Tom Palen,a broadcaster, pilot, writer, and our Guest Columnist! Archives
January 2025
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Stolen Packages1/29/2025 I drove my van to the job site, with my trusty canine Nova Mae in the passenger seat. She sat upright as if to assure I was going the right way. “You’re a good navigator,” I said while reaching over to give her a rub on the head. Nova licked her lips to acknowledge my praise, and then continued vigilantly taking in all that was going on outside. The mood felt like the first spring day in a small town.
Two men leaned on the hood of a truck enjoying casual conversation at the gas pumps. A group of kids were playing soccer at the school playground while others were shooting hoops. A teenage boy and girl sat on the swings, making googley eyes with each other; I remember those days. Many people were walking; some alone, and some in pairs or groups of three. Nova paid extra attention to those walking dogs. I was supposed to be taping drywall for my brother Dan, but the weather in Ottumwa was way too nice to be working inside, especially in the first week of January. I opted to take Nova Mae for a little walk before I started working. I wore a light-weight black jacket and put on a stocking cap; I didn’t want to be fooled by a nice-looking day, only to discover it was colder than I anticipated. Finally, I fastened the retractable leash to Nova’s collar, and we set out. It was forty-seven degrees outside and the wind was calm. The blue sky had just enough scattered clouds to make it quite picturesque. The back of my dark clothing absorbed heat from the sunshine. I wanted to maintain a steady brisk pace to get some good cardio exercise, but that is nearly impossible while walking a dog. Nova Mae was like a boat anchor on the end of her leash. She had to stop and sniff every fire hydrant, tree trunk, bush, decorative rock, fence post, utility pole, sign post; any spot another dog had marked, or even thought about marking. In an Ottumwa, Iowa residential neighborhood, that’s a lot of stops! Without any breeze, and the additional energy used to drag a 57-pound resistant dog, I didn’t walk far before overheating. I removed my stocking cap, tucking it into my back pocket and then took off my jacket. I opened a couple of buttons to loosen my collar, allowing some excess heat to escape. Soon after adjusting my garments, Nova began turning small, fast circles in someone’s front yard. Finally, she was doing her business. Perhaps we could now maintain the pace I wanted, but not before cleaning up after my dog. One of the most disgusting things in the world (and possibly my greatest pet peeve) is people walking their dog and not cleaning up after them. RUDE! If you own a dog and it holds a business meeting in someone’s yard, on a boulevard, or any place other than your lawn, it is your moral and legal responsibility to pick up after your pet! And ‘not having anything’ with you, is no excuse. When walking a pet people know that their dog will most likely need to stop, that’s why we walk them. People should have been prepared. No excuses. Period! Rant over. Because I own a dog, I always have a dooty bag in my pocket; it’s a rare occasion when I don’t have one, and possibly a spare to give to someone who ‘forgot’ theirs. The bags are so flat no one can tell you’re even carrying one. As a matter of fact, I have often found them in my washing machine when removing my clean clothes. (Okay, the rant is really over this time.) I couldn’t find the bag in my back pocket, so I removed my stocking cap to dig deeper; still nothing. I checked my other back and both front pockets. I looked around the ground in case I had dropped it. I was horrified to discover I had nothing to clean up after my dog. “Oh my gosh,” I feared. “Have I become one of ‘those’ people?” Finally, desperately searching the pockets of my jacket and found a plastic Walmart shopping bag. Whew, crisis averted. Unfortunately, public trash receptacles are not generally found in residential neighborhoods, so I carried the goodie bag with me. When Nova and I returned to the van, we wanted to keep walking. I left my jacket and cap in the van, and reloaded my pockets with two new bags. I put the Walmart dooty bag under my wiper blade to keep it from blowing away until I could dispose of it properly. Nova and I then continued our walk. As we walked, a UPS delivery truck passed us. The driver stopped at one house, hopped from his side door, and left a package on the front porch. A few doors down, he stopped again, and then a third time about a block ahead of us. At the stop sign, the brown truck turned right and stopped once more. People must have been taking advantage of after-Christmas sales online. I watched the driver. He would set down his package, ring the bell, or knocking on the door, snap a photo of the package, and then quickly returning to his truck and take off down the street. I laughed. “I used to do that with my friends,” I told Nova. “We called the game Ding-Dong-Dash. We’d ring the bell, and then take off running, or hide in the bushes. When they came to the door, there was no one there! Sometimes we’d do it two or three times at the same house, but we never wasted time taking pictures; we dashed!” I laughed as fond memories we rekindled. “One time we played this trick on my neighbor. He was a grouchy man who often yelled from his front porch at kids playing in the street, ‘Stay out of my yard!’ We never even went into his yard because he was mean and we were all afraid of him! Anyway, one time, on a dare, my friend John and I, rang his bell and dashed, three times in a row. We should have left well enough alone, but we went back a fourth time. “This time, Old Man Olson was waiting with a wooden yard stick, around the corner under his car port. He caught us before we even turned around from the door. Olson chased us away, swinging his stick at us, and vowing there would be trouble if we ever returned! Although we escaped unscathed he knew who we were and he told our parents what we did. Old Man Olson warned our moms: ‘keep your darn kids out of my yard. Next time I’ll call the police and those boys will end up in a juvenile detention center, where they belong.’ Man, my mom was mad about that. I got chewed out pretty good, and took a few swats from a wooden spoon. But my friend John’s mom just said, ‘The old geezer deserved it.’” Nova and I shared a good laugh about that, and kept walking until we turned right at the stop sign. I noticed the house on the corner where the UPS truck stopped. The driver left a sizeable box by the front door; it looked like a box that a TV would come in. “That’s a package just waiting to be stolen,” I told Nova. “Package theft is out of control all over the country, even in small towns.” I recalled a Fed-Ex driver at my house telling me that he takes pictures of every package, to prove it was delivered. I think most delivery companies, and the post office are doing that now because the thefts are so rampant. I’m sure it was costing delivery companies a lot of money when people reported orders never being received. It’s a big problem and I don’t have a solution. I doubt that consumers are going to accept getting a note on the door, ‘We attempted to deliver your package while you were away,’ and instructing them to come to the office to claim the property. Since most people are working during the day, they can’t be home during regular delivery hours. It’s a big, and serious problem, but some people are finding creative ways to deal with the issue. I read a story about a guy who ordered a television. When it arrived, he took the new TV into his house. He packaged his old broken television in the same shipping container, neatly sealed the top, and set it back on his front porch. Sure enough, thieves came along and stole the package. The man captured a great video from his doorbell camera. He posted the video on social media, saying, “The thieves got what they deserved and I didn’t have to pay $25 to dispose the old television. I didn’t even have to carry it to the curb,” he wrote. “They offered free front door pick up.” I laughed when I saw his post. Unfortunately, thieves who are brazen enough to steal a package in broad day light, have no shame, no fear of the law, and can be vengeful. I’ve read other stories where thieves returned to a house where they thought they were stealing something valuable, but the homeowner turned the tables on them. The thieves would smash the used or worthless item, leaving a mess for the homeowner. Of course, the same security cam that caught the thief stealing a package, will capture the return. Unfortunately, the problem has become very widespread with little the police can do about it. As Nova and I continued walking, I thought of one solution that would help. Shop locally. When you buy from a local shop, you’re helping your local economy. And, if there is no package on your front step, the thieves will have nothing to steal. But I also understand that times have changed, and that’s not always possible. Nova Mae and I finally returned to the van after our walk, where I checked my steps monitor. “Wow. We walked over three-and-a-half miles! So much for a ‘little walk.’” Considering the time, I thought I should run to Walmart and get a couple of things I needed, before getting messy finishing drywall. As we drove west on Highway 34, the Walmart bag on under my windshield wiper was flapping in the wind. “I guess I forgot to throw that in the trash can at the job site,” I said. “I’ll drop it in the trash at Walmart.” I told Nova, “Hey, the bag will go back to where it came from!” Nova Mae and I shared a good laugh about that irony. I found a parking space close to the front doors. Just as I pulled into my space, the car parked in front of me backed out, so I pulled straight through to their vacated spot. “Yeah, Baby! Rock Star parking,” I boasted. I prefer not having to back out of a space when it’s avoidable in case someone is walking behind me in a blind spot. When I reached the front doors of the building, I remembered to stop at the trash can. Unfortunately, while trying to recall what all I needed from Walmart, I forgot the bag on my windshield, and I couldn’t remember if I locked my doors. I turned back toward the van, pressing the lock button on the key fob. The parking lights flashed, and the horn honked, so the doors were locked. I could see the bag was clearly secure under the wiper blade arm, and there was a trash can near the cart coral. “It’s not going anywhere,” I concluded. “I’ll toss it after I get done shopping.” When I went in the store I heard a dog barking. It was probably Nova reminding me that I forgot the dog in the car. I was walking back to the van, carrying two small bags, reminding myself to get rid of the Walmart bag under my wiper. But when I returned to my van, the bag was gone! I recalled Nova barking earlier. She doesn’t usually do that unless someone gets too close to the van; her space. I suppose some opportunistic punk saw a Walmart bag on a windshield in the Walmart parking lot and thought they were finding something special, and in my opinion, they did! “This package theft business is getting way out of control,” I told Nova. “Lord, how I would love to see their face when they open that bag of ill-gotten booty, or should I say, Ill-gotten dooty!” Nova and I laughed so hard I could barely speak. “And the best part of all,” I said while slapping my knee and trying to catch my breath, “We won’t be here if they try to return the stolen package!”
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Experienced1/8/2025 When hiring a carpenter, or contractor, you need to determine their qualifications; how much experience do they have; that’s important. Over the years, I’ve learned to ask if theirs was good, or bad experience; that’s more important.
I once had two workers replacing the roof on a rental house of mine. Both men were about five years older than me. Jesse was a drywall finisher by trade, and one of the best I’d ever met. The first time I met Jesse, I asked how long he’d been finishing drywall. “I don’t know,” Jesse replied. “I didn’t want to work at the hog plant, so I worked summers with my uncle finishing drywall when I was in high school.” He thought for a moment, “I suppose twenty years or so, but some days it seems like 100 years.” We shared a good laugh about that. A few years later, Jesse asked if he could give me a quote to replace a roof on a rental property of mine. “I thought you were a drywall man,” I said. Jesse explained that he was teaching his partner, Paul, to finish drywall, and Paul was teaching Jesse how to lay shingles. I agreed to consider Jesse’s bid, and meet Paul. “How long have you been roofing,” I asked Paul. “About 35 years,” Paul replied. His answer sent up red flags for me because I already knew his age. I questioned him, “so, you were laying shingles when you were five or six years old?” I could tell my inquiry offended Paul. I didn’t outright call him a liar, but clearly insinuated he was full of bologna. Paul went on to boast his vast experiences as a roofer, telling me how good he was, and then concluded, “…so don’t tell me how to roof!” “I’m not telling you how to roof,” I replied, “just verifying how long you’ve been in the business.” From that moment on there was no love lost between Paul and me. Because of the bad chemistry between us I should not have hired the pair, but I liked Jesse and I knew his work ethic. I wanted to help Jesse out, so I hired them anyway. Paul showed up wearing cowboy boots on the morning they started the roof. “Did you bring other shoes,” I asked. He said that he did not, and inquired why I was asking. “I’ve never seen anyone work on a roof, while wearing cowboy boots. I would think the leather soles would be slippery up there.” Paul snarled, “Don’t tell me how to roof.” Paul and Jesse stripped the entire roof. Late in the afternoon, Wormhoudt Lumber arrived with a straight truck full of materials. The driver said, “We’ll need to unload the truck by hand,” pointing upward. “There’s a low powerline overhead the forklift won’t clear.” Paul argued the lift would clear the lines and offered to operate the fork truck. “I’m not willing to risk it, and you’re not allowed to run the lift,” the driver said as he handed Paul an empty pallet from the truck. “Set this over there to stack the shingles; we’ll unload them first.” But Paul said he wanted the decking first, and then the shingles. “I’m no roofer,” I said, “but wouldn’t it be better to unload the shingles first, and then the decking.” Paul wanted to know my reasoning. “Because the decking will go up first and you’ll have to maneuver every sheet of OSB around the pile of shingles to get on the roof.” “You’re right,” Paul said, then leaned toward me. “You’re not a roofer, so don’t tell me how to do my job!” Jesse and the driver both rolled their eyes, as they began unloading the truck Paul’s way. With the materials now on the job site, they would start early the next morning. The next morning, I again questioned Paul’s choice of footwear. “I’ve been roofing, in cowboy boots, for 35 years, and never had a problem, so don’t tell me how to roof.” I’m sure Paul was becoming just as tired of me as I was of him. Still, I couldn’t resist a smart aleck comeback. “Did they make cowboy boots for five-year-old’s back then?” Jesse and I laughed, Paul snarled as he picked up the first sheet of OSB and started toward the ladder. Paul stumbled and dropped the 4X8’ sheet of decking as he ran into the stack of shingles behind him. I just shook my head. I watched as the two carried several more sheets of decking up the ladder and onto the roof, each time awkwardly moving around the pallet of shingles. Finally, Jesse moved the ladder to a different part of the roof. Paul questioned why. “I’m tired of banging my knees on the stupid shingles. It hurts,” Jesse said. “We should have unloaded the shingles first.” I kept quiet. I did question Paul if they were mounting the OSB with the wrong side up. “Don’t tell me how to lay a roof,” he said. By the end of the day, they had all the decking laid. I called Popeye, at Wormhoudt Lumber. I told him they laid the OSB smooth side up. Popeye laughed, “What did you do, hire a plumber to put a roof on your house?” We had a good laugh about that. Popeye said it didn’t really matter which side was up. “It isn’t going to hurt the roof; as long as they don’t fall off. The rough side gives them a lot better traction.” The next morning, Jesse and Paul installed the drip guard, and then unrolled and fastened the felt on the front half of the roof. The roof had two levels; the front of the house was two stories with a single story across the back of the house. Both levels were a steep pitch and Paul was wearing his usual cowboy boots. As he started up the ladder carrying two bundles of shingles, I said, “I’d feel better if you carried those one at a time.” Paul looked over his shoulder, “And I’d feel better if you’d stopping trying to tell me how to roof a house.” Jesse followed Paul up the ladder with one bundle of shingles. Paul picked up two more bundles of shingles. He looked at me saying, “I don’t want to hear it,” and started climbing the ladder. As he neared the roof’s peak in his cowboy boots with slick leather soles, he slipped. Paul fell forward, dropping both bundles. The bundles of shingles teetered on the peak. “Oh shoot,” he screamed as he started falling down the roof, unable to regain his footing. He desperately tried to grip the roof with his hands or feet, but the smooth soles of his cowboy boots, would not grip the smooth surface. My jaw dropped as I watched helplessly from the yard. There was nothing I could do. I thought the chimney would stop him from falling to the lower roof, but he was veering to the left. Maybe Paul would catch the ladder to the left of the chimney, on the lower roof, to stop his fall. But he nearly got back on his feet, then stumbled and fell to the right, tumbling onto the lower roof top. Paul continued to roll down the steep pitch, and then finally, over the roof’s edge. Fortunately, the edge of the roof is only about seven feet above the ground, and there was a three-foot-tall stack of shingles below. Just as Paul landed flat on his back on top of the shingles, the two bundles near the peak dislodged, and started sliding down the slope. I prayed they would get caught on the chimney. The first bundle lightly snagged the edge of the brick chimney, which stopped it. But then the second bundle crashed into it, knocking it loose. Like pucks on a shuffleboard, both bundles were in motion again. They jumped to the lower roof and were now headed toward Paul. The first bundle slid off the roof barely clearing Paul. It hit the edge of the bundle pile, and then slammed flat onto his chest. It sounded like a locomotive releasing steam as the weight forced the air from Paul’s lungs. The second bundle didn’t have as much momentum; the corner of the bundle landed on the first bundle, right over the center of Paul’s chest. There was no doubt, the first bundle landing flat, kept the pointed corner of the second bundle from crushing Paul’s chest, and probably killing him. Everything was happening so fast, and yet seemed to be in slow motion. The situation was surreal. Somehow, I was running down the yard toward Paul. Jesse appeared out of nowhere; I didn’t even see him come off the roof. Paul was motionless, making no effort to move the bundles, and I was worried. Jesse and I each lifted a bundle from Paul’s chest. I called his name. “Paul? Paul?” His eyes were open and moving, but he didn’t answer. He looked terrified! Suddenly, Paul took several desperately deep breaths, gasping for air. “Paul,” Jesse said. “Paul, are you okay, man?” I said I was going to call an ambulance. Finally, Paul spoke. “No,” Paul snapped, still gasping for air. “No am…no am…no ambu…lance. No.” I repeated that I should call an ambulance. “No,” Paul yelled. “I…I’m okay.” “Paul, you could have broken ribs, or internal injuries,” I said, but he insisted there would be no ambulance. He was still lying on the shingles, and asked for help standing up. “I don’t want to move you in case you’re hurt,” I said. Jesse extended a hand to Paul. Then said to me, “Look man, he said he doesn’t want an ambulance. Leave him alone.” I was thinking there could be a liability for me. By now twenty minutes had passed and Paul was up and walking around. “Okay, no ambulance,” I said. “At least let me take you to the ER and have them check you out.” “Give it a rest,” Paul snapped. “You’re not going to tell me how to roof, and you’re sure as heck not going to tell me what to do.” Then he picked up a bundle of shingles, turning to the ladder. I was becoming agitated with Paul, and pulled the bundle from his shoulder. “Good enough,” I said. “I’m not going to tell you what to do, or how to roof. But I am going to tell you how to dress, and you are not going back on my roof until you get rid of the cowboy boots. You need rubber soled shoes.” Paul left for the day, and Jesse continued laying shingles. Paul came to work the following morning with brand new rubber soled work boots. I watched Jesse and Paul finish the roof. There was no doubt in my mind, Jesse was the better roofer; Paul was just a front man who blew a lot of smoke. A couple of years after they finished my roof, I ran into Jesse at a convenience store. We chatted for a bit and I asked Jesse if he wanted to give me a price on another roof. “No way, man,” he said. “I’m not doing roofing anymore. I asked him why, telling him was good at it. “Do you remember when Paul fell off your roof,” Jesse asked. How could I forget. “Well, that scared the crap out of me. I thought he was dead, Tom.” I perfectly understood what Jesse was saying. “When we finished your roof, Paul returned the boots to Walmart; he said they didn’t fit right. “Well, we did a couple more smaller roofs after that. Then we started another steep roof like yours, and Paul was wearing his cowboy boots again. Anyway, he slipped on the roof and dropped a full sheet of OSB. The decking came sliding right at me and knocked me down like a bowling ball. I fell on top of the OSB and was sliding down the roof like a saucer sled going down that hill at Wildwood Park. I thought I was a goner, until the OSB hit a vent pipe. I grabbed the vent and the OSB went over the edge. It scared me to death. Tom, I ain’t never fell off a roof while finishing walls. I ain’t been on a roof since then.” I asked Jesse, “Why was Paul was so adamant about not having an ambulance come that day? He could have been seriously injured.” “He probably should have been dead,” Jesse said. “But you ever seen an ambulance go anywhere without a cop showing up? Paul didn’t like cops too much.” Jesse continued, “Paul didn’t have no thirty years roofing, but he talked a good line and could get roofing jobs. Most of Paul’s experience was doing stuff that kept him running from the cops.” I asked Jesse, if he was still working with Paul. “Nope, I ain’t seen him in over a year. Last I heard he was back in prison.” “Wow. So, Paul’s was not good experience,” I said. |