomato, rubbed it against my shirt, then took a big bite. Juice squirted from the tomato, ricocheted off my finger and splashed back onto my face. I could have easily lost an eye, but I didn’t care. I took another bite. Tomato juice and seeds were running down my arm, dripping off the end of my elbow onto my pants. That was the best tomato I ever tasted in my life!  I ate the whole thing, dropped the stem and picked another.
 
Over the next couple weeks, I harvested a steady stream of tomatoes. I was filling paper bags and taking them to all my clients.  I gave more to listeners and friends. I stewed and canned tomatoes and juice until I could can no more. I took more tomatoes to clients – some begged me not to bring them anymore tomatoes, asking, “Do you have a note pad or something else I could have?”  Just when I thought I had picked them all, more green tomatoes turned red. I couldn’t stop them from growing and I couldn’t give them away fast enough.
 
Carol Collins ran a restaurant downtown, called the Koffee Kup Café.  One day when I stopped in for lunch, Carol asked me about the tomatoes. “I’ve heard they’re really good. Do you have anymore I could buy. I’d like to serve them to my customers.”
 
“Buy them?” I questioned sarcastically. “No, you cannot buy any. I will GIVE them to you. How many bushels would you like to take off my hands?” We shared a good laugh about that.  I took her a heaping bushel basket of tomatoes. She would serve some at the café, and can the rest.
 
One of Carol’s regular customers was a man named Dennis. Dennis worked for my brother at his gas station, Danny’s Amoco, at the corner of Pennsylvania and Jefferson. It was the only gas station left in town where you could get full service at the pumps. They’d check your oil and wash your windshield  plus, they had a two-car garage for repairing tires, doing oil changes and light automotive work. Dennis was the mechanic.
 
He was a good mechanic; he was also a one-upper, if you know what I mean – as was I. When two men have that same personality trait, things can get competitive. We became rivals when it came to one-upping.
 
Dennis always liked my dog, Harry, a beautiful collie. “It’s a good thing you have Harry.” He told me often, as he scratched my dog’s ears, “He’s so handsome he can even make someone as ugly as you look good when you stand next to him.” Or, “Harry is so smart, he distracts people so they don’t really know how dumb you are.”  It was all in fun, and trust me, I got in more than my share of jabs back at my nemesis.
 
Frequently Dennis and I were both at a big round table of guys having lunch at the Koffee Kup Café.  One day Dennis ordered the lunch special: a hot beef sandwich with mashed potatoes, smothered with beef gravy. “For my two sides why don’t you bring me some cottage cheese and a plate of those sliced homegrown tomatoes.” It was the exact same thing I was having. I looked at Dennis and smiled. Assuming I was about to say something, he made sure he beat me to the punch.
 
“Your mom stopped into the station today.” He took a bite of food then said, “Her car was a quart low on oil. She said you just checked it yesterday and told her it was fine.” He waved his fork with a piece of tomato on the end of it, “I told her you weren’t smart enough to know which end of the dip stick to look at.  But she already knew that.” He put the fork in his mouth and relished the moment as he got a good laugh about that from all the guys around the table.  Well, all except me.
 
Dennis was on a roll. “You know Palen, you’re pretty good at blowing a lot of hot air on the radio, but you should leave difficult jobs like checking the oil on a car, up to someone smarter; a professional like me.” He chewed his food and grinned with satisfaction, drawing yet another round of laughter from everyone, except me.
 
When Carol walked by Dennis asked her, “Say, would you have anymore of those tomatoes. I swear those were the best tomatoes I’ve ever tasted.” I just smiled at him. Carol went to the kitchen and returned with another serving of bright red tomato slices. She had a hard time keeping a straight face when she handed him the plate. Carol knew of our rivalry.  Dennis ate them, rubbed his full belly and said, “Man those are good.” I smiled, then started laughing. He looked at me and asked “What are you laughing about, ya darn fool?  Have you got a feather in your underpants or something?”
 
“I grew those tomatoes, Dennis. They’re from my garden.” I told him. He didn’t believe me.
 
“There’s no way you grew these, you can’t even grow a moustache. Is that dirt over your lip?” He asked, laughing while reaching for me with his napkin, “Here, let me wipe that smudge off your face.”  Everyone laughed about that, except me.
 
Carol returned to our table handing each person a ticket. She smiled, “I’ve got your lunch today, Tom.” Dennis told Carol, if she had any extra, he’d like to buy a few of those tomatoes to go. Carol said, “Why don’t you ask Tom, they came from his garden.” The whole table shared a good laugh about that…well, except Dennis – he scowled and I smirked with satisfaction. Remember, Dennis is a one-upper and he wasn’t about to upstaged.
 
“When I used to put in my garden, I grew tomatoes that were a lot bigger than yours.” He said, then shared his secret. “I’d take some cow manure from my pasture and till it into my garden. My tomatoes were so big Palen, they made yours look like cherry tomatoes.” The men all laughed except me. Dennis declared, “and my tomatoes tasted a lot better.”
 
I interrupted him. “It’s too late Dennis. We all heard you say it.” I began mimicking him, “These are the best tomatoes I’ve ever tasted. Man, these are good. The best I’ve ever had. Oh Carol, could I please get some of these tomatoes to go?” We all laughed, except Dennis. This time I had him and he knew it!
 
Dennis tried to change the subject. Knowing my dad always had milk cows, he asked if I got manure for my garden from my parents. After Dad had passed away, Mom sold off the cows. “Dennis, I don’t have to go looking for manure, I get all the manure I can handle every time you open your mouth and start talking.” We all shared a good laugh over that, except Dennis.
 
I was on a roll. “You know Dennis, you might know which end of a dip stick to look at, but when it comes to difficult jobs, like growing tomatoes, or, one-upping someone who is obviously smarter than you, you should leave that to a professional like me. Someone who knows how to blow hot air on the radio.” We all shared a good laugh over that – well everyone except Dennis.
 
Dennis mumbled something about me not knowing the simple basics of agriculture. “Even Harry knows you gotta fertilize a garden with manure, but your dog has always been smarter than you – better looking too.” He said, drawing another round of laughter from the all the guys, except me.
 
“Dennis…” I squinted my eyes and leaned in as I addressed him. He and the guys were waiting to hear what was coming next, but I honestly forgot what I was going to say so I said softly, “My dog pee’d in that garden every day – right by the tomato plants.”  All the guys laughed, even Dennis – he always did like Harry.  
 
I miss Dennis; the rivalry and the fun we had trying to one-up each other. I’ve never met a man named Dennis, that I didn’t like – even one who is an undercover spy, who isn’t really a spy and whose real name isn’t Dennis, it’s Denise – and he’s a girl.

​The three of us were enjoying wine and conversation. Gail, using better judgement, retired to bed at a respectable hour, while Kenny and I stayed up later. Sitting out on the covered deck, we took advantage of the comfortable west Texas air on that Monday evening in mid-May.  In just a couple weeks, Texas would begin her season of relentless summer heat; steamy hot days and sultry humid nights. But this night, the weather was beautiful and we intended to make good use of it.
 
With a bottle of wine, we talked about all sorts of topics; good and happy things and some universal issues of concern as well. There was no doubt in my mind, given a couple more hours and another bottle of wine, we would have had solutions for every problem in the world - and they were good, workable, common sense solutions. But the powers that be aren’t likely to take advice from a group such as myself, Kenny and Robert Mondavi.
 
Beyond the shelter of the roofline, I could see the Texas sky was full of stars, twinkling and dancing about. It was past midnight; the wine was taking its toll and we decided to call it a night. 
 
The next morning, Gail had prepared a feast of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. We ate well, enjoyed good coffee and more conversation. Then came that awkward moment; there was a sole strip of bacon left on the plate and three people sitting around the table. “Someone needs to eat that last piece of bacon.” Gail suggested. 
 
“Go ahead.” I said to Gail, offering the plate her way. 
 
She politely declined, “No thank you, I’ve had plenty. One of you two can have it.”
 
It can become a mind game when determining the fate of the last slice of that salted, fatty, smoke-flavored goodness. One contender was out already, it was down to me and Kenny. Using reverse psychology, I said, “Here Kenny, you have it.” While moving the plate from Gail to him. 
 
“No, go ahead.” Kenny replied. I wondered, was he using the same tactic?
 
I quickly weighed my options and consequences. I wanted that last piece of bacon, but I also wanted to be invited back again. I thought quickly, “Okay,” I snapped the crisp bacon strip in two, taking half and told Kenny, “here, we’ll share it.” 
 
But Kenny insisted, “No, you can have it.” I told Kenny I wasn’t going to eat it. If he didn’t eat it, that half-piece would be thrown away - wasted. “Well, we can’t let bacon go to waste.” He said, reaching toward the plate.
 
As soon as Kenny put the bacon in his mouth and started chewing, I threw a little guilt his way, “Thanks a lot Kenny. I really wanted that last piece.” 
 
“Too bad.” Kenny said, with a look of contentment that anyone has while eating bacon, “You had your chance.” We shared a good laugh about that.
 
With the end of breakfast came the end of a very good visit with Uncle Kenny and Aunt Gail. They were generous hosts, as they always are. Both being good cooks, they shared the task, providing excellent meals and they allowed me to use their kitchen to bake a peach pie and some ginger crack cookies.
 
When I was about ready to go, Gail asked if I would like to take some things in my cooler for the long drive back to northern Minnesota. I told her I would be going to the grocery store, so packing a cooler wouldn’t be necessary. Then I remembered the lunch she had served the day before. “Would you happen to have any of that ham salad left over?” I asked. 
 
“There’s probably just enough to make one more sandwich.” Gail replied, asking, “Would you like lettuce?” She took a couple containers from the refrigerator, grabbed the loaf of bread, laid out a sheet of waxed paper on the countertop and began making the sandwich. 
 
Curious, I inquired, “Are you using the waxed paper as a prep surface, or are you going to wrap the sandwich in that?” 
 
Gail stopped, “I was going to wrap the sandwich if that’s okay. Would you rather have plastic?” 
 
“No, that’s perfect.” I said, smiling, “I haven’t seen anyone wrap a sandwich in waxed paper for years. I love it!”  
 
When she was done making the sandwich, she brought the two longer sides of the rectangular wrap together at the top center of the bread.  Folding the edges over, making about a one-inch overlap on the top, she pressed them together by running the paper between her thumb and index finger from one end to the other. She creased a seam, much like a tailor would do with fabric and a hot iron.  Gail folded the seam flat on top of the sandwich, then carefully wrapped the left side underneath, followed by the right.
 
Watching her work, I reminisced about wrapping sandwiches exactly that way when I was a kid. This, of course, was before Glad Cling Wrap came along, followed by the Glad Sandwich Bag with the flap and fold top, and finally, today’s Ziploc bag. They’re always looking for a better way to keep a sandwich fresh, but I’m not sure you can beat good old-fashioned waxed paper.
 
Gail handed me the sandwich. I placed it in a small brown paper bag, along with a few homemade cookies and an apple. We said our farewells, then June and I headed up the road toward home. 
 
Kenny had suggested a state route that would take us north, staying off I-35, until we got past Dallas-Fort Worth. Avoiding the metro traffic and congestion would save us a lot of time and anguish.
 
While driving the backroads, we enjoyed the countryside; large fields where Texas Longhorn steer grazed on luscious, tall green prairie grass beneath windmills that pumped well water into livestock troughs. Oil rigs throughout the fields were running, with their big iron heads rhythmically teetering up and down. The sky was blue with scattered cottony-white clouds that provided character. The scenery was perfect - this is west Texas.
 
A few hours into the trip, June and I pulled over to the side of the road. I grabbed my sack lunch and sat in the grass to eat. June wandered about through the wildflowers nearing the barbed wire fence. Being a border collie / blue healer, she took notice of the field of cattle that needed someone to herd them together.  
 
She looked over her shoulder at me to see if I was paying attention, then crept toward the field.  “Hey June, why don’t you just stay on this side of the fence before you find out what those steer can do with their long horns!” 
 
I opened my brown bag, pulling out the sandwich that was gift-wrapped in waxed paper. I opened it and took a bite. “Wow.” I said to June. “This is every bit as good as it was yesterday - maybe even better.” I took another bite. 
 
June, licking her lips while watching me eat, warned, “That ham salad is made with mayo. It’s been out of the refrigerator for three hours. Maybe you should feed it to the dog. I wouldn’t want you to take any chances of getting sick when we still have a thousand miles to go before getting home.”
 
“Nice try, June,” I chuckled, “but I don’t think so.” When I was a kid, I would take my sandwiches to school, leaving them in my locker until lunch time. Sometimes it was bologna, peanut butter, cheese or various other toppings - but it very often had mayo on it and they always sat unrefrigerated for a few hours. It didn’t kill me or make me sick back then and I doubt it’s going to today. It must be the waxed paper that keeps it so well.
 
After I finished eating, I gathered my brown bag, napkin and waxed paper. I left the apple core on the roadside, telling June, “Something will come along and eat it.” 
 
We got back in the car to continue north. June sat in the front passenger seat. “I haven’t had a brown bag lunch like that in years.” I told her. Still quite salty over me not sharing my sandwich, June sat upright, staring straight out the front window, totally ignoring me.
 
I wadded the sandwich wrapper into a tight little ball and tossed it at June, beaning her right in the noggin.  I laughed, “That’s another reason waxed paper is better than plastic. You can’t wad up a Ziploc bag and throw it like that!”
 
June glared at me, “Very funny, Dad. Just drive the car.” Then she gazed out the side window at all the cattle in the pastures. “I could’ve had them all rounded up, if you would have been paying more attention to the dog’s needs, instead of touting the benefits of waxed paper.”
 
I ruffled the fur on her head, “Maybe next time, June Bug.”  She leaned over to my side of the car and gave me a kiss - well, I thought it was a kiss.  Apparently, I had a few cookie crumbs on my cheek.

​I wrote a note, folded it neatly, then wrote a name on the front of the paper. I handed it to the girl at the desk in front of me, who handed it to the boy in front of her, who handed it to the girl sitting at the desk in the row across from him, who handed it to the boy across from her, who handed it to Megan.
 
Megan opened and read the note. "Will you be my girlfriend? Circle one - Yes or No - and send this back to me." I signed the note, Barry.
 
Megan opened the note, read it, smiled, then circled an answer with her #2 yellow pencil. She wrote something else on the paper, then folded it and handed it back to the boy who had handed her the note. It was on its way back to me. Each person passing it on to the one who gave it to them.
 
Not knowing the true source of the note, Megan kept smiling at Barry. Poor Barry looked confused as he had no idea why she kept staring at him. Although my tactics were deceitful, I would now find out if she had a crush on him as I had suspected since first grade.
 
The girl in front of me handed the note over her shoulder. I was giggling in anticipation of reading Megan’s answer? Completely focused on getting the note back, I wasn't paying attention to the teacher at all.
 
Just as I was unfolding the note, Mrs. Bear, my second-grade teacher at Horace Mann Elementary School, walked the aisles between our desks.  Briskly snatching the note from my hand she opened and glanced at it, then glared at me.  I was worried she would read the note aloud to the class. Barry was my friend. He was not going to appreciate me sending that note with his name on it.
 
Mrs. Bear, walked back to her big oak desk at the front of the room, placing the note in her top center drawer, then continued on with her lesson. I sighed with relief – I was off the hook.
 
The bell rang, echoing down the cold, empty hallways with their grey terrazzo floors.  All the kids in the class room, jumped up from their desks, forming a single file line to make way outside for recess, myself included. As the children moved single file, in an orderly fashion toward the door Mrs. Bear took me by the arm, pulling me from the line.
 
The other kids marched on with restraint in their step. Once they cleared the entrance doors they would run out to the playground. As I watched them disappear to a happy place, Mrs. Bear began her lecture. "Tommy, you know it against the rules to pass notes in class, and it is not nice nor honest to sign someone else's name to the note. I'm going to have to tell your parents about this at the parent, teacher conferences." I was scared nearly to death.
 
By the time conferences came along, Mrs. Bear forgot about the note. Instead she discussed my day-dreaming during class, with my Mom.  While they spoke, I drifted off thinking about the note. In a way, I was hoping she would show it to Mom; maybe I would finally get to read Megan’s answer. I never did find out if Megan had a crush on my friend, Barry. I would never know what the additional message was that she wrote on that note.
 
That my friends, is an example of identity theft in its original form.

​When I was a little boy, Dad would hear me coming out of the bathroom.  “Did you flush?” He would call out.  I went back in the bathroom to flush the stool.  When I walked out to the living room, he would ask, “Did you wash your hands?” I assured him I did. Then he would follow up, “Did you use soap?”  Dad was always prepared for inspection. “Come here. Let me smell your hands.” I presented my hands.
 
If my hands smelled of soap, he would smile and give me kudos for a job well done.  If not, I was sent back to the bathroom and told, “Go wash your hands again, and this time – use soap!”  I think about those days frequently and quite fondly.
 
With the Memorial Day weekend now behind us, the summer travel season has officially begun. Those words of Dad’s still stand out for me; “Use soap.” Especially when I pull into a gas station.
 
Summertime brings with it bugs – lots of them. When I drive, bugs get all over the windshield. Using my windshield washers is not going to clean them off. The wipers just smear the bugs all over the glass in a sweeping arch pattern, making it impossible to see well.  Sometimes, even when I don’t need gas, I’ll pull into a station to top off the tank, just so I can clean my windshield.
 
I walk to the squeegee bucket, always expecting the worst. Yep, plain stinky water that permeates a putrid smell of bugs.  It’s a very distinctive, nasty smell. I wish someone would tell the gas station people that bugs won’t wash off with just water and that blue windshield washer fluid they often pour into the bucket doesn’t remove them either. In the words of my beloved father, “Use soap!” Just a squirt of any kitchen dish soap will do, although I prefer Dawn. It cuts the grease.
 
It’s a pleasant ordeal when you pull up to the pumps and find suds in the buckets.
 
One day last summer, my windshield was particularly bad. Most of the bugs were a foggy or translucent-white color. There were also several big yellow splotches, a few green and a couple red ones, too.  It was getting hard to see as I headed west into the setting sun. I exited off Interstate 94 at Valley City, North Dakota and pulled into the Tesoro gas station.
 
I swiped my card and answered the twenty questions asked by the card reader. Next, I lifted the nozzle, selected my grade of fuel, then placed the nozzle into the tank filler spout.  I pulled the trigger and set the holding tab. While the tank was filling, I prepared myself for disappointment as I walked toward the windshield washer bucket.
 
I grabbed the shiny black squeegee handle, looking into the bucket as I pulled it out of the water. WOW! Suds! And fresh ones at that. I moved the head of the cleaning device up and down in the water bucket several times, like one moves the paddle of an old-fashioned butter churn. I was agitating the water, working up a good head of suds. I swung the squeegee over to my windshield, carrying a liberal amount of soapy water.
 
As I worked the tool back and forth over the glass, bugs were practically falling off; splats of dried bug guts were dissolving like Jell-O powder in hot water. Bugs were disappearing like magic.
 
When I was ready to wipe the glass, I noticed the cleaning side of the tool. The mesh covered sponge looked brand new and so did the rubber edge. I pulled the squeegee across the windshield. Water ran from the top to the bottom with no streaks at all. I took a second pass, then a third. Still, no streaking. “This is awesome!” I called to June, who was sitting in the car.
 
I felt like a kid in a bubble bath with a brand-new back washer. I was so thrilled I went ahead and cleaned the back window - and all the side glass too.  I even thought about cleaning the windows on the car on the other side of the pump island, but the driver looked kind of grouchy. I didn’t want to risk him bursting my gleeful spirit.  With a big smile on my face, I returned the squeegee to the bucket, stirring up the suds one more time, just for fun. I hung the nozzle back on the gas pump and went inside the store.
 
After picking up a couple of snacks, I headed for the checkout counter. A young man named Jerrod was behind the register. “Jerrod, I have to tell you, I get so tired of gas stations with nasty bug water in their washer buckets and worn out squeegees. But your water was clean and your squeegees were in great shape. This place is amazing!”
 
Jerrod shared my enthusiasm. “Oh yeah! My boss is a real stickler about those wash buckets and squeegees. He says, ‘When the mesh starts showing wear, throw it out and get a new one. You can’t scrub bugs off a with a worn-out sponge.’ We just replaced all the squeegees about an hour ago.”
 
“I like that you add soap to the water.” I complimented.
 
“Always in the summer.” Jerrod confirmed, explaining, “Plain water isn’t going to clean bugs off a windshield. I put a shot of Dawn dish soap in every bucket. It’s just the right amount of soap to break down the bugs without being too much.” He really knew his stuff. “The last C-store I worked for,” he said with disdain, “they put blue washer fluid in the pails, but that stuff won’t remove bugs and it’s a lot more expensive than a gallon of tap water and a shot of Dawn.” Jerrod was clearly speaking my language.
 
I thanked Jerrod for his good service, especially the windshield washers - it was the best ever.
 
I headed west down the highway, thinking that running into that particular Tesoro station and their window washing set-up may have been better than winning the lottery.
 
A couple hundred miles later, my windshield was really getting bad again. I pulled off the interstate into another gas station. When I walked up to the washer bucket, I could already smell the stinky water. “Great,” I said.  I used the worn our sponge to wet the glass with the nasty water. I tried to scrub the bugs away, but they weren’t coming off. I heard a voice in my head saying, “Use soap.” I reached behind the driver’s seat and grabbed the bottle of Windex I always keep in the car for just an occasion such as this.
 
I sprayed the ammonia based product across the window. Even with the worn-out sponge, the bugs came off easily with a little cleaner. I pulled the worn rubber squeegee across the window, then used a paper towel to wipe off the streaks that were left.  I wish all C-Stores would take a lesson from Jerrod’s boss - keeping good squeegees at the pumps - and everyone should use soap.

​The other morning, I stopped just outside Bozeman, Montana, at McDonald’s. I was only going to have coffee but Egg McMuffins were specially priced 2/$5. Although I am trying to cut down on eating out, I bought two, then found a table and sat down to write for a while.
 
A man, who appeared to be homeless, was at the table across from me was shuffling his things. He went through them again and again, meticulously rearranging them, occasionally stopping to take a sip of his coffee. I asked if he’d had breakfast and offered him one of my sandwiches. “Are you sure?” He asked, “I don’t want to take your breakfast.” 
 
“Yes, I’m sure. I want you to have this.” I told him, extending the wrapped sandwich his way. He thanked me, took the sandwich, sat down and ate it with his coffee. 
 
When he was done eating he came to my table, offering me three individually wrapped, antibacterial hand wipes. Explaining the benefits, he said, “They’re great when you need to clean your hands and there’s no water around.” He went on to say, “I take one and tear it in half; I fold the extra half, put it back in the package folding the top over and carry it in my pocket. I take it out to use it later.  I thanked him, but declined his offer, thinking he surely needs those more than I do. I told him I keep a whole container of hand wipes in my car.
 
Wanting to show his appreciation for the sandwich, he returned to my table with two small bottles of hand sanitizer. “This is really good to have when you need to disinfect your hands. Do you want one?” I smiled and thanked him, but again declined. I noticed he was clean and well kept.
 
I would guess, everything he owned was in that backpack. I didn’t feel like I should be taking anything from him. I thought more about the meaning behind his offer. This man has almost nothing, yet was offering to share what little he has with a stranger. I was humbled by his generosity.
 
I asked, “Hey, I changed my mind. Could I have one of those hand wipes to take with me?”
 
The man smiled very big and began digging through his backpack. “You sure can! Would you like two?”  
 
I took one packet from him and said, “No, one will be enough. I’ll carry it in my pocket when I’m out hiking or walking.”
 
The man introduced himself. “I’m Delbert.” he said, offering his hand, then asked, “What do you do?”  
 
Shaking his hand, I answered, “I’m Tom and I drive around the country with those little trailers.” I said, pointing out the window to my Scamp in the parking lot.  
 
He asked some questions about the Scamp and about June, my dog, who was sitting in the driver’s seat looking our way.  He noticed my wedding ring. Nodding toward the band, he asked, “Does your wife travel with you?”
 
“She did last year,” I answered, “but she has a full-time job now and can’t go with me.”
 
“Do you have faith?” Delbert asked, “Do you believe.” I assured him I did. “Well as long as you have faith, and wear that ring, she’s never very far from your heart.” He made me smile. Then he showed me his ring, pointed upward and said, “My wife left me a long time ago. I know we’ll be together again someday.” Delbert got a little choked up when he said, “As long as I keep wearing this ring, and have my faith, it will be like we were never separated.” He smiled as if reminiscing. Feeling his love for her, I was getting a little teary-eyed myself.
 
 
I was watching the way he packed his bag. “I have to keep everything in order, so I know where it is. If anybody needs something – I always know where my stuff is so I can help them out.”
 
About that time a lady came over with a gift card. “I want you to have a nice day.” she said as she gave him the card.  He thanked her, then she walked away.
 
Delbert showed it to me and said, “Some people give me gift cards.” He hesitated with his story. “Most people are pretty nice to me,” He said, “but one time a couple guys gave me a card for Home Depot. They said it was a fifty-dollar gift card and hoped I could use it, then laughed when they were walking away.”
 
Delbert continued, “I met some people who didn’t have anything. They were pretty down on their luck, so I went to the store with them to buy some things. When we went to check out, the lady at the cash register told me there was no money left on the card, so we had to put everything back. I guess I figured out why those guys were laughing. Ever since then, I’ve been a little skeptical about gift cards.” 
 
His story made me sad and angry. I don’t understand why those guys would think their prank was funny – it was nothing short of cruel and mean spirited. I smiled at Delbert and said, “I’m sorry they did that to you. I’m sure the gift card that lady just gave you, is good.”
 
I asked Delbert where he was traveling to; maybe I could give him a ride. He declined, “I’m going to Washington, but I have to stay in town to go to court tomorrow.” He said, then explained, “I was at a different restaurant having coffee and checking my things when the manager came and told me I couldn’t hang out there. I told him I was just drinking my coffee that I bought there - but I didn’t want any trouble, so I put my stuff away and left.  I went outside to finish my coffee.
 
“Before I headed down the road, I went in and asked if I could have a refill because I know they give free refills. The manager said, ‘Sure, you can have a refill.’ He asked my name and where I was from, and while I was answering him, two policemen came in and asked, ‘What’s the problem here.’ The manager said that he told me to leave and I came back in – so the police arrested me and now I have to go to court tomorrow.” Delbert’s story was really getting to me.
 
I asked if he had a place to stay for the night, thinking maybe I could get him a room. Delbert patted his backpack and said he had a sleeping bag that was really warm and a good tarp to keep him dry. “I’ve been sleeping under a bush up by that bridge.” He said pointing toward the interstate. He grinned, “It’s legal and I can’t get a room anyway without a credit card, or a lot of cash for a deposit. I don’t believe in credit cards and I like being outdoors better. Even if I had the money, I wouldn’t stay in a hotel.”
 
He went on to tell me how he prefers to use his money to help others in need. “There are a lot of people worse off than me. They literally don’t have anything” It warmed my heart to hear him say that.
 
Delbert closed his pack, fastening the buckles. He put his right arm through the strap, then swung the pack up onto his back, sliding his left arm through the other strap. He bounced upward a couple times to adjust the pack so that it was riding comfortably on his back and shoulders.
 
As he was getting ready to leave, I handed him a couple twenty-dollar bills. “I’m not making any judgements about you, Delbert, but I want you to take this money. If you can use it, that’s great, and if not, will you find someone to give it to who does need it?”
 
Delbert, took the money, thanked me and assured, “I’m doing pretty good right now,” he said, “but I know I’ll meet people who need help. I’ll put this to good use.” He folded the bills neatly tucking them into his front pocket.
 
I shook Delbert’s hand telling him I truly enjoyed his company. “I’m glad I met you, too, Tom. Thank you for sharing your time and your gifts with a stranger.” He raised two fingers, giving me the peace sign, then closed his fingers together.  After kissing his fingertips, he pointed to heaven and said, “Keep the faith, brother.”
 
As I watched him walk toward the street, I thought about our visit and the things Delbert said to me. Here was a man with little more than the clothes on his back, still he chooses to count his blessings. He considered himself to be well off because he has a warm sleeping bag, a good tarp and had found a bush that provided shelter from the wind. He uses what little money he has to help others less fortunate than himself.  He considered his faith to be the most important thing he owned.
 
I was completely humbled by this man. As I looked out the window, watching him disappear down the road, I reached in my top shirt pocket. Pulling out a small, pink package, I read the label out loud. “Antibacterial, Moist Wipes. For Hands. Kills Germs.” I smiled, placing the packet back into my pocket, “God bless you, Delbert. You may well be the richest man I have ever met.”