I reached into the shower to turn on the water. Next, I removed my pajama pants, dropped them on the bathroom floor, and stepped into the shower. Usually, I would put the pajamas in the clothes hamper, but it was in the laundry room. The hot water felt good, but I was in a bit of a hurry, so the shower was quick.
After drying off, I wrapped the towel around my waist and stepped out of the shower. Without looking where I was going, I stepped on my pajama pants. I felt and heard a very uncomfortable crunch under my foot. I had an idea what it was, which gave me an uneasy feeling, so I picked up my PJs. I’ve always said, “Any situation can only become hopeless if I give up hope.”
So, hoping for the best (but expecting the worst), I reached into the pocket. I began pulling out pieces of my broken and shattered reading glasses. “Darn it,” I cursed.
The situation would not have been so bad, except Melissa just bought these readers for me about a week before. She bought them because I had lost my other pair(s). Since I was going into town, I decided there was no need to share the incident with my wife. So instead, I would buy another pair of basic black frame glasses, and she would be none the wiser to my boneheaded move.
I grabbed a few things from the grocery store in town, then went to Zup’s Dollar Store to replace my reading glasses. They had plenty of basic black frames but they didn’t catch my eye. What did get my attention was a pair of bright green, I mean to say, really bright, loud, fluorescent green reading glasses. I put the glasses on, looked in the mirror, and laughed. “You look like an idiot,” I said to myself. Then, remembering that I had lost several pairs of readers, “However, on a positive note, it will be impossible to misplace a pair of glasses that shine like a beacon at night.”
I went back and forth about whether to buy the glasses or not. Then, I thought about my six-year-old granddaughter; she wears equally bright, purple-framed glasses. “Evelyn will love these,” I said. “Besides, they’re only a buck-fifty.” So, I took the glasses to the counter to pay for them, then headed home.
I put the glasses on when I got home to show my wife. She rolled her eyes. “You’re not seriously going to wear those, are you?”
“Of course, I’m going to,” I replied. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you look like a dork,” she said. Then she asked, “Where are the glasses I bought for you last week?” Oops. I forgot that was the reason I was going to get basic black frames. So I avoided answering her question.
“Well,” I said, “when Evelyn sees these, she will say she has the coolest Papa in the world. Now whose opinion do you think I’m going to listen to, yours or Evelyn’s?”
Melissa asked again, “What happened to the glasses I bought for you last week?” This time she had me pinned down, waiting for an answer. Finally, I had to fess up and tell her about the incident in the bathroom.
 
My wife shook her head in disbelief. “Well, at least you won’t lose these. And, if you wear them in the yard at night, we won’t lose you either.” We shared a good laugh about that.
Occasionally I enjoy going to mass at Cathedral in Superior, Wisconsin. After mass, it is my custom to stop and visit with the priest; no matter where I attend mass, I frequently take him treats I’ve baked.
The Sunday after Thanksgiving, I was driving to the 7:30 am mass at Cathedral. Unfortunately, a car hit me in the side in an intersection two blocks away from the church. To make a long story short, my car was totaled in the crash. I boogered up my knee a bit, but other than that, no one was hurt in the crash.
The accident caused me to miss mass, but I hobbled to the church and caught Father Andrew Ricci at the end of mass. “Why are you limping,” he asked. I showed him a picture of my car and told him what had just happened. (My car was hit hard, very mangled, and looked terrible. One would have guessed there would have been severe injury – or worse!) “Thank God no one was seriously injured,” he said.
Then I handed Father Andy a bag of Snickerdoodle cookies. I smiled and said, “It takes one heck of a cookie to survive a crash like that!” We shared a good laugh about that.
Last Wednesday, Father Ricci posted a couple of photos on social media. While he was driving, he was struck from behind. His car was hit hard, very mangled, and looked terrible. Based on the photos, I would have guessed there would have been severe injury – or worse! However, it sounded like everyone walked away from the accident without serious injuries. “Thank God,” I said, looking at the photos again.
Last Sunday, I got up early to attend the 7:30 mass at Cathedral. Naturally, I grabbed my reading glasses on my way out the door. After mass, I stopped to talk with Father Andy. I told him about breaking my glasses and that I had replaced them.
Then, I pulled my glasses from my shirt pocket and put them on. “What do you think,” I asked. “My wife says I look like a dork,” I told him. “But my six-year-old granddaughter says she has the coolest Papa in the world.” We shared a good laugh about that. Then I got a bit more serious.
“These glasses are pretty visible,” I told the good padre. “As a matter of fact, I have not had another car run into me since I got these. So you should think about getting a pair for yourself.” We shared another good laugh about that, then it was time for me to go. It is my custom to go out for breakfast after church.
I drove to a favorite breakfast spot, Julie’s Family Restaurant on Belknap Street. I sat in a booth, and the hostess, Ashley, was walking my way with a menu. “Good morning,” she said as she laid the menu on the table. “What can I start you out with to drink?”
I put on my glasses to read the menu, then looked at her. “A glass of water and decaf coffee, please,” I said. Although she kept a very straight face (as did I), I could tell she wanted to laugh at my green glasses. It was one of those awkward moments; I felt like she was trying hard not to look at me, so it didn’t appear she was staring.
When she returned with my coffee and water, Ashley was grinning. “My wife says I look like a dork,” I told her. “But my six-year-old granddaughter thinks I’m the coolest Papa in the world.”
“Oh, I like them,” she said.
“You like what,” I questioned.
“Your glasses,” she replied. “I like your glasses.”
“Ah ha!” I exclaimed, “So you were staring at my glasses.”
“Well, they do draw attention, sir,” she said. “But I really do like them.” So we shared a good laugh about that.
While waiting to place my order, I read a highlighted note at the top of the menu. The message basically asked customers to avoid substitutions to help keep service more proficient. I took note.
Next, the waitress, Tammy, came to my table. “What can I get for you today,” she asked.
“I’d like the Everything Omelet, please,” I said. “But don’t write anything down yet. Can you hold the onion and give me mushrooms instead? Also, can I get salsa in place of green peppers and substitute the cheese with sour cream?”
Tammy said, “How am I supposed to keep that straight without writing it down?”
So, I told her, “I don’t really want any of that stuff; I just had to ask after reading the top of your menu.” (I’m the kind of guy who asks if I can write a check after seeing a sign that says ‘No Checks.’)
“Oh, you…,” Tammy said while giving me a well-deserved, friendly nudge on the shoulder. “What kind of toast do you want? Potatoes on the side?”
After a good breakfast, I went to the store to buy some peat moss and manure compost for the yard.
I stacked four bags of manure on my flat cart, and the salesman helped me find rooting hormone. First, I put my glasses on to read the instruction label. Then I cut a deal with the salesman on three damaged bags of peat moss. He must have felt sorry for me, wearing these glasses, because I bought the lightly damaged bags for about thirty cents on the dollar.
I paid for my goods and headed out the door. Unfortunately, I forgot to remove my reading glasses, so the world seemed blurry. But I was pulling a heavy cart and didn’t care then.
Then a younger man walked around me. He looked at me, wearing my green glasses, and said, “Dude, you’re losing your S***.” Admittedly, the glasses are a bit obnoxious, but his comment was rude. 
About fifty feet later, a lady waiting on the sidewalk looked at me and said, “Young man, you need to get your S*** together.” Wow, people! My glasses were loud but certainly not offensive. At least not enough to draw such harsh comments.
I got to my truck and placed the three damaged bags of peat moss in the back. Next, I loaded one bag of manure, then another. “Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought I bought four bags of manure. I checked my receipt. Indeed, I did pay for four sacks. I hurried back to the store to tell the cashier.
On the way, I noticed two white bags on the sidewalk. The lady was still standing there, waiting for her ride. She smiled, “It’s good to see you’ve turned your life around and are now getting your S*** together.” We shared a real hearty laugh about that. I put the two bags in my truck and started for home.
Melissa texted me, “Will you see if you can find any more of that Leinenkigel’s Peach Beer?” It was a tasty brew we had at our daughter’s house the week before. I was almost to Hammond Liquor, so I turned into the parking lot.
Hammond’s is a Liquor store with a lounge in the back and a steakhouse upstairs. I found the beer and asked the cashier, “Are you the bartender, too.”
“Until tonight, I am,” she said. “Did you need something?”
Through the window, I noticed a man sitting alone at the bar. I could tell he was a veteran, and I wanted to go talk to him. “Do you have the Leinie’s Peach on tap?” She said she did not and ran through the list of beers on tap. I stopped her, “Moon Man. Perfect, I’ll have a Moon Man.”
In a joking way, I said to the man, “It’s a little early to be drinking, don’t ya think?”
He laughed, “Not for me. I’ve been out fishing on Lake Superior since five am. After eight hours, that’s a day.”
“Well,” I said to the bartender, “Since he says it’s not too early for a drink, can I get a beer?” The bartender winked at me and handed me the beer she had already poured. “I’d like to buy him a drink, too.”
I introduced myself and learned his name was Bud. Bud and I enjoyed a conversation talking about almost everything. At one point, Bud pulled something from his pocket he wanted me to read. When I put my glasses on to read it, Bud snickered. “What,” I asked.
“Nothing,” Bud said, “I’d just like you to look at that.” I could tell he found my glasses quite bizarre but was too polite to say anything.
Bud went on to tell me he’d served in Viet Nam. He talked bout his time there and friends who didn’t come home. I did more listening than talking; I felt like that was what he needed. Eventually, the conversation became lighter and returned to laughter. Finally, Bud stood up. “Well, I’ve got things to do,” Bud said. “Thank you for the drink. Maybe I’ll see you here again sometime.”
I shook Bud’s hand. “I want to thank you for your service, Bud, and I will say a prayer for your lost friends.”
“Thank you,” Bud said, then he paused. “Do you mean that, or are you just being nice because I was the only one in the bar who would sit next to you, wearing those glasses?”
“Bud,” I replied with a question in my voice. “You were the only other person in the bar.”
“See what I mean?” Bud laughed, “People were afraid to even come here with you wearing those things.” We shared a good laugh about that, then said our farewells.
Driving north on Highway 61, I saw a State Trooper sitting on the side of the four-lane road. Once I was passed, he turned his lights on and pulled off the side of the road. I was wearing my seatbelt, doing seventy in a sixty-five mile per hour zone – but I doubted he would stop me for that. I had a good breakfast and nursed one beer in over an hour’s time, so that was no issue.
I pulled over to the shoulder and put my glasses on to look for my driver’s license. I looked out the window and watched the trooper speed by. We made brief eye contact for just a moment. Then I looked in the rearview mirror, nodding my head and laughing. “Even the Trooper wants nothing to do with these bad boys.” I like my new green glasses, and my six-year-old granddaughter thinks I’m the coolest Papa in the world. I’m good with that.

​My neighbor Penne sent me a message: "Hey! Asking a favor: would you check if there are still tickets for the Green Door smelt fry on May 20; and, if there are, buy two for us? Obviously, we'll reimburse…."
Her message struck me as odd, not for asking a favor but for looking for tickets to a smelt fry a month before the event. I told her I would check. I called the Green Door, and the man on the phone said there were plenty of tickets. Of course, there were; the event was still a month away.
Beaver Bay is a small town (population 122 people) on Highway 61 along the north shore of Lake Superior. I seriously doubted their tickets would sell out. However, Penne seemed to think they would, so I was happy to help by getting the tickets. Two days later I stopped at the Green Door in Beaver Bay while on my way to Duluth.
The Green Door is a small pub built inside an old schoolhouse. The front door is painted green, thus the name. People meet there for a drink and to socialize. They can play a game of pool, toss bags or throw darts. It's also a gathering place for community events – like the smelt fry. 
I walked to the bar. "Can I get two tickets for the smelt fry?" Then, I clarified, "I need tickets for the May 20th smelt fry."
The bartender smiled at me. "We only have one date for the smelt fry," he said as he handed me a pair of tickets. "They'll be twenty dollars, please." I gave him a twenty.
Then I asked more about the event. "Do your tickets usually sell out?"
"We sold out last year," he said. Then he explained the smelt fry was a long-running annual event. "It was an old Scandinavian tradition to have a fry when the smelt were running," Clayton said. "I'm a die-hard Scandinavian, born and raised here. We need to keep these traditions alive and pass them on to future generations. The last smelt fry was in 1991. My friend Dan and I wanted to restart the annual smelt fry.
"Thirty-one years had passed, so we had to ask some folks who were around back then about the event, and we started planning. Then, finally, in 2022, we had the first smelt fry in Beaver Bay since the early nineties." Clayton told quite a story. He seemed passionate about the event.
He also told me there would be vendors, a silent auction, live entertainment on the stage, and more. I hadn't been to a smelt fry for fifty years, but Clayton made it sound fun. "Why don't you give me one more ticket," I said.
"Just one," he asked? "Do you need one for your wife?"
I laughed, "I don't think I could get my wife to eat smelt if I dipped it in dark chocolate and served it with red wine." We shared a good laugh about that. I took my three tickets and left.
 
I sent Penne a picture of her tickets, teasing that I had to buy them from a ticket scalper. Although I only paid ten dollars each (face value), I figured I could turn a quick and substantial profit on these tickets, especially if the Green Door did sell out again this year.
Finally, May 20th came. I have a friend who lives alone, and I thought about asking him to join me. So, I called the Green Door to see if more tickets were available. "No, sir, we sold out over a week ago." Wow! That's okay; I would just go by myself. I wasn't sure what to expect. The last smelt fry I went to was fifty years ago.
As I got closer to the Green Door, I found both shoulders of Highway 61 were lined with diagonally parked cars, their noses in the grass. Finally, I found a spot a block or so away. A cart drove up and down the road, shuttling people to and from the event. The driver offered a ride, but it was a beautiful day, so I opted to walk.
A line of people stretched about halfway to the road in the parking lot. Then, the line turned right across the parking lot and back to the left in front of the stage, where a man was singing. I suddenly felt like I was at that smelt fry fifty years ago.
My dad took me to the American Legion in Port Washington, Wisconsin, a small town north of Milwaukee on the shores of Lake Michigan. Dad owned a radio station in Port. The line at the Legion was long, zig-zagging through the parking lot, almost to the street. I realized we would be in line for a while, and I was hungry.
I remember my dad talking to a lot of different people to pass the time. I was impressed by the number of people he spoke to. "Do you know all those people, Dad? Are they all your friends?"
"You don't have to know people to talk to them," Dad said. "That's how you make new friends." That brief conversation turned out to be a meaningful life lesson, one that I still practice today.
Finally, we reached the head of the line. Dad handed our tickets to a man. The man said, "Hello, Dan. How's the radio business?" He obviously knew my dad.
"It's a new adventure every day," Dad answered. Then said, "You have a real good crowd tonight, Bill."
"We sure do," Bill replied. "It must be all that advertising we do on WGLB." Dad smiled.
Then Dad introduced me, "This is one of my sons, Tommy. This is his first smelt fry."
Bill shook my hand, "It's nice to meet you, Tommy. You're in for a real treat tonight." I was looking forward to it. I'd never eaten smelt, but I liked fish and was hungry. The line moved along.
Dad picked up a tray and handed me another; we each took a plate, silverware, and a napkin. A man behind the counter used tongs to put several smelt on Dad's plate. I tugged on Dad's shirt. "Dad, your fish still has the head on it," I said with concern. "Did they forget to clean it?" Dad assured me it would be okay.
Next, the man put two fish on my plate, he grabbed a couple more from the big stainless steel serving pan and reached for my tray, but I stopped him. "Thank you, but I think this is enough. I'm not very hungry."
"Suit yourself," the man said. "You can always come back for more." Then he greeted the next customer. "How ya doin' Larry?"
The next person behind the counter was serving French fries. He noticed I only had two of the small fish on my plate. He was very perceptive. "Would you like a few extra fries," he said, adding another half serving to my plate. Another man gave me a scoop of coleslaw, and finally, a lady put a dinner roll on my plate. "Enjoy your dinner," she said. "There's tarter sauce on the table over there."
I followed Dad as he made his way to a table. He paused to greet several people, introducing me to each of them, but the whole time I was distracted, staring at those two fish on my plate. I wondered, "Why did they even keep these fish? I would have thrown them back; they're too small."
When we finally sat down, Dad noticed I was eating fries and slaw but hadn't touched the fish. "What's the matter?"
"I don't think they cleaned these fish," I whispered. Although young at the time, I enjoyed fishing. I had cleaned enough fish to know what was inside them.
"This is the way smelt is eaten," Dad assured. "Here," He reached over to my plate. Then, using his knife and fork, he removed the heads from my fish and put them on his plate.
I was still concerned (if not grossed out). "What about the bones?"
"Smelt bones are so soft and small, you can eat them." Dad took another bite of his fish to show me. "Didn't you get a dinner roll?" Dad was changing the subject.
"Mine fell on the floor when we walked to the table." I didn't want to admit that I accidentally knocked it off my tray while poking my fish to make sure it was not still alive.
Dad broke his dinner roll in two, giving me half. I managed to eat one of the two fish. It tasted good, but the thought of eating a whole fish – all of it – left me a bit queasy. So Dad took my other smelt and ate it.
As we were leaving, Dad stopped to talk to yet more people. The smelt fry seemed like more than just dinner; it was a gathering where you joined friends and neighbors and made new friends.
Despite my churning tummy, I was very happy. I felt like Dad was proud of me, introducing me to each of his friends. Finally, one person said, "It's nice to meet you, Tommy. How was your dinner?"
I froze like a deer in headlights. How do I answer that? Should I lie to them or tell the truth, saying, "Y'all are pretty gross people eating whole fish like that." Dad knew I didn't care so much for the smelt. I could feel him looking at me and hear him thinking, 'If you can't say something nice….'
I had already learned much from my dad about manners and being polite. Still, I wasn't going to lie to these people. And so, I answered them honestly, "That coleslaw was delicious. Not nearly as good as Mom's, but I'm sure they tried their best." Dad was pleased with my answer; it drew a hearty laugh from him and his friends.
I knew Dad was proud of me when he gave me a pat on the back and rubbed my shoulder while boasting, "Beverly's coleslaw is the best."
In hindsight, that was probably one of the best meals I'd ever experienced: The man who sensed my disdain for the fish and offered me more fries so that I wouldn't go hungry; Dad proudly introduced me to his friends, then split his role with me when I dropped mine; Making Dad proud by using the diplomacy I'd learned from him, and making his friends laugh. I felt warm inside as I reminisced.
"Have you been to these smelt fries before," a man asked while we stood in line at the Green Door? I told him I had not. "They had one last year," he said. "But it was the first in a long time." As he told his story, the man seemed to drift off in time: "When I was a kid, my dad volunteered with the Beaver Bay fire department. They put on the smelt fries back then. My brothers and I went to the firehouse every day after school to clean the smelt they'd caught that day…." I enjoyed conversations with him and many people I'd never met before. Then I recalled my dad teaching me, 'You don't have to know someone to talk to them – that's how you make new friends.'
As I got closer to the ticket taker, I started to worry. What if they serve the smelt whole without cleaning them. I began feeling the same anxiety fifty years ago in Port Washington. "Relax, Tom," I told myself. "It can't be that bad." After all, I've read a lot of stories in the bible about people eating fish. Yet, I don't recall any stories about them cleaning fish.
A few days earlier, I researched Port Washington's smelt fry to see if they were still being held. They were not, but I learned they started offering chicken strips to customers who didn't like smelt. This was most likely to appease people like me who were traumatized as children watching adults eating a whole fish – the entire fish, bones and all.
Maybe the Green Door would also offer an alternative. Just then, something distracted me. I glanced over to the tent filled with people at picnic tables. My friend Lana waved at me to sit with her and her husband.
I finally reached the food line. There were no chicken strips, but they cleaned their smelt and removed the heads before breading and frying them. That relieved me somewhat as I carried my food to join Lana and Don.
I took a bite from my first piece of smelt, then another. It tasted good. The next smelt I picked up was larger. I carefully split it into two pieces, then pinched the end of the spine between my finger and thumb and removed the bones – an instant filet. The smelt was tasty. Along with the smelt, they served potato chips and coleslaw on the side – not nearly as good as Mom's coleslaw, but I'm sure they tried their best.
By now, it was around two in the afternoon. Don and I enjoyed a second cold draught of Hamm's beer. (Now, there's a blast from the past.) Lana, who plays the piano and organ at church, warned me: "You're singing at mass at seven tonight. You better be sober!" We shared a good laugh about that.
After we finished our beer, I walked to my car several times, stopping to talk to people. First, I thought about what a festive day it had been. Then, I recalled my first and only other smelt fry in Wisconsin.
I found it ironic: the American Legion in Port Washington hasn't done a smelt fry for a few years. Meanwhile, Clayton and Don have rekindled the tradition in Beaver Bay.
Whether in Port Washington, or Beaver Bay, a smelt fry is not just a bunch of people coming to eat fish – it's a social event, a time to make memories.
I hope Port Washington gets their smelt fry going again. Meanwhile, I will attend and support the Beaver Bay smelt fry as long as they have them. Maybe they'll add chicken strips next year, and my wife will accompany me.
When I got home, I found my neighbor Penne had stopped by, leaving a twenty-dollar bill in our mailbox. "Darn it," I laughed. "I forgot to add my scalper's fee." But, not to worry; it's not too late.
You see, Penne and John shave the best rhubarb patch in northern Minnesota. Delicious rhubarb, which they've been very generous in sharing. Maybe I'll collect my scalper's fee in rhubarb. Then, I can make a rhubarb pie and invite them to join us, not just for the pie; it will be a social event.

​While living in Iowa, my girlfriend and I visited the north shore a few times yearly. Finally, I proposed marriage to her on the shore of Lake Superior. As a result, our wedding and honeymoon were on the north shore.
A year after we were married, my wife and I traveled to Alaska to help my Uncle John and Aunt Di move from Fairbanks to Silver Bay, Minnesota. After that, our trips north became even more frequent. We made sixteen trips to the north shore during our final year in Ottumwa. We had already been looking at houses in northern Minnesota; the time was right to pack up and move north.
After we bought our house in the north woods, Uncle John and Aunt Di gave us the coolest little housewarming gift; a hand-made bird feeder that looked like a miniature Northwoods cabin. It was made by a local crafter near Two Harbors. We immediately filled it with black-oil sunflower seeds and set the feeder on the railing of the old wooden steps at the back door. That birdfeeder has provided countless hours of entertainment watching our feathered friend's feed. But the birds aren't the only ones scoring a snack at the little cabin.
After I removed the old staircase from the house, I built a larger deck. During construction, the bird feeder was placed on top of a barrel in the yard. Soon, the deer discovered the feeder, helping themselves to the bounty at every opportunity.
Although the new deck was framed, I did not install the top planking. I wanted to wait until all the work inside the house was done before finishing the deck. (Drywall dust stains everything it touches, especially on a walking path.) For construction to continue I laid down a plywood walkway across the stringers. The birdfeed sat across the framework on the edge.
The birds enjoyed the seed. Soon chipmunks and squirrels joined the feast. The birdfeeder was becoming quite the gathering spot for various flying and small, four-footed wildlife. But more animals came, and they were bigger.
Many seeds fell to the ground below. However, nothing goes to waste in the woods. First, the deer came along throughout the day to clean up after the birds. Next, the raccoons wanted in on the deal and would come at night to finish the daily offerings. So much activity could not go on unnoticed. One morning I went out to restock the bird feeder, but it was gone!
I walked the top edges of the two-by-ten stringers with the same caution and skill as an ariel tight-rope walker. Then, from the edge of the framework, I saw the feeder laying upside-down on the ground below. "Darn, raccoons must have knocked it off," I complained. I climbed down a ladder to retrieve the little cabin and noticed paw prints in the muddy dirt. BIG paw prints.
I took my 25’ Stanley PowerLock tape measure from my belt. "Seven inches across," I said to my Dog, June Bug, standing on the plywood walkway above. "That's a darn big raccoon!"
"Um, Dad," June said in reply. "It might have been a big bad wolf, but I don't think that was a raccoon."
I smiled, "I know, Buggy. I'm just messing with ya. This was definitely a bear!" I pulled out the yellow metal tape, locked it into place, set it by a paw print, and took several pictures. I picked up the bird feeder and the broken hinged roof when the photo shoot was done. "Crazy bear," I complained. "I don't mind you taking the seeds, but did you have to break the roof off?"
I asked June, "Do you remember the story I told you about the big bad wolf that huffed and puffed and blew down the little pig's houses?" June remembered. "Maybe I should build a bird feeder with bricks!" June and I shared a good laugh about that as I carried the pieces up the ladder, onto the walkway to repair the little cabin.
Being from Iowa, I had no experience with bears. However, I showed the photos to my uncle, a friend who works for the DNR, and a few experienced bear hunters. Based on a seven-inch paw print, their guesses ranged from a bear that would weigh around three-fifty to four to even five-hundred pounds. However, there was one thing upon which they all agreed: "Get that bird feeder away from your house! You don't want that bear coming up on your deck."
I justified that the deck is five feet in the air and doesn't even have steps yet. They all told me the same thing, "Five feet is nothing, not even for a small bear, and a large bear has a substantially higher reach. Get rid of the bird feeder," they advised. But their advice fell on deaf ears. The deck was completed that fall, and we've kept the bird feeder on the top ever since.
The rare visit from a bear doesn't compare to the days, weeks, months, and years we've enjoyed sitting on our deck watching the activity at the feeder. Animals gather around that feeder like people around the well in ancient times, fetching water in the center of the town. 
Sometimes the chickadees will drop a seed between the feeder and the pine tree branch, where they'll break the shell and eat the kernel. This results in a few random sunflowers sprouting around the house's foundation. One year a seed got dropped in an old pot of dirt on the deck. It grew and bloomed in the summer. We enjoyed its bright color and beauty so much that I make sure a couple of seeds find their way to the pot each year. Still, for all this magic, there is one thing I'm not crazy about with our view from the deck.
Our septic tank is just twenty-five feet from the deck in the backyard. The tank has two large black lids. Two six-inch white plastic pipes with caps stand about eighteen inches above the ground, and there is also a gray exterior electrical box with wiring for the pump inside the system. Frankly, they look like…well, a septic system. Although it is indispensable for our home, there is nothing attractive about the service points of a septic tank.
My wife planted some daylilies in the area, but they don't hide anything.
I came up with some creative ideas: paint the white pipes like mushrooms. Maybe paint signs on the big black lids: "Swim At Your Own Risk" on one and "No Diving" on the other. Unfortunately, clever paintings would only draw more attention to the presence of these eye sores. But, then, I got an idea from the birds; plant flowers, and lots of them.
Last fall I tried transplanting several species of flowers and ferns from our property. Not a single flower plant popped up this spring. However, several of the little ferns seem to have taken hold. I also scattered some lupin seeds. Five small lupin clusters are coming up, but that's not enough. I got another idea from the chickadees – sunflowers! 
The plants that grew from the 'bird feed' sunflower seeds only got about three feet tall; they bloomed but did not produce seeds. What if I planted regular sunflower seeds intended for growing sunflowers in the garden? I should get an excellent crop of plants.
I ordered two variations of seeds, then staked out an oval area about eight feet wide and twenty feet long. Finally, the seeds arrived, and I set Mother's Day as my day for planting. I probably should have planted them sooner, but there was still snow on the ground.
Mother’s Day was beautiful. The sun was shining, the temperature was in the sixties, and I was pumped about planting my garden. I could not till the soil over the tank, nor did I want to. I didn't want to disturb the perennial daylilies or the new lupin plants. So instead, I turned the soil in numerous small circular areas, planting two seeds in each space. In all, I sowed about seventy-five seeds. Assuming they all germinate; I will need to thin them out and should end up with about thirty-five sunflower plants.
The traditional yellow sunflowers plants in the middle will grow to over ten feet high. Then, finally, I'll have a perimeter of tiger-eye sunflowers that grow to be about three to four feet tall. Both should produce a healthy crop of seeds to harvest, and the birds will eat well next winter. But not only the birds will benefit from these plants; the bees will also love them!
Speaking of the bees, I have a bunch of wildflower seeds a friend gave me. This week, I will plant my entire septic mound, about a sixty-foot oval, with all kinds of flowers to create a pollinator field for the bees – not to mention the flowers will make the yard more beautiful! Before I can seed the mound, I need to do a little preparation, adding peat moss and spreading manure to fertilize the plants. Who better to spread manure than an old radio guy, right? I'm excited to see how this will all turn out.
I can imagine thirty-five or forty sunflowers opening each summer day to the rising sun in the east. Then, follow the sun until it's setting in the west. West where they will be facing a giant bouquet of wildflowers on the mound. But there is always a chance none of my seeds in the new gardens will grow. Fortunately, I am optimistic the latter will not happen, but just in case, I'm following the lead of our feathered friends. (I dropped a few seeds in the pot of soil on the deck, but this year, I added a second pot.)

​In our quest to find the perfect couch, Melissa and I stopped by a furniture store just off I-35W while on our way home from Minneapolis.
When we first walked in the door, we were greeted by a lady sitting behind a desk on an elevated platform. She was dressed in black and looked like a judge in a courtroom. "Hello, welcome to our store," she said. "Feel free to look around; if there is anything you need, a sales associate will be along shortly."
Another lady off to our left shuffled through her papers, then appeared to gather her belongings. She seemed to perk up a bit as she looked our way. Melissa and I headed to the right, where a brown couch caught our attention.
The lady with her possessions in hand said, "Hello, is there anything I can help you find?"
"No, thank you, we're just looking," I replied.
She asked, "What are you looking for?"
I wanted to tell her sometimes people are just looking, now go away! But before I could say it, Melissa asked, "Is this couch available with full-length arms?" So now you've done it; you've engaged The Sales Lady.
Her name was Rosie, and she had more information about that one couch than anyone should be allowed - clearly, she intended to share it all with us. "Well," she began, "Those are tea cushions and...."
I wandered off a few feet, intending to show no interest. After a few minutes, Rosie finished her spiel. Melissa thanked her for the information, telling her we would just keep looking around.
Rosie said, "You just feel free to look around; I have some things to do, but if you have any questions," she glared my way and finished, "I won't be far behind you."
This woman, who appeared to be in her sixties, was carrying a clipboard, literature, notepads, a pencil, and a stack of business cards. What's more, she was packing a tape measure. I could tell by the black and yellow lettering on the side of the shiny chrome casing; this was a Stanley PowerLock tape measure. A sixteen-footer, to be precise. I could immediately tell she was not just a sales rep - she was a sales sniper!
I assessed the situation. She was packing a full complement of sales weaponry - I was unarmed, except for a concealed credit card or two tucked deeply inside my pocket. If I wasn't careful, Rosie would sell us something. I needed to ditch this lady, but it wouldn't be easy. Not only was she fully armed, she knew the store's layout. I had never been here before, and she knew it. I was about to become one of the hunted.
As we walked away, it seemed we lost Rosie. Then Melissa said, "I wonder if they have any of that log furniture?"
Rosie popped up from behind an ugly floral pattern high back wing chair, "Why yes, we do. It's on the landing," She said.
Melissa asked, "Where is the landing?"
NO, NO, NO! Don't talk to her, and whatever you do, don't look into her eyes!
We walked quickly to the recliner area. From behind a blooming floor lamp, with long black stems sprouting toward the ceiling, each supporting a lampshade, came a voice; "Did you have any questions yet?" Run, Melissa, run!
Another customer, sitting in a contraption that appeared to have more moving parts than a space shuttle, was making noises - at first, I didn't know if she was in pleasure or pain. "Is that a massage chair?" Melissa asked.
"Oh, yes!!" the lady moaned, "And it massages everything!" Her husband stood by, looking abandoned. I felt sorry for him. If she buys that chair, buddy, your life will never be the same! I wanted to help him, but we had no time for this; a sales warrior was hot on our trail.
Beyond the over-stuffed leather couches, I could see Rosie hiding behind a six-foot-tall plastic fern plant, watching us. We headed in the other direction, taking shelter in an oasis, a small break area for customers. Sort of a food court. There were cookies, coffee, and a fountain pop dispenser. Tables and chairs provided a place to rest. A sign read, "Please do not take food or drink into the floor display area." I grabbed a sugar cookie and poured myself a lemonade.
Behind me, I heard a noise; Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. It was Rosie, patiently sitting back, waiting for us. She was setting and releasing the tape measure's yellow lock button on and off, on and off, on and off.
It was as if we were in a protected area, and she was just waiting for us to come out. Outside the sanctuary, we would once again be fair game. Rosie remained poised, prepared to pounce. We went out from where Rosie stood to the opposite end of the break area. Once again, it seemed we had lost her.
Melissa found a hideous chair and ottoman. It was orange, green, burgundy, brown, yellow, and blue. It had symmetrical and round shapes and stuff. This is most likely why it was marked down three or four times on the red clearance sale tag.
I was on the lookout for Rosie when Melissa said, "I like it."
"You like what," I queried.
"This chair, I really like it," she said,
"You can't be serious," I said in disbelief.
"It's on sale," a voice announced out of nowhere. Just then, Rosie appeared from behind a decorative tri-fold dressing screen. I nearly screamed. "It's an excellent value, a discontinued floor model." It was time for Rosie to apply some pressure, "We only have that one left if you want it." I was prepared to tell Rosie it was discontinued because it was ugly as sin on a Sunday morning. However, I still wasn't sure if Melissa liked it or if she was kidding me.
I needed to get away from Rosie before that fabric-covered disaster ended up in the back of my Subaru. But then, I thought about the loons on the lakes in Minnesota. I had an idea:
If we were to dive below the backs of the couches, like a loon diving below the water's surface,  get down on our hands and knees, and rapidly crawl six or seven couches away, we could pop up like a loon surfacing to reassess the dangers within our environment. But, unfortunately, Melissa wouldn't let me.
Instead, we made our way to the landing. Climbing the steps to where the limited selection of over-priced log furniture was displayed. I could see Rosie over the railing, still watching us above like a cat watching a bird in a tree. But Rosie didn't follow. The steps seemed to form a barrier she would not cross, like a cattle crossing in the road. So we were safe...for the moment.
We looked around the upper levels. Melissa still did not find the style couch she wanted. The coast appeared to be clear. We made our way quietly down the steps toward the front door. The pleasant lady (judge) behind the desk on the platform asked if we found everything okay and did we need a sales associate. "No, We're not from around here." I said, "We were just looking, but thank you!"
As we headed toward the front door, a shadow emerged from nowhere, transfiguring into Ninja Rosie. She jumped into our path, took one of the fifty calling cards from her clipboard, and handed it to Melissa, saying to look her up if we get back this way.
I walked more briskly toward the front door, pulling Melissa with my hand. The automatic doors closed behind us.
Cold raindrops fell on us as we ran forty feet to the car. Once inside the vehicle, with the doors closed and locked, I glanced over my shoulder to the back seat to ensure Rosie wasn't there.
I looked back toward the building. I saw Rosie standing on the other side of the tall glass doors. She watched us through the rain. I think she was saying, "You got away this time. But next time, I'll get you my little pretty...and your little dog too." I'll bet our dog June Bug, would have growled at her.
Knowing I had narrowly slipped the grip of Rosie, I started the engine and sped away, laughing, "So long, Rosie! You didn't get me, did you?"
Anyway, to make a long story short, Rosie some way got our phone number and the chair has been in our living room for several years. To this very day, whenever traveling through the twin cities, I take I-35 E, staying well clear of I-35 W.

There was a shortage of dairy products in the 1970s, so then-President Jimmy Carter poured money into the dairy industry to stimulate increased production. Dairy farmers responded and were soon overproducing.
The government would buy any excess dairy and turn it into cheese because it would last a long time. The cheese was supposedly stored underground in caves and abandoned mines in Missouri at a perfect thirty-six degrees.
By 1981 the United States government owned more than sixty million five-pound blocks of cheese. Unfortunately, it was too much cheese to be able to sell. Although cheese lasts a long time, it would eventually deteriorate and become useless.
To keep the cheese from going to waste, the next President, Ronald Reagan, ordered the cheese to be distributed to the public; county governments were tasked with handing out the surplus cheese to lower-income families. This was the origin of a new term: government cheese and the source of many nacho cheese jokes.
At the beginning of the government program, people valued those blocks of cheese as if they were bricks of gold. Then, one day it was rumored a man found two blocks of cheese on the sidewalk in front of the distribution center. He was so thrilled to find them that he picked them up and ran home with one block under each arm.
When the man got home, he told his wife to break out the tortilla chips, "Look at all this nacho cheese, I found." His wife asked how he knew it was nacho cheese. "Because while I was running home, a man yelled, 'That's nacho cheese. That's nacho cheese.'" An onslaught of nacho cheese jokes would follow.
The government cheese was quite tasty, and some of it naturally made its way to the black market. To be honest, that's where I got mine.
An acquaintance of mine and his wife had three children, so the county gave them five blocks of cheese. Subsequently, they were allotted five more blocks of cheese monthly while supplies lasted. "What are you possibly going to do with twenty-five pounds of cheese every month," I asked him.
"At first, we kept one block and sold the rest," he said. "We don't eat five pounds of cheese monthly, so we usually sell them all." This became a common practice, and soon the market was flooded with free government cheese. Eventually, the program faded away. However, even without government cheese, the nacho cheese jokes lived on and are alive and well today.
The word nacho has become everyday slang, meaning, not yours. The term is used beyond blocks of cheese. Theft has become more prevalent in our society, so we hear things like That's nacho car, that's nacho bike, that's nacho house. Unfortunately, the list goes on. Still, we can't blame the cheese because people have been 'borrowing' things since well before government cheese existed.
 
While the dairy shortage was happening in the 1970s, I began my career in the media industry. My brother Gerard and I had a newspaper route delivering the Capitol Times, in Madison Wisconsin.
Every day after school, we had three bundles of newspapers in front of our house, each holding about fifty to sixty papers. Sometimes there would only be two bundles. I always wondered why someone would steal a bundle of our newspapers.
What could anyone possibly do with fifty copies of the daily news? Maybe it was like getting five blocks of government cheese; they'd keep one and sell the rest on the black market. But I digress.
My brother and I would open the bundles and fold the newspapers in quarters. Then, we'd bring the two edges of the paper to the center and fold it in half again; each was wrapped with a rubber band. The rubber band kept the papers intact so we could throw them to the front porch (or the middle of the front yard, sometimes barely over the street curb) of each subscriber's home.
Next, we would load the folded papers into the oversized baskets on the Clunker, a single-speed, special newspaper route delivery bike. We had a large paper route, so the papers often overfilled the baskets. Finally, the additional papers were stuffed into an off-white canvas newspaper bag with a long carrying strap and a Capitol Times logo.
We frequently debated which of us would have to carry the heavy paper bag over our shoulders, walking the route. The decision often came by winning a rock, paper, scissors, game. If either of us felt the other had cheated, then a wrestling match would decide who carried the bag.    
Before the first paper was folded, Gerard and I would each grab an issue, immediately turning to the comics page. I just couldn't wait to see what Snoopy and the Peanuts gang were up to. Next, I had to read Marmaduke, my second favorite cartoon strip. Sometimes we would check the want ads for cool free stuff, then neatly fold the paper so that it did not appear pre-read.
Marmaduke was a very large Great Dane who belonged to the Winslow family. He was always giving the dad, Phil, some sort of grief – much like Dennis the Menace did with his neighbor, Mr. Wilson.
Just the other day, I came across an old Marmaduke panel. Marmaduke was sitting quite comfortably in Phil's blue recliner. Phil stood to the side, holding a cup of coffee and his book in the other, telling the big dog, "That's not what I meant when I said 'sit,' and you know it." Marmaduke stayed in the chair, staring at Phil; I don't think the dog was going to give up his seat.
The cartoon strip made me chuckle, as I could envision our dog, Nova Mae, pulling such a stunt. So many times, Nova took my seat on the couch when I went to get a cup of joe.
Although I chuckled over the cartoon, I literally laughed out loud as I looked across the dining room table into the living room where Nova Mae was sitting in Melissa's chair; a chair Nova has been told many times is off limits. Even when told to leave the chair, Nova will just sit and look at you.
I quickly took a photo of Nova to show Melissa the similarity to the cartoon. Then, I returned to my seat in the dining room, where our cat Edgar Allan had made himself comfortable. "Move it, buster," I told the cat.
But the comfy feline just looked at me as if to say, "It's nacho chair."
Melissa's chair has a blue plaid throw, very close to the color of Phil Winslow's recliner. It was like the cartoon strip had come to life, playing out in my living room. I wonder how many times I've seen this exact scenario:
Melissa walked into the living room with her cup of tea in one hand and her book in the other, only to find her chair occupied by a dog. "Get out of my chair," she'd tell Nova. But Nova continued to sit in the chair, staring at Melissa. I don't think Nova was going to give up her seat.
My wife again ordered the dog out of her chair. I think I heard Nova say, "It's nacho chair."
Eventually, Melissa won the contest, reclaiming her chair. However, I don't know if they settled the matter by playing rock, paper, scissors, or if a wrestling match ensued. Melissa could have easily tricked the canine by taunting Nova with a piece of cheese – but I suppose Nova would only fall for this trick if it was nacho cheese. I wonder if Phil ever got his chair back?

I took Nova Mae to potty just a few minutes after eight o'clock. Melissa and I had plans, and Nova would be in the house for several hours.
Ken walked up the steps outside the condominium as we were walking down. He had a fishing pole in his hand and a smile on his face. He pointed the rod toward the house across the street, while telling his story: "I asked the guy what he wanted for it, and he said, 'What are you offering?' I said, how about five bucks? He said, 'How about ten?' So, I said, 'How about eight?' Then he said, 'You just bought a fishing pole.'" I congratulated Ken on his find.
For the past couple of weeks, there's been a buzz about the big day coming. Neighbors conversing, "Are you ready? Are you excited? You're going, aren't you?" Occasionally, someone sadly reported, "I'll be out of town that Saturday." The response was usually, "I'm sorry for you – I hear it's going to be a big one this year."
As the day got closer, people reminded one another, "It's this Saturday." Then, "It's the day after tomorrow." Finally, "Tomorrow is the big day. Are you ready?" Many replied, "I've got my cart/wagon ready to go." It was Garage Sale Day on Treasure Island, Florida. Let the haggling begin.
"What's the big deal? It's just a garage sale, right?" People love a good deal. The search to find one is every bit as exciting to the bargain hunter as sitting in a tree stand, waiting for that trophy buck, is to the hunter. Both love the game as much as the prize at the end of the day.
Back home in Silver Bay, Minnesota, hunting season is over, and we still have several feet of snow in the yard. Unfortunately, our neighbors are more concerned with shoveling snow from their garage roof than filling it with stuff to sell. But soon enough, the snow will melt and the bargains will heat up.
Melissa and I anticipated being home a couple of weeks before Garage Sale Day on the island. However, circumstances changed, and we were still in Florida. My wife began reminding me many days before GSD, "We're leaving at eight a.m. with two other couples, so you need to be ready to go." The last time I remember her being so adamant about my promptness was our wedding day! Melissa wanted to be entirely prepared for Saturday, "Do we have enough cash?"
The six of us met in front of the building; my cousin Cliff was pulling a blue, collapsible beach wagon in anticipation of a good bounty. Cliff scored at the first sale we visited! He bought a large grey plastic tote and lid for a quarter; an excellent buy. The tote was as big as the wagon bed, but the tote sides were several inches taller. "We can get more stuff by filling the tote," he said.
Garage sales are prohibited on Treasure Island except for the annual community-wide Garage Sale Day. I believe these Islanders are garage sale deprived; they really get into this.
By eight a.m., the streets were lined with cars. You could tell who the dealers were, looking for items to resell; one guy was driving a Ford Transit 350, a dually, high-top van. Being a serious garage-saler, he would stop and scan sale items from the street without leaving his van. When we did see him stop, he loaded quickly and moved on to the next driveway. But for the island's people, the day is much more than a commerce venture; it's an event to gather, celebrate, and have fun. Those are my kind of people!
At one house, four couples had combined their goods. All eight people participated in the sale, each holding a stylish insulated stainless beverage container. I inquired, “Mimosas?”
The man replied, "Rum or whiskey, what would you like? But you gotta have your own glass, or we happen to have some for sale." We shared a good laugh about that. Then, another lady spoke up, "Mimosas were this morning."
"This morning? It's not even ten yet," I said.
"Well," she said with a swagger, "We started at 6:30."
I laughed, "I can tell."
"Setting up," she quickly clarified. "We started setting up the sale tables at 6:30. The refreshment table wasn't set up until almost seven." We shared another good laugh about that. They were in this for the fun, and so was I. But we weren't the only ones.
A community service group was selling breakfast burritos, hotdogs, and sausages at their booth in the city park. You could also get a Bloody Mary for five bucks; a beer was three dollars. In addition, many vendors had displays at the park, with various merchandise you'd expect to see at the county fair or craft sale.
A few tables down, a lady had several boxes of pastries. "How much for an apple fritter," I inquired.
"They're free," she said. (She was an insurance agent who wanted to be part of GSD.)
"Well, in that case, I'll take the whole box," I said, laughing. "I'll set up a booth next to you with a sign; baked goods, two dollars each." The apple fritter was delicious! I thanked her and moved on.
At the next booth, a lady had crafts and jewelry items for sale under a canopy. Her daughter was just outside the shelter with a display of her own; a small artwork table. The girl had about four-inch round slabs of wood cut from tree branches. Each had a painting on the front. "Did you paint these yourself," I inquired? She blushed and said that she did. So, I picked up a painting that caught my eye. "What lake is this?"
"That's just a picture of the sky," she said softly. But there was much more than the sky.
Ravens flew over tall pine trees. A large crescent moon was rising from the horizon. Stars twinkled above, reflecting on the smooth surface, drawing the water and sky together. The wood's tree rings brought the painting to life by creating an illusion of a gentle circular motion; perhaps it was the wind or the Earth turning through the night.
"This scene reminds me of home. It looks like you were on a bluff overlooking Lake Superior on a calm night," I complimented the young artist, "You've created a beautiful masterpiece. I want to buy this painting for my wife, for Valentine's Day. How much is it?"
"Two dollars," she said. I asked if she could make change for a twenty. She thumbed through her cash. Then, having only six single dollars, she said, "I don't think so, but maybe my mom can help."
Mom gave her two ones, "Put this in with your money." Then handed her a ten, a five, and three ones, "Give this to him." The young entrepreneur handed me my change and thanked me for the purchase. I turned the painting over, looking at the back. There was a small white rectangular sticker, $2.
"Wait a minute," I said. "You forgot to sign your painting."
Mom loaned her a pen. Across the back, the artist wrote, 'Kaylee' and drew a heart. "Do you want me to take off the price sticker?"
"No, leave that on there, please." I explained, "Someday, I'm going to be on that PBS show, Antiques Roadshow. The appraiser will inspect your painting and say, 'What you have here is an original painting by Kaylee. The signature is authentic, with the heart at the end of her name. This was painted before Kaylee became famous; it's in excellent condition. Although you only paid $2, this rare piece would easily draw $90,000 at auction today. I would insure this painting for $110,000.' At which point, I'll gasp, hold my chest and say, 'I knew the day I bought this, that ten-year-old kid was going to be famous one day!'" Kaylee smiled.
I carefully wrapped the painting in a plastic bag and set it inside Cliff's Bin of Bargains, along with my other treasures; I bought an old Beatles book for my brother and found a $2 red pipe wrench for myself.
I had a blast visiting with people. A lady rode up on her bike, parked, and looked over the wares on display. I asked the homeowner, "How much for that bicycle over there?"
"Hey, that's my bike," the owner said. "But on Garage Sale Day, everything is for sale for the right price. $1,000." We shared a good laugh about that.
Several houses later, I was looking at wine glasses. "Say, would you have some wine to fill this glass? I want to test it for leaks before buying it.
The lady laughed, "I've tested every one of those glasses; I assure you they do not leak." Then she blushed, "Not that I'm a big drinker, I also wanted to make sure they didn't leak before selling them." While we shared a good laugh about that, the lady with the bicycle wheeled into the driveway.
"I still have the bike for sale if you're interested," she said.
"Of course you do because your price is too high. If you lowered it to nine-fifty, you would have sold it by now." The day was filled with laughter.
At another house, a man with muscle bulging from the tight sleeves of his white T-shirt looked over two items priced at $5 each. Then, he asked me, "Would you take any less for the end tables."
"Sure, but they're not mine. I don't live here," I answered. "It's Garage Sale Day; people want to sell stuff. So offer her ten bucks for the pair."
The man thanked me and then approached the homeowner, asking, "Would you take ten bucks if I bought both end tables?"
"More brawn than brains," Mom would say. I chuckled and high-tailed it out of there to find my group before I got clobbered. People were friendly, but maybe they hadn't been pranked, yet. Others were; myself included.
An elderly lady gave me a big hug for no apparent reason. "That's a darn good price; I'll take it if the man comes with it," she said, pointing at my chest. Someplace along the way, Melissa put a round yellow sticker on my shirt, $2. I left the tag there as a conversation starter. People thought I was too cheap, so I added a $1 sticker next to it. Then they'd guess, "$3?"
"Nope," I'd reply, "You have to add the two numbers together; 2+1=21." I got a lot of laughs from that. When the brawny young man showed up at the house with the estate sale, I quickly gave the $1 sticker to another kid; I was getting tired and didn't want to explain it to Mr. Muscles.
Cliff checked an app on his phone; we had walked over five miles and the wagon was getting heavy. It had been a successful Garage Sale Day; and a good time to call it quits. But first, I stopped at one more table to look at a black framed piece with a cute saying. I offered my last two dollars. The lady laughed, "It is two dollars," she said. Karma. I blushed, handed her my money, and headed home with my last find.
Nova Mae was dancing at the condo door, ready to go out. I grabbed her leash and a dooty bag, and off we went. I inadvertently carried my new artwork with me.
As we passed the neighbor's table where I'd made my final purchase, the ladies clamored like teenagers ogling a Hollywood heartthrob: "Nova Mae!" "Sweet baby girl." "Come give me some love." Oh, they were all crazy about Nova. (That dog is such a shameless flirt!) Finally, one of the ladies asked me, "Well, who in your group made out the best at Garage Sale Day."
"I think I did," I answered, considering the painting. But then I remembered Ken proudly boasting over a painting he bought for $2. 'The little girl even signed it,' Ken said, showing me the backside: Kaylee, with a heart after her name.
"I know I bought the most honest piece today," I said, holding what I'd purchased from them in my right hand. One of the ladies read the saying aloud: "Today's agenda: Let the dog in. Let the dog out. Let the dog in. Let the dog out. Let the dog in." We all shared a good laugh about that, including Nova, on the end of the leash in my other hand.
"Ain't it the truth? That's how my day started and how it will end."
Come on, Minnesota. Let the snow melt, and Garage Sale Season begin! 

​This is one of my favorite pictures of my dad and me, even though you can't make us out in the photo. I don't know the exact date; my sister Barbara took the picture. We had been down to visit in Oklahoma City. I don't recall the weather being particularly hot, as it can be in Oklahoma, so I would guess it was in the late fall of 1990. We had a good time there.
We got to see Barbara, my brother Gerard and their families, and my twin sisters Mary and Martha. Then, it was time to go home. Barbara drove us to the airport.
I don't remember who else was with us, but I believe it was Mom in the back seat. She didn't care much for this flying nonsense, especially if Dad and I were in the same airplane. Instead, she viewed it as dangerous, demanding to know, "Who is going to run the radio station if you, your dad, and I are all in the airplane and it crashes?"
I assured her, "We're not going to crash."
But she continued, "And what if something happens to your dad while we're flying?" So, although Mom did not like flying in the small plane, when she did, I think she preferred that I was in the airplane with them.
I responded, "I can fly this airplane, too."
Determined to win the argument, she asked, "And what if the tail falls off?"
At this point, I conceded, "Well, we are going to crash."
She snapped back, "You're not funny." I told her she should relax and enjoy the flight. Dad gave me a scornful look, to say, ‘keep quiet.’ The same discussion occurred on the few times she flew with us. But Dad wouldn't engage in the senseless conversation; the outcome would always be the same. So, I looked out the window.
Barbara stood on the ramp, taking our picture. She was mighty proud of her Kodak 110 Instamatic pocket camera. It was the kind that used the flash cube on top. The camera didn't have a zoom lens; you just moved closer to the subject. I started paying attention to what Dad was doing.
Dad did his run-up. Checking all the gauges and equipment. Next, he set the radio frequencies we would need for departure, followed by his usual test of equipment; "Wiley Post tower, this is Beechcraft Bonanza, November 4-6-2-2 Delta requesting a radio check, please."
The response, "November 4-6-2-2 Delta, this is Wiley Post tower; I read you loud and clear."
Dad switched to the second radio and asked, "Wiley Post tower, how is my signal on communication radio two?"
The man in the tower replied, "2-2 Delta, you're a little scratchy on this radio; com one was much clearer."
It surprised me the tower could hear us at all. The radios were ancient; Narco Mark 12 was the brand and model; 'coffee grinders' was the nickname pilots gave these old radios. Although the Narco's were outdated, they still worked. Finally, dad called back to the tower, "Wiley Post tower, Beechcraft Bonanza 4-6-2-2 Delta is ready to taxi for departure." We waved our farewells to Barbara and taxied out.
As we began rolling down the runway, Dad would make the sign of the cross from his forehead to chest and across his shoulders, left to right, a prayer for a safe flight. The airplane gained speed. Soon, we lifted off and were climbing in altitude. Dad raised the toggle switch to retract the landing gear. I looked out the window and saw Barbara standing by the fence outside the building, waving her hand high over her head. I knew she would stand there watching until we were out of sight. I've stood in that spot before, watching as Dad flew away. There was something special, yet lonely as I watched Dad disappear into the sky. I always felt like I should have been going with him.
The feeling is the opposite when you're inside the airplane flying away. It brings a feeling of security to look out the window and see family watching and waving as you depart. There is a comfort in trusting they will also be there looking to the sky in anticipation of your arrival, to greet you when you return. Dad continued to climb and turned the airplane on course.
The Bonanza had a single yoke (control wheel) that would flip over from the pilot to the co-pilot. When we reached our desired altitude and were established on course, Dad would throw the yoke over to me. Mom worried, "Dan! I wish you wouldn't do that when we're flying; that thing could come loose and fall off."
Dad ignored her concern. "Keep it steady. Watch your altitude. Keep an eye on your heading. Check your engine gauges." Dad gave me these commands as he sat in the left seat, watching every move I made.
I was a low-time pilot back then. Even though I was sure I knew more about flying than he did, Dad understood I was young and new at this game. He knew I had that cockiness about me that every young pilot has. Nevertheless, he was determined to break me of my inexperience and teach me to straighten up and fly right.
Because I thought I knew everything, it was frustrating when Dad critiqued my flying skills. Mostly because I knew he was correct.
The flight was beautiful; we arrived back in Ottumwa after dark. The runway lights are so pretty from the air, like a family member; the lights greeted us to say, "Welcome home."
"It's not safe flying at night; you can't even see where you're going," Mom rattled away.
"We made it home, didn't we," I replied. Dad gave me a scornful look as if to say, 'Just let her vent.'
We pushed the airplane back into the hangar by hand; Dad steered the Bonanza with the towbar while I pushed on the front edge of the wing. I watched as Dad performed his routine of putting the airplane away. First, he chocked the wheels, then rocked the aircraft back and forth to ensure it was secure. Dad always double-checked the master switch was turned off, then rotated the propeller, so it was perfectly straight vertically. Next, he raised the engine cowling to let the heat out, locked the door, and pushed the handle to a specific position. I loved watching him, I loved flying with him, and mostly I just loved being with him.
Dad taught me more about flying than any instructor I ever had. His lessons brought flying, life, love, and faith together. As we closed that hangar door, Dad talked about what he would teach me the next time we would fly. I was eager to learn more.
I had no way of knowing that would be the last time I would ever fly the Bonanza with Dad. He died on February 3, 1991.
Dad, although you remain in my heart every time I take off and fly an airplane, I must admit; it was more fun when you were in the seat next to me. I love you, Dad, and I miss you beyond what words can express. So, until we meet again, I will do my best to "Straighten up and fly right" in the airplane and all aspects of life.

​I'm sure you've come across this person or even know them personally; Mr. or Ms. Buttinsky. They are annoying!
Last week I went to the building material store for supplies. The store was hectic, and only two people worked in the plumbing department; Deb seemed to know her plumbing products, whereas Rick was struggling. Deb had a line of customers waiting for her. I didn't want to wait, so when Rick finished with his customer, I asked, "Where do you keep the shower pan liner." He took me to a different aisle and showed me pre-fab shower floors.
"This isn't what I'm looking for," I said patiently. "I need the pan liner to build a custom shower floor."
"I don't think we carry that," Rick said.
I smiled and replied, "Yes, you do. You have it in four, five, and six-foot widths. The thick gray vinyl comes on a roll, so you can cut the piece to whatever length."
Rick led me back to the first aisle and showed me some rolls leaning against the wall. They were hidden behind other plumbing pieces people had left there. "Is this what you're looking for?"
"It sure is. I knew you could find it." I smiled, "Now, how do we measure and cut it? Do you have a mechanical device, or just roll it out on the floor?"
"I really don't know," Rick said. "I just started here two days ago; I've never sold any of this."
There was no space in the crowded aisle to roll out the vinyl, so I pulled out the material while Rick steadied the vertical roll. Rick tried cutting the sheet vinyl but was getting far off the marked line. "Let me try from this side," I said to Rick. He handed me the knife. While he held the material, I got on my knees to finish cutting the piece. It was awkward, but we were getting the job done. That's when he showed up.
"Do you work here?" Mr. Buttinsky demanded to know (as if I wasn't there). Rick said that he did. The obnoxious man held up an old corroded part, "Do you have one of these?"
Rick looked at the part, "I really don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?" The man was very condescending in his tone.
Rick looked confused and admitted, "I'm not sure what that is."
Mr. Buttinsky raised his voice, "How in the heck did you get this job?"
I stood up, "It's a faucet cartridge, Rick." Then I addressed the obnoxious customer, "It's bad enough the store is understaffed; you being rude isn't going to help."
"Well, I need help finding this part," Mr. Buttinsky justified. "He works here, and he should be able to help me. I'm in a hurry."
I shook my head, "You know, your problem isn't any more urgent than any other customer's, and your time isn't any more valuable than theirs." Then, I pointed to the far end of the aisle, "Why don't you go down there and wait for Deb. She's very knowledgeable; I'm sure she can help you find your cartridge."
Mr. Buttinsky glanced at the people waiting for Deb, offered me a few cuss words, then walked away, leaving the plumbing aisle. From around the corner, I heard him demand, "Do you work here?"
Rick was a bit timid. He seemed bothered by the confrontation, "I wish I knew more of this stuff," he said. "They don't give us very much training. I think I upset that gentleman."
"Gentleman?" I laughed. "He was acting like a jerk. But don't worry about him, Rick. There's a lot to learn here; you'll get it; it just takes time." Rick seemed relieved. "Now, I need another piece of four-foot liner…." After we cut the second piece, I asked Rick if I needed a tag or slip showing what I had.
"Just take it to the register," Rick said, "They'll know what to do."
Although I didn't think he would know the answer, I asked Rick another, more technical plumbing question. "I don't know," Rick said. "Another guy is coming in at two o'clock; he would know."
"That's okay," I said, "I can wait for Deb." I wished Rick a good day, then walked to the other end of the aisle.
While waiting for Deb, I explained to a lady and her husband how a compression fitting worked, then helped them find the parts needed. Next, I helped another young guy find a fitting he needed and helped a third man who had questions about PEX plumbing.
"Oh my gosh," I thought to myself after I helped the third customer, "Am I being a Mr. Buttinsky?" However, I was laughing to myself when Deb approached me. 
Deb was finally caught up with her customers, "How would you like to work here?"
"I kind of feel like I do," I answered.
"How would you like to work here and get paid?" We shared a good laugh about that. Deb quickly answered my question and asked, "Did Rick give you a slip to take to the register for the shower pan liner." I told her he did not. She said, "He's new and just learning the system."
Deb started to walk to the other end of the aisle with me. A pushy lady tapped Deb on the shoulder, "Do you work here, miss?" Oh, my Lord, it's Ms. Buttinsky. She could clearly see Deb was with another customer but interrupted anyway, "I just have a quick question…" (as if I wasn't standing there). I told Deb to go ahead and help the lady, and I would get a slip from Rick.
I told Rick I needed a slip, explaining what it was for. He dug through a junk basket and pulled out a wrinkled-up pad, "Is this it?"
"That's it," I said. Next, I felt my shirt and pants pockets and asked Rick, "Do you have a pen." Rick felt his pockets, looked through his waist pouch, and said he did not.
The couple with the compression fitting was back. I walked over and asked if they needed something else. "We're trying to decide if we should buy an extra fitting," the lady said.
How many fittings do you need," I asked? They only needed one but felt they should get a second in case they messed it up. "They come three in a pack," I told her, then asked, "Would you happen to have a pen I could borrow?"
The lady dug through her purse, pulled out a pen, handing it to me. "I'll be right back with your pen," I promised her. Pens are one of those things I borrow, and I naturally put them in my pocket when I'm done writing, forgetting to return them.
"Don't worry about it," the lady said. "I want you to keep it as a gift for helping us." Her gesture of kindness warmed my heart.
Rick wasn't sure how to fill out the form. So I took the pad, "What's the skew number," I asked, then showed him how to fill out the slip. When I was done, I offered the pen, "Would you like a pen, Rick?"
Rick reached into his pouch, pulling out a pen. "I found mine," he said. Then he pulled out another, "Actually, I found both of them." We shared a good laugh about that.
Rick extended his hand. As I shook his hand, he said, "Thank you. You've taught me a few more things about my new job." Again, my heart was warmed, this time by his sincerity.
"Stick with it, Rick. You've got this." We said our farewells and I left the store a happy man on what could have been a frustrating day.
The next morning, I put a load of my work clothes in the washer. I wash them separately from other clothes because they're really grungy. I sat at the table while I waited for the washing machine. The pen was in front of me.
It's an aqua pen with glittery sparkles in the transparent barrel. It has a lighter blue gel grip for writing. Pushing the top of the pen extends the tip, and pressing the clip retracts it. It's a pretty cool pen, and it writes smoothly but has aqua-colored ink – it's kind of a girly pen like my daughters had when they were little. Maybe I'll give it to one of my granddaughters. Just then, the timer sounded, and the washer was done.
I grabbed a handful of my work clothes and tossed them into the dryer, then another, and another. On the third handful, I heard something fall back into the washer. It made a ting sound, but not metallic like a coin would make. I looked down into the washer. "Oh no." I had that sinking feeling. I ran a black Sharpie pen through the laundry. I put the last few clothing items in the dryer.
I sighed with relief as I remembered these were all work clothes. Black ink spots wouldn’t hurt them. "I've got to be more careful," I told myself. "This could have been a disaster if these were Melissa's good clothes." I knew this from experience.
The cap was still on the Sharpie. I removed it and drew a line on a piece of paper. "Hey, it still works!" I was happy. A few minutes later, I used the Sharpie to write a grocery list. "What's all over my hands?" I examined the Sharpie. Apparently, the barrel had cracked, but under the cap. "What a mess," I complained as I threw the marker in the trash. I washed my hands in vain. Sharpie ink does not wash off; it eventually wears off.
I looked at the pen the lady gave me again. I thought about the tension stirred by some people at the building material store. I reminded myself how that pen brought me a calm, peaceful feeling. Then I looked at the palms of my hands, with splotches of black ink stains all about where the Sharpie assaulted me.
One pen brought me peace and another anguish. I smiled warmly, "Maybe it's true; the pen is mightier than the sword."

​She called out from the bottom of the steps by the garage door, "Honey, can you turn off the driveway lights from the living room."
"You can turn them off from the garage," I answered.
"I know," my wife replied, "but if you turn them off in the living room, both switches will be down the way you like them." She was correct.
I installed a lot of three, and four-way switches when I rewired our house because they are so convenient. For example, I put a light switch at the top and bottom of the stairwell; there's a light switch at both ends of the hallway.
We can turn the kitchen light on from the dining room door, living room doorway, or the back door to the deck. Likewise, the living room light can be turned on or off from the hallway, the stairwell, the dining room door, or the front door.
We can operate the driveway lights from the garage or the house's front door. This convenience allows us to turn on the lights if we expect company after dark. When guests leave in the evening, we can see them off at the front door, then turn the lights off (without running downstairs to the garage) after they have backed out of our driveway. I like many light switches. But I also like the switches down when a light is off and up when it is on.
I've often walked down the steps to turn the stairwell lights off, then climbed the steps in the dark just so the switches were in the proper position. Although this defeats the convenience of having multiple switches, it drives me nuts when a switch is up but the light is off.
I appreciated my wife's consideration of this detail for me. "Okay," I answered her, "I'll turn them off up here.
I walked to the front door and flicked the switch with my index finger. Just as I did so, a pain shot through my finger, then up my arm. "Ouch," I cursed as I examined my fingertip.
I was helping my cousin with a project in which we were using black drywall screws. Unfortunately, those little boogers are notorious for carrying very fine metal slivers, and I had one in my finger. I bit my lip, held my breath, and squinted my eyes as my cousin attempted to remove the sliver with a pair of sharp tweezers. "I can't tell if I got it or not," Cliff said, while looking closely at my fingertip.
It always amazes me that something so tiny can cause so darn much pain. It's even more painful when someone inadvertently brushes a sliver the wrong way while attempting to remove it. So much pain, in fact, I told my cousin, "I'm pretty sure you got it out," even though I had no idea if he got it. It turns out he did not.
A few days later, I showed the sliver to my aunt Di. She immediately got a pair of tweezers and sat me at the table. I winced with pain as she tried to grip it with the pliers; okay, they were tweezers, but it felt like she was pinching my finger with pliers. "It's not wanting to come out," Di reported. "Let me get a needle."
Di returned to the table with the newest weapon of torture. After holding the tip in a flame until the needle glowed red, she said, "My dad taught me to heat the tip of the pin with a match to kill any germs."
Di poked my finger just a bit, but I screamed like a chicken, pulled my finger away, and told her, "I'm pretty sure the sliver will come out later on its own." I have high pain tolerance, but sliver removal exceeds that limit.
Di suggested a pain-free way to remove a sliver. "I've heard that if you wrap a banana peel around your fingertip, the banana skin will draw the sliver out of your finger." I gave her a look of skepticism.
"Some place in the world, there is a starving monkey who needs that banana more than I do," I said.
"I'll wait until Melissa can look at it later," I said. "She's really good at getting slivers out. And if she can't get it, eventually gangrene will set in, then my fingertip will fall off. Poof! The sliver is gone!" I left my aunt's house and went home to my wife.
One time, Melissa removed the worst sliver I ever had in life.
It had poked into the tip of my finger, penetrating under the fingernail. We could see the silver through my fingernail; it was almost one-half inch long, and it hurt! When I tried to remove it on my own, I broke off the exposed small wooden tip. Melissa looked at it, "That has to come out," she said, but I wasn't going to let her even try.
I was pretty sure it would hurt worse coming out than it would to leave the sliver there. "It will eventually grow out as the fingernail grows," I insisted.
The next day we were at my brother Dan and Petrina's house. They all agreed that the sliver needed to be removed. Melissa approached me with an arsenal of silver removal tools. Petrina stood by with triple antibiotic ointment and a band-aide. Dan held a bright headlamp, shining it on the tip of my finger, but looked away as Doctor Melissa began the procedure. (I think he hates slivers more than I do.) I'm not sure if Danny was really there to hold the light or tackle me if I made a run for the front door.
Melissa barely touched my finger, and I screamed like a girl that she was trying to kill me. I demanded a shot of courage - whiskey. Whiskey always worked in western movies when a cowboy out on the prairie had to remove a bullet from his buddy’s leg. Although I've never been shot, I'm pretty sure it can't hurt any worse than a sliver.
In the end, Melissa got the sliver out. She has a steady hand. But, honestly, it felt better right away as the pulsing in my fingertip stopped as soon as the sliver was gone.
After bumping the sliver on the light switch, I held my throbbing finger, examining the metal sliver. Melissa came up the steps from the basement, "What are you looking at," she asked. I showed her the sliver, which had now festered in pretty well. "That's going to have to come out," she reported. I swear she had a twinkle in her eye.
With a new year upon us, it's time to make resolutions that will make us better people and improve our lives. So as Melissa approached me with a handful of gadgets, sharp things, and a bottle of whiskey for sliver removal, I came up with my resolution. This year, I will stop worrying about which way the light switches are flipped. Melissa may never have known about this dang sliver if it wasn't for that stupid light switch issue!
Melissa reached for my finger. "Not without a shot of courage first," I insisted.
And so, I lift my shot of courage and propose a toast: "Here's to a sliver-free new year, my friends. Cheers!"