Tom Palen,a broadcaster, pilot, writer, and our Guest Columnist! Archives
March 2024
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Acclimation3/13/2024 As a kid living in Madison, Wisconsin, I was naturally a Green Bay Packers fan. During neighborhood football games, I dreamed of someday replacing Bart Starr as the Packers quarterback, but that was a short-lived dream.
I wanted to play football. "You're too scrawny," said Coach Scents, the junior high coach. "You should go out for track." "You're too small," said coach Clement in high school. "You should try wrestling. You'd do well in the light weights." Admittedly, I was small, but light weights? I lost interest in football, redirecting my enthusiasm to motorcycles, a passion still with me today. In 1983, I rode my motorcycle to Colorado with my dog Harry. We were camping near the Continental Divide, on the Guanella Pass, outside Georgetown. I carried a tent with me but preferred sleeping in the open air; the stars in the mountains are spectacular! Campers in the Rockies had to park a minimum distance from the road, so I rode my bike a little into the open area and camped on the ground next to my bike. Even summer nights are cold in the mountains; having the right camping gear was necessary. I had a zero-degree sleeping bag and a mat and blanket for my dog. I unrolled my bag and laid out Harry's bedding. The wind was calm, so I hung my jacket on the mirror, then took off my shoes and slid them under my motorcycle. I crawled into my sleeping bag, and Harry laid on his mat. I covered him with his blanket, then slid down into my sleeping bag and pulled the drawstring until there was about a two-inch opening left for air. With Harry curled up next to me, we both stayed warm. Harry kept pushing closer and closer until, eventually, he was on top of me. By daybreak, I was having a hard time breathing with his weight on my chest. "Harry, what are you doing? Get off me," I complained while trying to nudge him to one side or the other, but Harry wasn't budging. I loosened the drawstring and pushed open the top of my sleeping bag; that's when the snow fell on my face. "This isn't good," I told my trusty canine. There I was: at an elevation of almost twelve thousand feet, in the mountains, on a motorcycle with a dog, and five inches of fresh snow on the ground. "We're in a predicament here, son," I reported. It wasn't very cold, but it would be challenging to get down the mountainside in the snow. I shook the snow from my sleeping bag, Harry's mat, and blanket and stuffed them into a saddlebag on my bike. With the mild temperature, the snow was already melting, and the outside of my coat on the mirror was I put on an extra flannel shirt, then my coat. I buckled my helmet chin strap, then pulled my gloves from my coat pocket. Fortunately, my gloves stayed dry inside my pockets. "Get on, Harry," I said, and he jumped into the backseat. "Here we go," I said. The back tire spun slightly in the snow, but we got back to the road without much trouble. "It's all downhill from here," I joked with my dog, but Harry wasn't laughing. I kept the pace nice and slow as we started down the mountain. Even though I tried to go slow, the heavy bike picked up speed. It was kind of scary, but what was really frightening was the first hairpin turn ahead of me. The bike was still gaining speed. If I applied more pressure to the brakes, the wheels locked up, and the bike continued to cut through the snow like a razor. I was probably only going fifteen or twenty miles per hour, but I had no control of the bike. As I approached the turn, it felt like I was going at least a hundred. I reached behind me and pushed Harry off the motorcycle. "By God, if I'm going over the mountain's edge, he doesn't need to go with me," I said. When I pushed Harry, my movement caused the bike to wobble and fishtail. The back wheel locked, and I went down on my side. I envisioned myself going over the edge. When I came to a rest, I lay there for a moment, confused and unsure if I had gone over the edge. Harry ran up next to me. "What just happened," I asked as I got up. I looked at my bike lying on its side with a berm of snow in front of it. "It's like I wiped out in slow motion," I answered myself. "The motorcycle pushed snow like a plow until the bike stopped. That was a pretty neat trick," I said as I looked to heaven. I still had several more hairpin turns to negotiate. I got on my knees and dug the snow out from under the bike with my hands, and then stood the motorcycle upright. "Let's go, Harry." We climbed back on the bike and started down the hill again. I tried to keep the pace slow, but the bike still picked up speed against my will. If I got going faster than I was comfortable or approached a hairpin turn, I would call out, "Harry, get off," and he would jump off the bike without me pushing him. Then, I would turn the handlebars slightly while locking the rear brake and gently lay the bike down in the snow. It took a while, but we were finally out of the white stuff about halfway down the mountain. When we returned to Georgetown, I was grateful that the roads were dry and the sun was shining. The roads were dry, but I was wet from being on my knees while digging the snow with my hands and laying on my side when putting the bike down; and when you're wet, you're cold. Harry and I rode to the gas station, and I used their men's room to change into dry clothes. After changing clothes, the cashier grumbled something about the bathrooms being for customers only, so I bought a large cup of coffee and a sandwich. I took Harry's food and water bowls outside to the motorcycle, and we sat on the curb to eat breakfast. Although we still had a couple more days, after the morning's ordeal, Harry and I decided to head toward home. Driving east on I-70, I turned the radio to News Radio 85, KOA. It was mid-morning Sunday, and all the talk on the radio was about the Denver Broncos. All the scuttlebutt was about some new snot-nosed Stanford University quarterback drafted by the Baltimore Colts but refused to play there. The quarterback wanted to be traded to a West Coast division team, and if Baltimore didn't trade him, he would accept the option of playing baseball for the New York Yankees. "And so today rookie quarterback, John Elway, will make his debut before Broncos fans in this first preseason game here at home in Mile High Stadium," the announcer reported. I had never been to a professional football game and thought it might be fun. We made our way into the city and found the football stadium, and I got a single ticket. Fans were really intrigued seeing Harry on the motorcycle with me. Some friendly people tailgating in one of the parking lots, inviting me to park my bike in their space with them. They offered me a hamburger from their grill and a beer. (I declined the brew and opted for a Coke.) They really liked Harry, the dog riding on a motorcycle, and offered him a hamburger. During the pre-game festivities, we played football in the parking lot. Every time I ran for the ball or chased another player, I found myself winded; it was hard to breathe. My new friends had no problems breathing. I thought something was wrong with me. "You're not used to the high altitude of Denver," one of the ladies told me. "It takes a few days to get acclimated," she said. It was the first time I'd become familiar with the term acclimated. I huffed and puffed every time I exerted myself; I couldn't keep up with these guys, who were all older than me. Fortunately, it was getting close to game time. Harry was accustomed to traveling with me. He would stay with the motorcycle while I went to the game, but I fastened his leash to the bike to ensure he didn't wander off. I placed his mat next to the bike and tucked his blanket under the seat, making a tent to be sure he had a shaded area. I filled his bowl with fresh water and then headed into the stadium. I was breathing hard inside the stadium as I climbed the steep steps to find my seat. I was buzzing with excitement in the new environment, my first time ever being in the stands of an NFL game. The green field with white lines looked surreal, far more brilliant than I'd ever seen on a televised game. The colors, sounds, people, and vibrancy in the air all had me awestruck. The people didn't pay much attention when the stadium announcer introduced the visiting team; they even booed some players. "And now, here's your Denver Broncos starting lineup!" The crowd came alive; everyone stood up, cheering as he called out the names, and players ran from the tunnel onto the field. "And, your new Denver Broncos, starting quarterback, number seven – John Elway!" The crow exploded. It sounded like deafening thunder as 75,000 fans stomped their feet on the metal stands. A few people booed the rookie over his controversial way of getting to a West Coast division team. When the game was over, the Broncos defeated the Seattle Seahawks, and the crowd was ecstatic. I was one of them. Back in the parking lot, Harry was off his leash playing with our new friends. "What did you think of the game," one lady asked me. "Wow," I said. "I took the hook, line, and sinker. I am officially a Denver Broncos fan." Several guys patted me on the back, saying, 'Atta boy,' 'Welcome,' 'We're the best fans in the league.' I looked at Harry. He always wore a red bandana around his neck, but one of the ladies bought him a Denver Broncos kerchief and tied it around his neck, too; how fitting. "I guess Harry is now a Broncos fan, too." "See," the one lady said. "It didn't take you two very long to acclimate." We all shared a good laugh about that. But acclimation isn't always that quick. Last December, I helped with a project in Florida for two weeks before Christmas. I acclimated to the beautiful weather almost instantly. After the holidays, Melissa returned to Florida with me for two months to continue helping with the work. January was also nice, but by February, the temperatures were getting a little too warm for me, and it was so humid! A friend who relocated to Florida told me, "I got used to the heat pretty quickly, but you'll never get used to the humidity, and I've been here for seventeen years." I could believe that. This year, I came to Texas for three weeks to help my sister with some work around her house. The weather has been pretty nice so far, with only a couple of hot days (Upper 80s). I would stop over and visit the crew next door, who were building a garage on the neighbor's lot. The workers were all Mexican, and a couple did not speak English, but that didn't stop us from communicating. I spent a whole day cutting, gathering, stacking, and piling brush and yard waste to burn the following day. I texted my friend Bob Henricks: "I'm lighting the fire at 5:00 am. Would you like to bring a mug and join me for morning coffee?" It didn't take Bob long to respond: 'Wow! God's not even up at 5 am. I'll pass on that, but I will get in touch with you tomorrow morning.' I laughed out loud at his response. "See, this retirement business makes a guy soft," I told myself. I sent Bob another text, "I would love to have you join me at 7, 8, or 9… Whatever works for you. The fire will still be burning." Then I set my alarm for 4:30 am. I got up as soon as the alarm sounded. There would be no hitting snooze this morning; I was excited to get the fire lit on time. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and said my morning prayers. Then, I made a cup of coffee and stepped outside. It was pitch black! "God, are you awake," I asked. "Did you forget to start the new day? Where is the dawn?" Not hearing a reply, I called again softly, "God, are you there?" Finally, a voice from the dark sky replied, "I'm sleeping. What do you need?" Apparently, I had acclimated to the 70-80° days. The warmer temperatures tricked my body into thinking it was summertime by northern Minnesota standards. The voice spoke again, "It's March, Tom. March is still winter. I'm not turning the light on until 6:30. Now go back to bed." Instead, I took my coffee and sat on the back deck; it was a good time for some prayer and meditation. "What now," the voice said. "Oops, I was just saying some prayers," I explained. "Okay," said the voice. You talk; I'll listen and get back to you a little later." I was good with that. At 6:00, dawn broke, and I lighted the fire. The morning was mild, and as the flames blazed, it got sweltering, working near the fire. I remember that day Harry and I rode down the mountainside, cold and wet. "Boy, I sure could have used some of this warmth back then," I said. The fire burned quicker than I anticipated. I had stacked several large piles of 12' bamboo shoots the day before. Wow! I thought pine popped a lot when burning. Every time I threw another load of bamboo on the fire, it sounded like I had tossed in a pack or two of Black Jack firecrackers. At 7:20, I texted Bob, "She's going down fast. Come see how the bamboo burns." Bob finally came over a little after 9, "Good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty," I teased. Bob helped me drag more branches from the tree line to throw on the fire. Then, I started raking and burning leaves. It was hot, dusty, and dirty work, but I enjoyed it and kept the fire going until after 7 pm. At one point, I carried my leaf rake next door and handed it and my work gloves to a painter, and then I took his paint sprayer. Although he didn't speak English, he knew what I was getting at. "No, no, no," he said, taking his paint gun from my hand and returning my rake. Then he said something in Spanish, and the crew laughed, and others commented more. Although I did not understand a word they said, I knew they were having fun teasing me, and I laughed along with them. Another worker translated, "He said you're working too hard to take your rake and go away." We all shared a good laugh about that. Pointing at the sweat on my brow, the foreman teased me, "You Minnesota boys haven't acclimated to our Texas weather. This isn't hot – this is a nice day for working." We all laughed about that and then returned to work. The next morning brought a big change in the weather, with the temperature dropping to 45° at 8 am – a temperature I am well accustomed to. My Mexican friends were all bundled up in hoodies, wearing stocking caps and gloves. Naturally, I went next door wearing a flannel shirt with no hat or gloves. I gave a little tug on the foreman's black stocking hat in the driveway. "What is this," I asked. "It's my hat to keep my head warm," the foreman said. "It's freezing out here." "This isn't freezing," I laughed. "This is nice weather for working. It seems you Texas boys haven't acclimated to this lovely Minnesota weather." We shared a good laugh about that, and then I pointed to his stocking cap again, "By the way, that isn't a hat," I said, reaching inside my shirt. I pulled out my rabbit-fur-lined bomber cap with the big ear flaps like a magician would pull a rabbit from a top hat; I slapped it on, pointed to my head, and said, "THIS, my friend, is a hat!" We all laughed a lot about that. The crew guys started making comments and laughing. I couldn't understand their Spanish, but I knew they were having fun teasing their boss, and I laughed along. The foreman looked at me and asked, "Haven't you got some raking to do?" "Nope," I said. "I'm going to take down a tree in the front yard today," then went on my way. Traveling around the country, it’s necessary to adjust to different climates, humidities, elevation changes, and such. But I've never needed to acclimate to the people – and language barriers have never interfered with communication.
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Green Glasses5/31/2023 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.
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The Smelt Fry5/24/2023 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. |