On my last trip to Massachusetts, I had car trouble and ended up leaving the car out east. Needless to say, this put me a few days behind schedule and I still had one more trailer I promised to get to the next customer before Christmas. I would have to pull it with my truck. I was in the northeast part of the country and the next trailer was going southwest – to California. That’s a long way away.
 
I was driving down the interstate toward the southwest listening to Christmas music. I’ll Be Home for Christmas was playing on the radio. The version was done by Pentatonix, a modern group of a Capella vocalist who do some amazing songs, but I didn’t care for their version of this song. They were trying to give it an upbeat tempo - this song was meant to be solemn. It was written to be a soldier’s point of view, one whom desperately wanted to be, and would be home for Christmas…if only in his dreams. Nobody sings that song quite like Bing Crosby.
 
I started wondering if I would make it home by Christmas. Calculating my route and schedule, I determined: “Good Lord willing, and no more car trouble, and I’ll make it with a day, maybe two to spare.” The song really had me thinking about Christmas and home.
 
Edgar Allan, our cat, dips his paws into the water bowl. Melissa says he does this to create ripples, making it easier for him to see the water; I say he does it to annoy our dog, June, with whom he shares a water dish.
 
Edgar and June were traveling with me on this trip. In the back seat of the truck, Edgar was sitting at the water bowl. He dipped his paws into the water and watched June to see her reaction. June, with her head lying flat on the seat bench, was looking up at Edgar but gave no reaction. Edgar dipped his paw in the water again and watched June. Again, June gave no response. Edgar poked his paw deeper into the water a third time, this time flicking the water in the face of the non-responsive canine. Ha! Proof! I knew I was right all along.
 
With his wet paw Edgar gave two playful bats to June’s long schnoz, June pawed back at him and a ruckus was underway. A few moments later, June tired of the play stepping onto the arm rest between the two front seats, “Dad, will you tell Edgar to stop touching me?” “I’m sure you two can work this out without me.” I replied and continued down the road.
 
We were in Wyoming when I stopped for gas. I rolled each of the four windows down about two and a half, maybe three inches. It was fairly warm and I wanted June and Edgar to have plenty of fresh air while I was stopped. “Stay here while I fill the tank,” I told them, “and no fighting!”
 
The gas pump wouldn’t read my card, so I moved the truck to another pump. The next pump wouldn’t read my card either, instead it flashed a sign, “Please See the Cashier.” Inside the clerk asked, “Are you on pump one or seven. They’ve both been giving us trouble today.” I looked outside, I started on pump one, then moved my truck to pump seven. “How much do you want to put in it?” he asked.
 
“Can I just leave my card with you, top it off, then come back in?” I asked. I hate when they enter one amount and promise, “It will only charge you for what you get.” I don’t trust that system and frankly, I forget to check my account to see if they did credit me the difference. “Nope” he replied, “I have to enter an amount.” “Don’t worry about it,” I said, “I’ll move to a different pump.” It was frustrating, but I eventually topped off the tank so we could get back on the road again.
 
A mile or so down the road I told June, “This place was just too busy. At the next stop I will find a grassy area and we can play ball for a while.” June’s ears perked right up. “I’d really like that,” she said. “How are you doing. Edgar?” I called out, but he didn’t answer. A little louder. I repeated. “How are you doing, Edgar?” Hmfph, still no reply. “Edgar?” I glanced over my shoulder to see what he was up to.
 
Edgar wasn’t on the seat, nor on the seat back. He wasn’t sleeping on top of his litter box and he wasn’t in it, nor on top of the tote where I keep some groceries and snack. He likes to sit up there and look out the window. “Edgar?” I hollered, but got no response. I quickly turned into a business driveway, threw the transmission into park and jumped out of the truck. I ran around to the passenger side, opening the back door, I called his name, “Edgar? Edgar buddy, where are you?” Searching frantically, I moved the sheets and blankets from the pet bed. No Edgar. “Come on buddy, where are you?” I pushed my hand feeling under the front seat. He wasn’t there. I was getting nervous.
 
When Edgar was a little kitten, we were on a road trip in New England. He was sprawled out sleeping in the front window on the dash when an ambulance went by. The loud, ear piercing siren scared him. He jumped off the dash, and ran to the back crawling behind the back seat. It’s a very small, tight area with a stationary seat back bolted to the wall. The space is not accessible without dismantling the trucks interior. He would go back there whenever he was scared.
 
I was sure he wouldn’t fit back then anymore because he is so much bigger but I had to check. I looked but could only see a few inches. I reached my arm behind the seat on the passenger side, but my arm was too big. I couldn’t reach in far enough. I ran to the driver’s side, looked and reached, but could not see or feel him. “Edgar? Are you back there?” I called gently to him, “Come out buddy.” There was no reply. I was on the verge of panic and wanted to cry.
 
In my mind I retraced my stop at the gas station. Surely those windows were not down nearly enough for him to get out and I didn’t leave a door open. I started thinking about how busy that street was. “Oh, Edgar!” Fearing the worst, I jumped in the truck and raced back to the gas station.
 
There was a maintenance man working on the car wash. I stopped and quickly jumped out. “Have you seen a black cat wearing a blue harness roaming around?” “No, I haven’t.” he said, adding, “and I’ve been here for a couple hours.” I quickly scribbled my phone number on a scrap of paper, handing it to him. “His name is Edgar Allan. If you see him, please call me.” The man took the paper and said he would.
 
I walked several feet away, breathing hard, anxiously turning circles in the driveway. I looked blankly around, calling his name. “Edgar? Edgar Allan! Come on buddy, let’s go.” I sighed bewildered. “Oh, Edgar...” I felt empty, helpless and completely lost. I was scared and wanted to throw up, but instead I prayed, “Oh dear God, please help me find him.” Then a voice said to me, “Go get June, she will find him.”
 
I ran to the truck. June was in the front passenger seat where she’s not supposed to be, but there was no time for discipline. I put June’s leash on her and said, “Come on, June. You have to help me find Edgar.” June looked at me and calmly said, “He’s behind the back seat.” In disbelief I said “What? He can’t be. I looked, I felt for him.” June repeated, “I’m telling you, he’s behind the back seat.” I opened the back door and looked. Edgar was sitting there at the edge of the small opening, looking at me.
 
Every parent has experienced this rush of emotions: when you go from being worried sick and praying for your kid to be safe; desperately longing for them; fearing you’ve lost them and promising God you will give anything if He will just bring them back…to suddenly wanting to ring the kids neck!
 
Edgar looked up at me with his big remorseful eyes and let out a soft meow. He said, “I got scared when that ambulance went by. It was so loud.”
 
I recalled moving my truck from pump number seven back to pump number two, opposite of pump number one ­– the first pump that gave me trouble. While I was fueling my truck, a SUV pulled up to pump one. The man was grumbling. I walked around to his side and asked, “Is it not accepting your card?” “It’s telling me to see the cashier and I know my card is good.” he said. “Yeah,” I explained, “It did that to me too. Pump seven is doing the same thing.” The man and I both turned and looked to the street as an ambulance went racing by with all the lights on and sirens blaring. “Man, those things are loud.” the man said, then asked, “Did you say pump seven is doing the same thing?”
 
I reached behind the seat and pulled Edgar out, lifting him into my arms. I instantly went from wanting to ring his neck to needing to console him. I cuddled him close to my chest and kissed his head. “I’m sorry about that ambulance buddy.” I said then assured him, “It’s going to be okay. You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you. You’ll always be safe with me.” Edgar started purring. I held him for a moment then set him back down on the pet bed on the back seat.
 
June was still sitting in the front passenger seat with the door open, her leash dangling from her collar. “Do we still get to go for a walk, Dad?” I detached the leash from her collar, “Not right now Bugs. It’s too busy here. But we will stay longer at the next stop where I promise you, I’ll find a grassy area and throw the ball as much as you want.” She seemed a little put off, but said, “Okay. I can wait.” I gave her a good rub on the head, “Thank you for helping me find Edgar, June Bug. You’re the best dog in the world”
 
I got back into the truck and looked over my shoulder. Edgar was sitting on top of the tote looking out the window. June was sitting in the front seat with her head hanging low, looking at me with an expression that said she knew she was doing something wrong. “It’s okay Bugs, you can sit up here with me for a while.” I lowered her window so she could poke her nose out into the fresh air and let her ears flap in the breeze. I thought to myself, “Whether I make it to my house or not, I will always be at home with these two around.”
 
I turned right onto the road, merging into the busy traffic then adjusted the volume on the radio. A commercial just finished playing, talking about being home for the holidays. Then a jingle ran promoting the radio station: “Happy holidays from Kxxx, where we play the most Christmas music…” The music started and a smooth, gentle tenor began crooning, “I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me…”
 
I got a little tear-eyed as I pulled onto the ramp leading to the interstate. I turned the volume louder. Nobody sings it quite like ole Bing Crosby.
 
Merry Christmas, everyone!
 
Tom can be reached for comment at facebook.com/tompalen.98
 

I wished my first person of the season a “Merry Christmas” this morning.

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After fueling the car, I went inside the C-store at a Pilot Truck Stop near Omaha, Nebraska and grabbed two bananas. A man in wheel chair was in line ahead of me paying for his items. When the cashier handed him his change, he dropped a coin.


I set my fruit on the counter, freeing my hand so I could bend over to retrieve the coin for him. The quick cashier rang up my items and said, “Fifty cents, please.” Just as quick, the man reached down and picked up his fallen coin - a quarter. He set it on the counter, saying, “Here. I’ll pay for one of them.” I smiled and thanked him. Before I could dig my change out of my pocket, he poked through the coins in his hand, placing another quarter on the counter saying, “Let me get them both.” I again thanked him, “Wow! Nobody ever bought me a banana, let alone two! Thank you!” We shared a good laugh over that. Very sincerely I said to him, “Merry Christmas, my friend.” He nodded upward with his head, “Peace, brother.” he replied. I left with my bananas, feeling really good about that whole exchange.


A few miles down the road, I reached for my coffee. “What? I forgot to get coffee?” No problem, a blue road sign indicated there was a Mc Donald’s just a mile up the road. I turned off at the next exit.


The man in line ahead of me was wearing a florescent green vest with the reflective stripes. After ordering his breakfast the cashier told him his total. He handed her a bill saying, “Here. Take it out of this five hundred.” I smiled and said to the cashier, “I hate to see him break a five hundred dollar bill, just for breakfast. Throw my coffee on there too, to make it worth breaking.” We all had a good laugh.


The man said, “It was five hundred pennies, not dollars.” then told the cashier, “but go ahead and get him a coffee.” “I was going to have a cookie too.” I said. “Well, then give him a cookie, too.” he told the cashier, shaking his head, still laughing. The cashier asked me, “Chocolate chip, or oatmeal raisin?” “Seriously? It’s breakfast time.” I said, “Oatmeal raisin, of course.” I then muttered, “Are you kidding me? Who eats chocolate chip cookies for breakfast?”  We all shared another laugh.


A girl behind the counter handed me a tray with my cookie and coffee. I thanked the man again for his generosity and wished each of them a Merry Christmas. “Merry Christmas to you, too.” they both replied in unison.


A lady behind us was listening to all of this and with a southern drawl said, “What about me?” The three of us - the cashier, the man in the fluorescent green vest and myself, simultaneously said, “Merry Christmas!” She smiled from ear to ear and replied, “Well, Merry Christmas, y’all.” My day was made.


Fifty cents for two bananas and $1.14 for a cookie and a cup of coffee. Those two gestures were worth far more than the forty dollars worth of gas I just put in the tank.


I started the car, depressed the clutch pedal and moved the shifter into first gear. I glanced at the GPS. “529 miles to Boulder, Colorado.” I said out loud to my dog, “Put your seat belt on, June. This will be a fast trip.” June stared at me blankly as if to say, “What about me?” Giving her a brisk rub on the head, I said, “Merry Christmas, June Bug.” “Merry Christmas, Dad.” She said, then smiled and looked contently out the front windshield.


Tom can be reached for comment at Facebook.com/Tom.palen.98

​I will walk or drive by a thrift shop and look the other way to avoid the temptation of going in. Don’t get me wrong, I love thrift stores, but I end up buying things I don’t need just because they were a bargain. The thrift store to me is like a Shop-Vac hose running over the floor in a construction area - it draws in and sucks up everything that is near its opening.

I sat at the red stop light, waiting for it to turn green. The Goodwill Store was ahead on the other side of the intersection. I could have turned right to avoid driving near the store, but then I thought how it gets lonely working by myself on my current project. “I could buy a cheap radio for the house.” I said, “It would break the silence.” I went straight through the intersection and pulled into the Goodwill parking lot.

Inside, I promptly found a three-dollar radio I wanted and started for the checkout lane. Suddenly I felt an irresistible force pulling at me. It was drawing me to the kitchen section to see if there wasn’t something there I couldn’t live without. “Be strong, man. Turn away.” I said, but then I caved in; besides, the kitchen stuff was on the way to the front counter - sort of. What would it hurt to just look?

I viewed the shelves full of bowls and pans and misfit lids. Then, there it was, on the third shelf up from the bottom. A 9x12” baking pan. It was white on the inside; dark brown on the outside. It wasn’t a regular glass baking dish, it was pottery, more like a bean pot. It had handles on each end and the sides were wavy, but most of all it was extra deep. “Man, this would be the perfect lasagna pan.” I said as I examined the dish inside and out, looking for chips. It was in good condition and only $5.99. I set the radio inside the dish, picked it up and started for the front counter. Then I turned around and set it back on the shelf. “You don’t need to spend that six bucks.” I said, and turned to leave.

I got just a few feet away before I went back and picked the piece up again. “I’m going to buy it.” I said. On the way to the register I convinced myself, “I don’t need another baking dish. Just put it back and go home!” I set it on the shelf and stepped briskly toward the register. Waiting in line, I thought again how unique the dish was. “You’ll probably never see another one like it.” I said. Geesh! What a dilemma. I stepped out of line and went back to get the dish, second guessing myself all the way to the kitchen area.

When I got there another lady was holding the brown dish, turning it over and over to examine it inside and out looking for chips. I stood back, acting like I was looking at something else. I thought she was going to put it in her cart, then she lifted it back toward the shelf but never quite set it down. She started looking it over again; she couldn’t decide either.

I finally said to her, “If you’d just put that in your cart it would confirm my decision that I don’t need it.” She looked at me and said, “That’s the problem. I don’t really need it either, but it’s such a cool dish and I love the high sides”  “Do you know what that dish would be really good for?” I asked her. We answered in unison, “Lasagna!” We shared a good laugh about that.

“I’ll assume you make your own lasagna?” I queried. “Yes I do and it is delicious!” She said. We discussed recipes, each telling just enough to show that we made a mean lasagna, but not giving away any secrets either.

I learned her name was Sheryl. After a few minutes she took the item from her cart, handed it to me and said, “Here, you take it.” “Are you sure?” I asked. “Yes, I’m sure. I don’t need another pan.” She assured.

Next, we talked about pies and pie crust, again sharing recipes without telling too much. It turns out we both make pies and often give them away. She seemed to be such a generous person, I handed her the brown dish. “I want you to have this.” I said to her and she graciously took the dish and placed it in her cart.

Sheryl told me she was the night manager at the Perkins restaurant in Winona. We talked about how we like cooking for other people and taking meals to people when they needed a hand. Sheryl reached in her cart and handed me the brown dish, “Here you take it.” She said. “No it’s yours.” I replied. “I insist, you take it.” She said again. I thanked her, and took the dish.   
We said our farewells, “It was nice meeting you and chatting with you.” I said to her. “You too,” She replied as we went our separate ways.

We ran into each other again in the checkout line at the at the register. “Are you positive?” I asked Sheryl one more time. She chuckled, “Take your pan and enjoy it!” We shared another good laugh.

I got into my car with my brown pottery baking dish sitting it in the front seat next to me. Glancing at it, I said to myself. “You really should have let her have the dish.” But she wanted me to have it, too. I decided, as much as I liked the dish, I could just as easily live without it.

What is it about thrift stores? Are we really that obsessed with finding an item we just can’t live without? Is it the bargain we seek? Or finding the perfectly unique item and snatching it up before someone else gets it? I think it might be the comradery; meeting new people, sharing good conversation and fun stories. Maybe that’s what draws me to the thrift store.
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In truth, it is that interaction with other people; making new friends. That’s the treasure I can’t live without, which I sometimes find in a thrift store. Finding an attractive dark brown 9X12”, extra deep, pottery baking dish that’s perfect for lasagna for under six bucks? That’s just a bonus.


Tom can be reached for comment at Facebook.com/Tom.palen.98

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I’ve pulled my old Subaru Outback from retirement (the one with 349,000 miles) and  decided I’m going to drive it until she dies.
This car and I go way back; we’ve been in all lower forty-eight states together and a lot of Canada, too. We’ve driven over every mountain range in America and all the plains. We’ve been to the shores of all five Great Lakes and the Great Salt Lake; the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico and both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. We have a lot of history together and we know each other well. That doesn’t mean we always get along without conflict.

This morning, headed south on Highway 1 toward Duluth, a dash light came on that said, “Airbag.” I snapped at the dashboard, “Yeah, sure! I know I talk a lot, but don’t call me an Airbag, you bucket of bolts!”

We shared a good laugh about that and made our way to the city where my first stop was the dentist’s office.  When I came out, Subie asked me, “How did it go?” I’m going to need some work.” I replied in a deflated tone of voice. Subie chuckled and asked, “Is it because you’re getting older?” Sarcastically, I laughed, “Haha. Is that rust spot on your door because you’re getting older?” We gave each other a look of disdain and moved on.

Our next stop was Miller Hill Subaru in Duluth. The service guys, Rich, Casey and Garret, were surprised to see her again. “I thought you retired that car?” One said, another said, “It’s a blast from the past.” Another suggested seeing my old car was like watching an episode of The Walking Dead. Subie and I laughed and rolled our eyes.

Garrett waited on me, “What can I do for you today?” He asked. “I need a new filament for the right high beam.” I said.  Garret wrote a service ticket and in a minute or two, a tech came to take Subie into the shop. Watching her be driven away was like a parent seeing their child escorted down the hall to an exam room at the optometrist’s office. I went to the waiting room.

Soon, Garret came to tell me my car was ready. I paid my bill, he gave me the keys, and told me the car was parked out front. That made me happy. She’s still good enough to be placed up front with the newer, lower mileage cars.

I went out, got in the car and pulled the door closed.  “Wow! Whoever brought my car out must have been a tall, long-legged dude.” I slid my seat forward so I could reach the pedals, then fastened my safety belt. Facing the large panes of glass in the showroom windows, I could see our reflection as if we were in front of a big mirror. I smiled and waved at myself, my reflection waved back, then I started the car. When I released the parking brake both day lights came on. I turned on the lights, flashed the high beams and sure enough, all four headlights were working perfectly.

As we pulled away, Subie said, “Thanks for getting my glasses fixed. I’ll be able to see much better at night.”  “No problem, buddy.” I replied, “No problem at all.”

Since my first appointment of the day was with the dentist, I had skipped my morning coffee. I figured avoiding coffee breath was the polite thing to do. My next stop was to get a cup of joe and use the WiFi.

I saw on Facebook where my friend’s daughter, Kelsie, just graduated from the academy and is now one of Iowa’s newest State Troopers. I recalled the first time I met Kelsie - she was just a tiny baby. Her dad brought her to the radio station in a car seat carrier. “Hey,” Dave said, “I want you to meet someone really special.”

The whole staff gathered around, oohing and awing at this precious little girl. Some started talking to her in goofy baby voices. I looked at Dave, who was one big smile from ear to ear, and said, “She’s a beautiful baby, Dave. Has she got a job yet?”

Since then, Kelsie has grown up, been to school, worked internships and had a few different  jobs. But today was different because now she has a career. I was as proud of her as I would be if she was one of my own kids. I sent her a message reading, “Awesome, Kelsie! I‘m very proud of you! Just remember when you pull me over, I’ve known you since you were born. Will that get me out of a ticket?” I chuckled over that, knowing I’ll be going to Iowa again in the near future. I closed my iPad and returned to my car.

Subie complained, “Geesh, already! What took you so long?” “I was schmoozing a little bit - talking my way out of a future speeding ticket.” I explained. Subie retorted, “Well, you wouldn’t get speeding tickets if you would set the cruise control.” “Ha!” I exclaimed, using logical rational, “You’re the one with wheels! YOU were speeding, not me.” Subie took offense, “Well you’re the one who told me to do it.” “And do you do everything I tell you to do?” I asked sarcastically. “Yes, pretty much, I do.” Subie answered. “Yeah, right...” I mumbled, and turned left onto highway 53, heading south toward Winona.

“What time are we going to get there?” Subie asked. “It depends. Are you going to speed today?” I answered with a question as I shifted into fifth gear and set the cruise control at sixty-one miles per hour. “You better watch out for Trooper Kelsie.” Subie warned in reference to my speed. “She’s in Iowa. We’re in Minnesota. She won’t be getting us...at least not today.” I said and kicked it up to sixty-three as we purred down the highway.
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I really like this car - we go way back. We have a lot of history together and I hope we’ll have plenty of future together, too. With 349,000 miles, every day is a gift.


Tom can be reached for comment at Facebook.com/tom.palen.98