​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!"

We are creatures of habit with established routines that we practice at certain times of each day: A routine for getting up (which will vary depending on if it's a school/workday or a day off.) We have a routine for dinner time and a routine for getting ready for bed. I even have a routine for feeding Nova Mae and Edgar Allan. Our routines can be altered a little to meet the moment's needs, but they are seldom eliminated.
While Nova Mae and I have been working in Florida for the past couple of weeks, my wife Melissa, and our cat Edgar Allan, have been visiting her parents in South Carolina. As a result, my routines have been altered with 650 miles between us, but they still get carried out.
When I get up in the morning, at home or on the road, I say my daily prayers, go for a short walk with Nova, then make breakfast. Breakfast is supposed to be the most important meal of the es day for people and pets.
I usually put a scoop of kitty crunchies in Edgar's bowl first to keep him from meowing and waking my wife. (I'm not supposed to, but I usually sneak a "Greenie" treat for Edgar to enjoy with his breakfast.) Next, I give Nova Mae her breakfast, then fix mine. But, of course, pets are no different than people because they have their routines, too.
Edgar will eat the treat first, then his cat food. If he drops a piece of food outside his bowl, he will look for it until he finds it. Nova is a rather fussy eater who prefers to have all her food on the floor before eating.
First, Nova will sniff the food in her bowl, then walk away and follow me to see what I'm having, just in case there is a better offering. She goes through this routine daily, whether at home or on the road.
At home, I eat oatmeal each morning; when traveling, it's Cheerios. Regardless of where I am, I like fresh fruit in my cereal.
While preparing my breakfast, Nova Mae will stay at my feet in case something falls on the floor. We don't give her "people food," but Nova does get healthy treats like fresh fruit and veggies.
The dog loves blueberries, so I give her a couple. She waits patiently as I remove the tops from the strawberries; she likes the fruit and the little green leaves. Nova likes apples and raspberries too. She will tolerate an orange slice, although citrus is not her favorite.
Nova really likes carrots, beans, and peas. I can't think of a fruit or veggie she doesn't like. Oh yes, kiwi. Nova doesn't care for kiwis - or cucumbers, but she will practically do backflips for a piece of banana.
Bananas have a distinctive smell that draws her attention any time of day. Even if she is sound asleep, Nova can hear a banana being peeled (or, more likely, she smells it) and comes trotting into the kitchen with anticipation to claim her share. Likewise, if I am slicing a banana on cereal or just eating one, she knows she will get the last piece; we call this the banana butt.
I squeeze easily on the outside of the peel, and the last piece will come loose, just like pinching the tail on a shrimp. Nova will gently nibble inside the peel to get that last bite. I've created a banana monster.
One day while traveling, I stopped to fill the van with gasoline. Unfortunately, the pump was out of paper, so I had to go inside for a receipt. Near the register, there was a display of bananas. They were on sale; sixty-nine cents each, two for a dollar. Usually, bananas aren't discounted until they have brown spots and are nearly ready to make banana bread. But these were beautiful, bright yellow bananas at a great price. So, I grabbed two, paid for them, and walked back to the van.
I set the fruit on the dashboard and boasted what a great deal I got on bananas. "We will share them later," I told Nova. Then, I started to drive away. "Darn it," I said, "I was so excited about the bananas that I forgot to get my gas receipt." Nova and I shared a good laugh about that.
I pulled into a parking space and ran inside. The cashier held up a slip of paper, "You forgot your receipt." We were soon on the road again. Nova was tired and went to the back of the van to sleep.
About fifteen minutes later, I reached for a banana, but they were gone! Both of them! I glanced behind me. Nova was not sleeping.
While I was in the C-store, Nova swiped both bananas, stashing them in the back. She had them hidden under a packing blanket like buried bones. Then, she waited until I was driving to dig in. "Nova Mae! Stop eating those bananas," I ordered. She glanced up at me, then delightfully resumed chowing down on a banana as if she didn't hear me.
"Nova, leave it," I said more firmly, but the dog has selective hearing. I was worried that she would get sick, so I pulled off the interstate at the next exit, parking on the shoulder. I was too late. The dog was a satisfied mess.
Nova is a fussy eater. She shredded the peels but didn't eat them. Instead, Nova had gnawed through the skins, eating the inside of both bananas. The floor was covered with disgusting banana goop. Nova had banana mush all over her face and in her fur. Like a little kid with chocolate all over their face and hands, she was contently licking her paws.
I got very nervous when her tummy gurgled and contracted several times. "You better not do it," I warned her. Fortunately, it was just a burp, but bananas have a distinct smell. "That's really nasty, Nova." I wiped up the floor with Windex and a paper towel. Then wetted a towel with my bottled water to clean her fur. Nova had a queasy look on her face.
"If you throw up in this van, you're going to be in big trouble, dog." Not trusting the look on her face, I fastened her leash, and we went for a walk. Nova didn't get sick; as soon as I was fairly sure she wasn't going to, we got back on the road. I learned that day not to leave bananas where Nova can reach them; two whole bananas will give a puppy a bad case of the trots.
About twenty minutes later, Nova came up between the front seats. "Dad, I don't feel so good." So, we pulled over. Twenty minutes later, "Dad, my tummy hurts." So, we pulled over. Twenty minutes later, "Dad, I think I have to go again." So, we pulled over again. Twenty minutes later, "Dad.…."
"That's what you get for stealing my bananas," I told her as we pulled off at the next exit. I laughed at her, "Girl, you done gave yourself a bad case of banana butt!" (Acceptable grammar as we were in the south.) Then, I assured her, in jest, "This, too, shall pass." We shared a good laugh about that - then pulled over again.

I took Melissa and our cat Edgar Allan to visit her parents in South Carolina. Meanwhile, Nova Mae and I continued to Florida. I've been trying to get down to Tampa to help my cousin with some house repairs. However, being one who enjoys cold weather much more than hot, I did not want to work in Florida in the summer. So, December is a good month for a northern Minnesota man to visit Florida. However, the southern climate and lifestyle differences still required some acclamation, even in the winter.
We were driving in South Carolina when I smelled a sweet fragrance in the air. It was a familiar scent, but I couldn't place it for sure. Finally, as we came around the corner, I blurted out, "Look, honey! That guy is mowing his lawn! It's December; where's his snow blower?" Minnesotans are not ccustomed to seeing people cutting grass in December.
In Florida, the daytime highs were in the upper seventies and lower eighties, and it was humid. A little too warm for my liking, but the local folks thought it was great. I shouldn't complain; we were working in an air-conditioned building. I learned to adjust quickly and found the cool nights quite pleasant.
The neighborhood was different at night. The cityscape lights reflected on the calm bay water. Boats decorated with Christmas lights passed quietly, and cool breezes came in from the Gulf of Mexico. Nova and I only take short potty walks during the day. Then after the sun set, we’d take advantage of the cooler evenings for our two-mile walks. The night walks are full of adventure.
We were walking through the quiet residential area when Nova suddenly started hopping around in the grass, tugging and pulling on her leash like a crazy dog! At first, I thought maybe she had seen a rattlesnake or something. But, then, I nearly died laughing when it occurred to me what was the matter.
The neighbor's lawn sprinkler systems came on, startling Nova Mae. (They water their lawns at night so they can mow them during the day. Go figure.) The sprinkler heads are very low to the ground, so the blades will clear them when mowing. The heads on the sidewalk's edge are aimed at the lawn, so I didn't get wet. However, Nova, walking in the grass, caught the full spray from many directions. I don't know why it alarmed her as it did.
We've used a squirt gun or spray bottle at home to train Nova. For example, if she tries to eat the sunflower seed in the bird feeder, we will give her a squirt of water. Unfortunately, that training method was short-lived. Nova soon learned to lap the water stream in midair with her tongue. She was just as quick to try catching the water from the sprinklers.
By the third night of walking, Nova anticipated the sprinklers coming on. She would run and play in the water as if they had been activated solely for her enjoyment. Nova is an intelligent dog who wasted no time locating the source of the water. She would snap and bite at the water from the sprinkler head; sometimes, stomping them with her foot.
Placing her foot on the water head would change the direction of the spray. I'd been soaked more than once due to Nova's antics. I think she was doing it intentionally. Last night, she got me again: "Come on, Nova Mae," I complained, "You're getting my pants all wet!"
Nova laughed with vengeful delight, “It’s not so funny when the spray bottle is in the other paw now, is it?"
I ordered her, "Nova Mae! Leave it!"
"That's right," she said while adjusting her foot to continue sending showers of water my way. "Go for some more of that irresistible sunflower seed, Dad." She was having the time of her life. Just then, the sprinkler system shut off.
Nova looked as if she'd seen a ghost. "Uh-oh," she said, then ran away from me, knowing her water gun was out of ammo. When she reached the end of the leash, she jerked the handle out of my wet hand.
The hard plastic handle bounced and skidded across the sidewalk as the leash recoiled to her, standing in the wet grass. I growled, "Nova, sit!" The canine sat while I walked over to pick up the dog leash.
The lawn was saturated, and I could feel the water seeping into my mesh-top tennis shoes. I was soaked from head to toe. The night temperatures were in the low sixties, and when you're wet, that's cold – even in Florida.
I couldn’t stay mad at Nova; she was just having fun. Finally, I picked up the leash handle from the grass and gave her a rub on her wet head. "Come on, you goofball. Let's go home." With each step I took, I could feel the water sloshing inside my shoes, gushing between my toes.
I enjoyed the Christmas lights on different houses as we walked toward the apartment. They were pretty, but to me, they're just not the same without snow. So, I started singing, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know. Where the treetops glisten, and children listen, to hear sleigh bells in the snow…."
Back at the house, I dried Nova with her towel; then, I took a hot shower. I stood under the showerhead, thinking about the people watering their lawns. It still seemed odd to me to be running lawn sprinklers in December, but this is Florida – not Minnesota.
Ah, Minnesota; home. Suddenly I felt lonely, maybe a little homesick. So, I started singing again because everyone sings in the shower, right? "I'll be home for Christmas; you can count on me. Please have snow and mistletoe and presents under the tree…."
In a week, Nova and I will head north. First, we'll pick up Melissa and Edgar Allan in South Carolina, then drive to Minnesota; it's the better share of two thousand miles from here to home. I smiled as it occurred to me: Minnesotans also use lawn sprinklers in the winter. But we don't use them to make the grass grow.
Driving on I-35, just south of the twin cities, I pass Buck Hill Ski Area in Burnsville, Minnesota. They frequently have their giant sprinklers running to make snow.
Snow is a meteorological phenomenon that has a powerful effect on everyone. Minnesotans like it so much that we use lawn sprinklers to make more snow for playing. Meanwhile, many people migrate to Florida (and other southern states) to escape the snow.
Without snow, Floridians are forced to use their lawn sprinklers to grow grass because they apparently like mowing their lawn all year. But, Florida lawn sprinklers are also a great source of evening entertainment for crazy dogs visiting from Minnesota.

My wife was standing on the front porch when I pulled into the driveway coming home from a road trip. I was honking my horn with my left arm stretched out the driver's side window, waving. Melissa waved back, but not with the same enthusiasm I did. "Where are you going to put that," she wanted to know.
I was towing a 19' Scamp trailer behind the truck. "I'll park it out back," I replied.
"With the other seven Scamps," she asked. I wasn't sure if it was sarcasm or concern, but her voice had a different tone.
"Honey, there are only six Scamps back there, and besides, I got a terrific deal on it," I assured her. "Come down and check it out!"
Melissa walked down the path to the driveway and looked around inside the trailer. "It is pretty cool," she admitted, "but I think you need an intervention."
"I need an intervention?" I questioned, "And just how many dining room tables have we owned since I met you?"
"That's different," she said and turned toward the house. You might say I "turned the tables," diverting the conversation from my Scamp collection. But instead, it caused me to think and try to count how many tables we have owned.
When we were dating, Melissa lived in a small farmhouse in the country. She had a seventies-style round table and mismatched chairs. The table was used and not worth much, but it was a special table.
At that table, we ate the first dinner Melissa cooked for me; she made meatloaf, steamed veggies, and mac & cheese. After dinner, she surprised me with a homemade apple pie. That dinner has become a favorite meal of mine. (Except now, I bake the pies for her.)
While she lived in that house, Melissa bought a green metal ice cream table. The top and chairs were wire mesh, and the seats had flowers embossed in the back. I called it an ice cream table. "It's not an ice cream table; it's just a patio table," she said.
After about a year, she moved to a different place. The ice cream table moved with her to the new deck, but the kitchen table did not make the move. Instead, she bought a small bistro set with a dark, wood slat top and matching chairs. We enjoyed many meals at that small table. The next move was to Winona, Minnesota. Again, the ice cream and bistro tables went along.
In Winona, we were looking for a house. I always look for a home with a formal dining room, as I love having family and friends for dinner. We bought the Baker Street house. It had a large formal dining room with a bay window on the south wall. Once remodeled, I thought it was the prettiest in our home, with the best natural lighting. I could hardly wait to have company for dinner. Unfortunately, the thirty-inch round bistro table looked pathetically small in the big room. So, Melissa began the search for a different table.
We like antiques, and Melissa found a gorgeous antique table across the Mississippi River in Wisconsin. We went to look at it. The heavy table seemed massive yet elegant with claw feet. It would have fit in our dining room, but we decided to pass. "It's a beautiful table," Melissa told the lady. "But it's too fancy for our craftsman-style home."
The lady said, "We're selling this table, too, if you're interested." The second table was simpler, a 1920s-era dining room table. It was dark brown mahogany and came with six matching chairs, one with armrests for the head of the table. I liked that. It was in very good condition; the only thing we didn't like about the table was the grey vinyl seat tops – but those are easy to change. So, we asked for the price.
"Well," the lady explained, "this our everyday table. We had it refinished twenty years ago, and the chair legs could stand to be reglued." Then, she thought for a moment, "I'd like to get $125." I tried not to act shocked, but I thought she would ask at least three times that amount. We wanted the table.
"If we go ahead and pay you now, can you hold it until next week," I asked?
"I'll tell you what; I'll let it go for a hundred if you can take it today." The lady wanted the table gone to make way for a new set to be delivered Monday. Unfortunately, it wouldn't fit in my Subaru. "You can use our old plow truck to move it home," she offered. The deal was getting better all the time. She even loaned us moving blankets to protect the wood finish and tie-down straps. We paid for the table and were soon on our way in a borrowed truck.
The table was the right style, color, and size. It looked beautiful in our Baker Street dining room. (Except for the grey vinyl cushions)
We sold the Baker Street house a few years later to move back to Ottumwa. The ice cream, bistro, and mahogany tables went with us.
In Ottumwa, we lived in an apartment while looking for a house. We put the three tables in storage. In the meantime, Melissa found a small antique drop-leaf table with four matching chairs. "We don't need another table," I protested as we walked out the door to pick it up. The four chairs were in good shape, but the table was not. So I brought my Grammy's table from storage and placed it in the dining room, with the antique chairs around it.
I remember sitting at that table in Grammy's kitchen in Mason City, Iowa. There were a few metal stools around the table, but I liked sitting against the wall. Grammy put blankets and woven throw rugs on top of the cast iron radiator so two or three little kids could sit there. It was always warm in the winter.
Grammy's table is about thirty inches wide and four-feet long. Each end of the table pulls out to extend the length. It's a light wood color, although I don't know what species. The tabletop has a stain from a wire coat hanger and another water ring from a glass. Grammy gave the table to Mom, and I got the table after Mom passed away. I never knew why the table didn't have any matching chairs.
One day, years later, while visiting my aunt Sally in Pennsylvania, we talked about that table. I asked about the chairs: "Mom always wanted a nice dining room table; she'd never owned a new one. One day, my dad got a good size bonus check from work," Sally told me. "Mom sent him to buy a nice table for their formal dining room. Mom was furious when Dad came home with that little-used table and four chairs for a family of seven. She threw such a fit of rage she started smashing the chairs.
"Well, Dad went out and promptly returned with a beautiful, brand new, expensive dining room table with four leaves, eight chairs, and a matching buffet." We shared a good laugh over that story. I remembered eating many meals at that big table, too.
"Since Mom had broken three of the four chairs, Dad couldn't return the table to the second-hand shop, so it went into the kitchen." Sally thought, "You know, I still have that last chair up in the attic. Would you like it?" So, I retrieved the chair and baked aunt Sally a fresh cherry pie to show my appreciation.
Melissa and I didn't stay in the apartment long before we bought the Albany Street house (another old craftsman home), and the remodeling began.
The mahogany table looked awesome in the finished Albany dining room. The bistro table fit perfectly on the enclosed front porch, and the green ice cream table went on the back deck.
The back deck was huge, so Melissa bought another outdoor table and six chairs for summer evenings when we had friends over to cook out. We spent many nights around those tables with family and friends, enjoying good food and life. Then one day, Melissa came to talk to me.
"There’s a sale this Saturday; some people are downsizing their house," she said. I knew something was coming. "They're selling a round oak dining room table, which would look reallsy good in our house.
I protested, "But what about the table we have now? I like this table."
"The round oak table will look even better," she promised. "Just come with me and look at it, please?" I agreed to go with her – but just to look.
It was indeed an attractive table and came with five similarly matched chairs; all oak, school teachers' chairs, I called them. The table looked great in our dining room.
I advertised the mahogany table and six matching chairs with grey vinyl seat tops. Despite not changing the fabric, the set sold right away for $350. It was like a new chapter in our lives.
Our next move was to Silver Bay, Minnesota. The round antique oak and the ice cream table came with us. Before moving, we sold the large outdoor table, the bistro table, and the chairs.
Our new house had an eat-in kitchen but no dining room. The house required a complete remodel. We planned to move several walls, finish the basement, add a three-seasons room, extend the house by eight feet, and add a formal dining room. Our furniture went into storage during the construction. Fortunately, the house had a large round kitchen table and five fifties-style metal chairs covered in vinyl with yellow flowers. It was our new table for the next several months. Then one day, Melissa came to talk to me.
"I think we should look for a different style table for our dining room," she said. Then she showed me an ad for a large rectangular table with an inlaid, parquet-style walnut top. It looked very cool. The table came with eight big upholstered chairs. I didn't care for the fabric, but that's easy to change. So, we drove down to the twin cities, bought the table, brought it home, and put it in storage.
As the dining room was closer to being finished, I realized that the new table and chairs were too big for the room. So, we advertised and sold the table before it was ever in the house.
I built a corner in the kitchen for a small table and chairs; I was thinking of putting Grammy's table in the kitchen. "I want to get an oak table, booth, and bench for this corner," Melissa said and showed me an advertisement. The set looks and fits great in our kitchen. Grammy's table went in the three-seasons room, in front of a big picture window overlooking the backyard.
The ice cream table went on the new deck; Melissa found a matching glider. The people also had another identical patio table set, so we bought it because there was room on the deck for two. I brought the round antique table from storage and put it in the dining room. I could tell from the look on my wife's face we were going to get a different table.
"I found this Pottery Barn trestle table in the cities," she said, "It's in excellent condition and reasonably priced. It won't last long, and I already have a buyer for our round table." So, I called the man in Minneapolis, who agreed to hold the table until we arrived.
The set had a bench and two chairs, but we needed more. "They still sell this table new; we can order two more chairs," she said.
The trestle set complimented our room nicely and the people who bought our round table, loved it! Finally, I thought we had bought our last table; but I thought wrong.
Melissa showed me an ad, "Look at this. It's a Barley Twist, English oak pub table, with four matching chairs." I questioned why we needed it. "You rarely see a table like this with the original chairs; this is an excellent buy!" The table was very cool. It was in our dining room corner for about a year before she sold it for a handsome profit. Then one day, Melissa came to talk to me.
"I am not driving to the twin cities to buy another table," I told her.
"Uncle Kenny and aunt Gail want to give us an antique round oak table," Melissa said.
I rebutted, "We had an antique round oak table, and we sold it to get this trestle table."
"Yes," she said. "But this table belonged to my great aunt and uncle. So, it's been in our family for generations. It's a little smaller, so we'd have more space in the dining room, and it has six chairs and two leaves we can put in when we need a bigger table for company." So, we began the journey to Austin, Texas.
Kenny had the top wrapped well in a heavy blue quilted moving blanket. After we loaded the table and chairs into the van, he handed me a piece of loose wood. "This goes on the leg right here," he showed me.
"When we had guests over for dinner, someone would inevitably bump the piece, and it would fall on the floor. I would say, 'Oh my gosh, I can't believe you broke my uncle's antique table!'" Kenny was laughing as he told the story. "We had so much fun with this gag over the years I decided not to glue the piece back in place. I had already decided we would not glue the piece to the leg either. The table looks terrific in our dining room.
There's a special feeling when gathering at a table that's been in the family for generations. So someday, I'll give Grammy's table to one of our daughters, with the stipulation it must stay in the family forever, and if they refinish the table, they have to preserve the hanger mark and water ring!
In all, Melissa has bought fourteen different tables since I met her. But these are not just tables; they are a collection of stories and history of our family and friends gathered for holidays, birthdays, a celebration of new life, and sometimes someone's passing. They hold happy memories and times when tears fell. I guess that's why I always want our house to have a formal dining room – a place where memories are made.

My daughter's family recently bought a house on the outskirts of Duluth. My two granddaughters, Addison and Evelyn, were excited to tell me about it. In addition to bigger bedrooms, it has a huge yard "and a magic forest," Addie claimed, speaking of the wooded area.
“Papa, our new yard has five apple trees," Evelyn was excited to share. "We can pick some apples, and you can make apple pie."
I'll admit to being rather particular (snobbish, actually) when it comes to the apples I use for pie. Granny Smiths are always my preference. I like the tart flavor, and they don't get mushy like some other varieties do when baked. But Evelyn tugged my heartstrings the day she was born.
If Evelyn wants apple pie made with her apples, then that's what we'll use – no matter the variety. As long as they're not road apples. That might sound silly, but this is the prankster who, at four years old, pulled a rubber chicken out of her coat, shook it in my face, and cracked up laughing! I proceed with caution. Moving day was still six weeks away. I wasn't even sure if they'd have apples left by then.
When moving day came, there was plenty of strong help and vehicles. The crew quickly moved a family of four and two cats, across town.
After the work was done, we had a feast of pizza. Then, the kids gave us a tour of the property. It was the first time I had noticed the apple tree next to the house; it was thick with bright red orbs. "Wow, that tree is really loaded with apples," I said. "Have you tried them? Are they any good?" Sydney said they were.
The apples were pretty well-thinned out lower on the tree; Sydney said the deer were eating them. "It's not just deer," I said, pointing to the ground, and laughing. "That's bear poop."
Sydney seemed a bit alarmed. "Bears are coming this close to the house?"
"Of course, they are," I said. "You have a tree full of apples, and bears love them." I smiled at my daughter, "Welcome to country living in northern Minnesota, kid!" I reached up into the tree to grab an apple.
I polished the apple on my shirt, and took a bite. It was so crisp; it snapped with each bite. "This is a really good apple," I said. I finished eating the apple and chucked the core off into the tall grass on the yard's edge. Then I picked another, rubbing it on my shirt.
The flavor was sweet but a little tart; the texture was perfect. I was trying to identify the variety. I asked my daughter if she knew, but she did not. Finally, halfway through the second apple, I figured it out. "Oh my, these are Honeycrisp apples!"
"Is that good," Sydney asked.
"Good? It's awesome! I think they're the best apple for eating," I answered, "and Honeycrisp are usually the most expensive apples at the store." I looked at the tree again. Some branches bent over from the weight of so many apples, especially toward the top, where the deer and the bears couldn't reach them. “You should pick the apples and sell them," I suggested. But, when you've just moved a family of four to a new house and still don't know where anything is, picking apples is not a priority. I picked a dozen apples to take home with me.
The following Friday, we brought a big pot of chili to their house. After supper, I presented an apple pie. (Of course, I brought the ice cream, too.) Everyone loved the apple pie. "Are these apples from our tree," Sydney asked. I told her they were, indeed. "This is really good," she said! "But I thought you always used Granny Smith Apples?"
"I do use Granny Smiths," I said. "Honeycrisps also make an excellent pie, but who wants to pay the price?"
A few days later, with my apple picker, I went to their house to pick apples with my granddaughters. Addison took an apple from my box, "Papa, this one is no good. The birds have been eating this apple," she said, showing me the marks. We took the bad apple into the house.
In the kitchen I washed the apple, cut out the bad spots, and cut it into slices. The three of us ate the bad apple. "See, we can still use the apples even if the birds pecked at them." Then we went back to the apple tree. 
The girls gathered apples that fell to the ground, while I used the picker to reach into the tree. "Ev picked up an apple, wrinkled her face, and showed me. "Papa, I think a bird pooped on this one."
"Birds will do that," I said with a smile. "It will wash off and be fine; go ahead and put it in the box." We kept working until we’d picked all the apples I could reach. "I need a longer pole to get the top apples," I said. With nearly a bushel of apples; that was enough.
When I got home, I realized I had way too many apples. So I kept what I could use and gave the rest to a friend. Lana and I had the same intentions; applesauce!
Lana peeled and cored her apples before cooking them. "It took hours, over a few days," she said. I used Mom’s method.
I washed and quartered the apples. Then, tossed the pieces, seeds, skins, stems, husks, and all, into a pot. I put several cinnamon sticks and some nutmeg in the pot, too. Adding a cup or two of water, I covered the pot and cooked the apples until they were mush. The pot needs to be stirred often to prevent the apples from burning on the bottom. It takes about forty minutes to thoroughly cook the apples down.
While the apples cooked, I got our vintage green Cosco stool, pulled the steps out, then climbed up to the cabinet above the refrigerator. I had to shuffle through several items. (Bottles of wine and hooch.) There it was in the back of the cabinet; my antique colander and pestle. I pulled it out.
The aluminum colander is cone-shaped, with a handle on the top side. It sits in a three-legged stand. The top of the wooden pestle has a ball to use as a grip. Next, I pulled out my turkey roaster from the very back of the bottom corner cabinet.
I set the colander assembly in the turkey pan, then scooped two cups of apple mush into the hopper. Instead of holding the grip, I rolled the ball against palm of my hand, making a circular motion with the pestle inside the cone. The wooden shaft rolled the apple mixture, pressing it through the tiny holes.
The turkey pan catches the applesauce as it runs outside the cone. The colander works like a sieve, capturing all the skins, seeds, stems, and husks. I ended up with three gallons of perfectly smooth apple sauce. I hadn't made a large batch like this for probably thirty years! "What will I do with all this applesauce," I wondered? "I don't have that much room in the freezer - I know, I'll can it!"
With the green Cosco stool, I retrieved my pressure cooker from the top shelf of the pantry. Of course, I hadn't done any canning for thirty years either – but canning is like riding a bike; you never forget, right?
I had everything ready to start the canning process. Oops. Having not canned anything for thirty years, I no longer own canning jars! Not a problem.
When I was a kid, Mom would save empty jars for canning. Mayonnaise, peanut butter, jelly; any jar would work, so long as the canning lids fit. But, of course, when I was a kid, all these products came in glass jars. You just can't use plastic jars in a canner. Now, I'll try anything once, but not that. "Hey," I had a thought. "People have given me various home-canned goods; I still have those jars."
I shuffled through the cabinets, finding nine jars with lids and rings. Some were pints, and others were half-pint jars. I know you're not supposed to reuse canning lids, but I didn't have any new ones. Besides, growing up, money was tight; Mom sometimes reused them. "You have to check each jar, whether it's a new or used lid, to make sure they sealed properly," she would say. So, I had nothing to lose. In a worst-case scenario, the lids would not seal. Then I would have to refrigerate the applesauce, get new lids, and re-can it tomorrow.
Although I had more product than jars, I had a blast canning the applesauce. It reminded me of days long ago. Following Mom's advice, I checked all the lids after the jars had cooled. Only one half-pint jar had a bad seal – the rest were good. So, I ate the unsealed jar of applesauce. I had applesauce in the refrigerator to be canned, but I wanted even more.
John had extension poles in his garage. I used them to pick all the Honeycrisp apples left in the treetop. I stopped at the store to buy more jars with new lids, then went home. Finally, at nine-o-clock p.m., I got started.
I put the pot of cold applesauce on the stove to reheat it for canning. While it warmed up, I cut more apples and put them on the stove to cook, and boiled water to sterilize the new jars. Speaking of which, I ran out to the van to bring the two flats of new jars inside. Unfortunately, I wasn't watching my applesauce closely enough; It started to boil.
Like an erupting volcano, bubbles of steam rose from the bottom of the pan, pushing upward. Then bursting through the surface, splashed applesauce like hot lava. I shut off the gas burner and tried to stir the pot. A glob of hot sauce landed on the back of my fingers. "OUCH!" I rushed to the sink to rinse my hand under cold water. To make matters worse, I scorched the bottom of the pan, ruining the rest of that batch. "Is this project going south on me?"
The jars I had canned the night before were still sitting on the counter. Then, suddenly, I started hearing the sealed lids pop. One, then another. A few moments later, another, and another. "You've got to be kidding me," I complained with concern. "They were all good this morning."
I removed the rings to recheck the sealed lids. They all seemed to be tight, but these were used lids. As I checked them, I heard two more seals pop. I started laughing as I figured out the source.
The new jars had been kept outside in the van. The cold air had contracted inside the jars, making the lids grip the jars. Then as the new jars warmed in the kitchen, the air expanded, and the lids would pop as if they had been unsealed. My canned applesauce was fine; my concern was for naught.
By now, the new batch of applesauce was ready to run through the colander. I smiled as I watched the smooth applesauce run outside the colander and into the turkey roaster pan. When all the apples were strained, I canned the applesauce; of course, I saved a good portion to sample the next day.
I cleaned the kitchen while I waited for the pressure canner to cool down. Then, I removed the jars from the canner, setting them on a towel by the full jars I had canned the day before. Next, I washed the canner and used the green Cosco stool to put it back on the top shelf of the pantry. I would let the jars cool down, then check the seals in the morning.
It took me four hours to clean, cut, cook, press, and can another batch of applesauce. I would have had more if I hadn't scorched the rest of the first pot.
I looked at all those jars of applesauce on the counter. It was one in the morning, and my hand hurt. "A small price to pay," I said as I turned off the kitchen lights and started walking down the dark hallway. "That applesauce is going to taste amazing this winter.” Not just applesauce, but Honeycrisp applesauce.

​The trouble all started at Roseau Hardware: an Ace Hardware store in the small town of Roseau, Minnesota.
Roseau, is in northern Minnesota; on the Canadian border. Melissa’s great-grandfather, and great-grandmother homesteaded near Roseau in the early 1900’s. Her grandfather was born there in 1914, and we’ve traveled to that area a few times to do research, and learn more about her ancestors.
We were camping in Roseau. The campground was very wet and I needed a new mat to lay in front of the Scamp door so that we wouldn’t drag mud into the camper. (We learned later that Roseau had three inches of rain that morning before we had arrived.)
I stopped at Geroy’s Home and Appliance on the main highway. The people were very helpful. They had a small piece of green Astro-turf that was about twice the size that I needed. They gave me a great price if I wanted to take the whole remnant, and so I did. With the carpet in my van, I started for the campsite.
Just a couple of blocks back, on Highway 11, I had seen a hardware store on the same side of the road. I decided to go back. I had chicken hindquarters to cook over the fire for dinner, but all the firewood at the campground was wet from the rain. If I bought a bag of charcoal and a bottle of lighter fluid, I could cook the chicken on the old fashion BBQ grill mounted on a steel post in our campsite. Besides, I needed a roll of paper towel for the camper. I pulled into the parking lot.
Roseau, is a small town, with a population of around 2,700 people. They are the headquarters for Polaris snowmobiles, and several other industries. The town has a very impressive retail community with car dealerships, at least two hardware stores, two tractor supply stores, dollar stores, grocery stores, convenience stores, trading posts – all kinds of places that would sell charcoal.
Of all the places to buy charcoal in Roseau, Minnesota, I had to step into this joint; Roseau Ace Hardware. That’s where the trouble all started.
The staff was very friendly; I was greeted right away when I walked into the building. I swear, that store has everything; a guy could easily get lost in there. A gal named Sabrina took me right to the charcoal. I picked up a ten-pound bag, and a bottle of lighter fluid, then headed for the register. I suppose everything would have been okay, if I had just kept walking to the checkout counter. But, on the way, I passed a cooler full of Frost Top soda.
There was root beer, orange crème soda and several other flavors, but the one that caught my eye was the deep purple, Premium Grape Soda. I just had to have one. So with a bag of charcoal under my left arm, and a bottle of lighter fluid in my left hand, I opened the cooler and grabbed an ice-cold twenty-ounce bottle of that purple elixir with my right hand. I paid at the register, and headed for the van.
While fumbling with the keys to open the back doors, I dropped my bottle of soda. Fortunately, it was a plastic bottle and did not break, but did roll under the van. I put the charcoal in the van, then got on my hands and knees to retrieve my grape soda from the driver’s side.
A lady in the car next to me was watching as I climbed under my vehicle with my rump in the air. I stood up, brushed off my jeans, then held the bottle to show her. “I dropped my grape soda,” I explained. She nodded and smiled, and I climbed into the driver’s seat. I couldn’t wait to crack that bottle open, but maybe I should have.
When I twisted the cap open, it exploded. Grape soda sprayed everywhere. All over me, all over the dashboard, the seats, the steering wheel, and windshield; I even got my dog Nova Mae, sitting in the passenger seat. I was so anticipating that refreshing grape soda, I failed to consider the pressure it may have built up when the bottle was dropped.
I looked through the driver’s side window, which had purple juice streaming down. The lady in the car next to me was laughing. I reached for the new roll of paper towel. “Darn,” I cursed. “I forgot the paper towel.” I tried to clean up with a napkin from the glove box, but it wasn’t enough. I stepped out of the van, looked at the lady sitting in the car next to me, and said, “I had a little problem.”
“I see that,” she said, unable to stifle her laughter. I didn’t think it was all that funny. Neither did Nova.
I was greeted right away when I walked back into the store. “Where do you keep your paper towels,” I asked Sabrina, “and, do you have a restroom I could use?” I felt very conspicuous, but she was polite and did not mention my situation. Maybe she didn’t notice; the purple soda didn’t show on my black T-shirt, however, it did look like I had wet my pants. I washed my hands, got the paper towel, and was headed to the register. I probably would have been okay from there if I would have just kept walking to the register. But there it was in front of me, how could I resist. A popcorn machine with free popcorn.
Inside the clear glass display walls, a soft yellow bulb glowed on the golden salty treat. Mmm. I had to have some, and it would go great with what was left of my grape soda. But wait – there’s more.
“What have we here?” I picked up a container on top of the popcorn machine. “Grandpa Tom’s Cowboy Spice?” I sprinkled a little into the palm of my hand. “That’s pretty good,” I said. Then I picked up Grandpa Tom’s Jalapeno Pepper Spice and sampled it. “That’s really good,” I said. “It has a nice kick.” But then I saw the Grandpa Tom’s Sweet Smoked Chipotle Spice, and tried a taste. “Wow! That’s the best,” I said. It was similar to my Tom’s Secret Chicken Rub, which I make at home.
I looked on the side of the bottle, “For beef, pork, chicken, fish, and wild game.” My eyes lit up. “Chicken?” I had chicken hindquarters waiting at the camper, but I had forgotten my chicken rub at the house. The spice was very similar to my own.
“Who is this Grandpa Tom,” I wondered, “and where did he get my Secret Chicken Rub recipe?” I tasted the product again. Then I read on the side of the bottle, “It’s made at 610 3rd Ave, NE, right here in Roseau?” I looked up and down the aisle. No one was looking, so I tasted the spice one more time from my palm, then went to the display and picked up a bottle. I carried the spice and my paper towel to the register.
Back at the campsite, I seasoned my chicken. I grilled them very slowly and they came out amazing! “I thought you forgot your chicken rub at home,” Melissa questioned.
“Oh, this is just something I picked up at the hardware store,” I explained.
“It’s very good,” she said. “It tastes a lot like yours.”
Hmfph. “It’s alright,” I said, nonchalantly. I was worried my wife might end up liking Grandpa Tom’s seasoning better than my own.
Back at home, I made chicken on the grill several times, alternating between my Secret Chicken Rub, and Grandpa Tom’s. My wife never could tell which was which. A showdown was imminent. Then one day I was at Zup’s Food’s. “Chicken hindquarters were $1.09 per pound?” That was a good price. “It’s time,” I said with an evil laugh. “Bring out your best, Grandpa Tom, show me whatcha got!”
I kept hearing fiddle music. The Charlie Daniels Band, The Devil Went Down to Georgia, played over and over in my head while I seasoned the chicken carefully. I was sure to keep them separated, and cautious to sprinkle an equal amount of each spice on the meat to make it fair. I wrapped the chicken in separate bags, and placed them in the refrigerator. “The stage is set. Tomorrow is the day.”
I laid the two bags out about twenty-minutes early, letting them come to room temperature, while the Weber Grill warmed up. At precisely 2:00 pm, I put the hindquarters on the hot grill to sear; Grandpa Tom’s on the left, Tom’s Secret Chicken Rub, on the right. I turned them at the exact same times, until they were grilled to perfection. Honestly, they all looked the same – delicious.
I pushed toothpicks into the chicken with Grandpa Tom’s spice, in order to know which was which. I called Melissa to the dinner table; giving her pieces of each. “Which do you like better,” I questioned. I suspected she would pick my spice hands down.
“I like this one better,” she said pointing to my drum stick. “No, wait. I like the one with the toothpick better.” I made no facial expression. “No, the one without the toothpick, no with the toothpick.” She kept changing her mind, “Heck, I don’t know! They taste the same if you want to know the truth. I like them both.” Then she looked at the two bottles. “Grandpa Tom’s has a fancier label,”
Hmfph. “Well, it’s what’s on the inside that matters,” I said. “Besides, he’s probably got a marketing department to help him.”
After lunch, I got on the computer and typed into a search engine, “Companies that design chicken spice labels…”
Until such a time as I market my new product, “Papa Tom’s Secret Chicken Rub,” you might want to try the other guy’s spice. It is very good. You can order online, or you can buy it at Roseau Ace Hardware, while you’re in Roseau, Minnesota. It’s a fun town to visit, and the home of Polaris snowmobiles, and Grandpa Tom’s Spices, too. (I recommend the Sweet Smoked Chipotle)

What some call a necessity, others consider a luxury. Growing up in a big family, we often couldn't afford some luxuries my friends considered necessary.
Simple things, home remedies, often worked as well, or better, than their more expensive manufactured alternatives. But unfortunately, large marketing firms create an image of necessity for products such as toothpaste.
When I was a kid, times were different. We didn't have toothpaste. Instead, we had little Tupperware containers shaped like shot glasses. They were about twice the size and had a lid with the famous Tupperware Seal. These handy little containers came in very cool colors; yellow, blue, green, pink, orange, and white for the person with a limited desire for flair.
 We kept the Tupperware container in the bathroom medicine cabinet filled with baking soda. You would open the container; sprinkle a little soda into the palm of your hand, then press the bristles of your wetted toothbrush into the soda. You were now prepared to begin the daily dental cleansing process.
We brushed our teeth in the morning and again before going to bed. I didn't seem to have any more or fewer cavities than my friends, who enjoyed the luxury of "cavity-fighting – tooth whitening" toothpaste. If you wanted a whitening agent, you added a few drops of hydrogen peroxide to the soda.
 On occasion, when K-Mart offered a blue light special, Dad would come home with Pepsodent: a complete care toothpaste. But, of course, with toothpaste came responsibility and rules.
In the TV commercials, they would run a thick bead of paste from one end of the bristles to the other. The actor always put a wavy, sweeping hump in the toothpaste, leaving a curly tip - like a soft serve ice cream cone. Dad always said, "They do that to sell more toothpaste!" He insisted, "Just a dot; the size of a pea, that's all you need. The rest is just wasteful." But there were more rules than just the amount used.
"Don't let the tip of the tube touch your toothbrush bristles," Dad would say. That was equally gross to double dipping in the chip dip. There was a right and wrong way to dispense the product. You had to put pressure on the tube so that when you had your drop of toothpaste, there would be a slight vacuum action within the tube. Almost like inhaling, the toothpaste would recede slightly back inside the tube, leaving a nice clean tip for the next person – not a gunky mess. "If you can't replace the cap, don't use the toothpaste," Dad would warn.
Finally, we were required to squeeze from the flat end of the tube. As the toothpaste decreased in quantity, the tube would stay nice and neat, maintaining its sleek shape. Rolling up the foil tube as needed would also keep a nice-looking tube of toothpaste. Never, under any circumstances, was it acceptable to squeeze the middle of the tube. Never!
Squeezing the middle disturbed the natural shape and distribution of the product. It resulted in an untidy, unattractive tube of toothpaste. Lt also caused the wasted product to be trapped inside, which would lead to an investigation by Dad. ,
The violator, who dared to squeeze from the middle, would be sought out, caught, and punished. Then, losing all rights to the family tube of toothpaste, the convicted child would be banished from the toothpaste and sent back to using baking soda."
The older kids who had jobs found a way around Dad's rules; they bought their own toothpaste. Still, Dad would preach his rules to them, "You're just wasting your money when you waste toothpaste." 
If we ran out of toothpaste and K-mart didn't have a special, Dad would say, "There's nothing wrong with using baking soda."
"But Dad, all my friends have toothpaste," I argued.
"If all your friends jumped off the bridge, would you jump off, too," He asked. But then, he reassured me, "There's nothing wrong with using baking soda."
Dad felt his position on dental hygiene products was proven correct when the "New and Improved Crest – Now with Baking Soda and Peroxide" was introduced. Maybe Dad knew more than we gave him credit.
I thought about Dad and his rules on toothpaste while standing at the sink this morning. Dad always used to say, "You'll follow my rules if you're living under my roof. You can make your own rules when you get your own house." I was in my house now.
I picked up my toothbrush and laughed as I squeezed the middle of the tube. I spread a thick bead of paste from one end of the bristles to the other. Naturally, I included the little wavy, sweeping hump in the middle, leaving a curly tip - just like in the commercials.
As I began brushing my teeth, it occurred to me I had used way too much toothpaste. I spit the excess into the sink, thinking, "What an expensive waste!" I went to the bedroom to get dressed. Before I left the house, I returned to the bathroom.
Applying pressure between my thumb and the tip of my index finger, I smoothed the tube from the bottom up. I made several passes pushing the paste toward the top, returning the natural shape to the damaged center where I'd squeezed it. Then, I smoothed out all the wrinkles I could. "There. That looks better," I said.
After all, I did not want to be the violator who caused the launch of an investigation. Such an investigation could lead to my conviction. I could lose all rights to the family tube of toothpaste; I would return to using baking soda, and I don't even own any of those little Tupperware containers.