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Fueling Memories

5/29/2024

As my wife and I travel about the country, we notice the annual jacking up of gasoline prices coincides with the coming of Memorial Day weekend, the kick-off to the summer travel season.
Every year, the big oil companies have another excuse for raising gasoline prices: a natural disaster somewhere in the world, foreign issues, government problems, OPEC raising the barrel price of crude oil, OPEC lowering the price of crude oil, causing a rise in gasoline prices, or fewer swallows returning to San Juan Capistrano. My favorite excuse is always: "Prices went up because of anticipated increased demand and supply." Really? Because of increased demand?
Did the coming of Memorial Day catch you off guard? With well over 100,000 employees in the oil industry in the United States alone, not one person put up a post-it note in their cubical to remind them, "Memorial Day will be the last Monday in May this year. People are going to start traveling for the summer. Make more gasoline."
The oil industry could learn a lesson from the sausage makers of the world. Sausage makers know Oktoberfest is celebrated the first weekend of October, so they ramp up production to make more sausage for brats. They never get caught off guard, running short of brats - and they don't jack up the price of these delicious sausages for Oktoberfest.
Big oil companies have charged more for nothing for years!
Take, for example, the introduction of unleaded fuel in the 1970s. Unleaded fuel has always been more expensive than regular leaded fuel. Why? Lead is not natural to gasoline—it's an additive.
I know about the environmental impact of burning lead in gasoline, but why were big oil companies charging more not to add tetraethyl lead? Hmm.
A thinner nozzle was used on the unleaded fuel pump handle. The new car itself had a much smaller opening on the fuel filler neck that would prevent the larger regular fuel nozzle from fitting. Some people didn't want to pay for the higher-priced fuel and "punched out" the smaller hole, making it big enough for the larger regular fuel nozzle.
Another issue with unleaded fuel was the smell of the exhaust. Ick! When you pulled up behind a car burning unleaded fuel, the scent of the exhaust would get in through your fresh air vents or open windows. Like rotten eggs, the putrid smell would cause you to wrinkle your nose and gag a bit. It was nasty, no doubt about it.
Whatever happened to that nasty stench? Did the fuel refineries find a way to eliminate it? Did it disappear, or did we get used to it, accepting it as the new "norm?"
I apologize; I've strayed from the subject of this story. It was supposed to be about Memorial Day, initially called Decoration Day.
Decoration Day was established by the head of an organization of Union veterans, the Grand Army of the Republic. It was used to decorate grave markers, remembering those who died in the Civil War—both Union and Confederate soldiers.
As time went on, people used Decoration Day to decorate the graves of those who died in both World Wars. It became inclusive of those who died in Korea and Vietnam and, eventually, all soldiers who died in any conflict while serving in the US Military branches.
Memorial Day didn't become an official federal holiday until 1971. Unfortunately, it has become just a paid day off work to some. How sad.
Recently, Melissa and I visited the graves of her ancestors and relatives on her grandma Lucille's side of the family, who are buried in the Coatsville Cemetery, not far from Lancaster, Missouri.
It is a quiet country cemetery surrounded by farm fields, with markers in straight rows across the hilly knoll. The grass wasn't really tall that day, but it would soon be ready for a cutting. Many older deteriorating stones were in the cemetery, some of which had broken and fallen to the ground.
Very old, weather-worn markers had distorted wording carved into the limestone that was hard or impossible to read. Sometimes, we could make out a year that indicated the ones who had died in the Civil War.
Although Coatsville Cemetery was old, very small, and on a narrow gravel road in the countryside, it was not forgotten. Some of the graves had small American flags near the base, and some were marked with flowers and other such decorations. Someone had taken the time to lift fallen stones, propping them up against the remaining base. It warmed my heart to see this sign of respect for the long-dead.
Among the older stones were a few newer markers for those who had passed more recently.  Coatsville is still an active cemetery.
There are cattle guards at the driveways entering the cemetery. Still, a broken- farm fence surrounding the perimeter would allow animals - wild or livestock from nearby farms - to cross into the grounds. Still, it was clear someone had been taking care of this site.
The last time we visited, a big cedar tree stood on the grounds. It was now gone, but a trickle of smoke was still rising from the smoldering stump that was once the base of the big tree. The tree either died or was struck by lightning.
A new, tall flag pole was not there the last time we were.
Who removed the tree? Who put up that flag pole? I wondered further, who maintains this lot? I assumed the county must maintain it.
We continued to walk around looking for headstones bearing the name Veatch, Melissa's relatives.
A lady pulled into the cemetery, driving a Polaris Ranger. She approached us and was friendly in her inquiry about why we were there. She told us her husband, a farmer working in the field across the way, called her from his tractor to let her know people were in the cemetery.
We learned her name was Sara Morrow. She and her husband are the caretakers of the Coatsville Cemetery. She explained her son, who died at a young age in the late nineties, was buried here and pointed to his marker.
There was sadness in her eyes and voice as she spoke of her son. She is still grieving her loss.  I felt her pain.
Melissa told her we were looking for Veatch graves. She pointed to a headstone and then told Sara that her great-uncle, Lala Veatch (pronounced lā-lee), owned the 80-acre farm on the hilltop just beyond the valley. Sara said, "Oh! I knew Lala. I still remember his laugh."
Melissa mentioned she still has relatives who live in the area—"Lyle and Pat York. Pat worked at the post office," she said. Sara's eyes lit up. "I saw Lyle just last week," she said. The two women made a connection.
Melissa had grown up visiting this and other country cemeteries each year around Memorial Day, brought by her grandparents and then her parents. It had become a family tradition to remember their ancestors and share the stories while walking amongst the graves.
Sara stayed and chatted with us for twenty minutes or so. She gave us a good education on country cemeteries. Sara had learned, from being on the board of directors, that the man who kept the grass mowed would no longer be able to do so. She and her husband had assumed the lawn care for the grounds.
"The county doesn't provide any funding for these old cemeteries - at least not in Missouri," Sara said. "The only funding we have is from donations, and we spend a lot of our own money to make improvements."
Those improvements included the new flag pole, planting new trees, and buying flags to ensure all veterans' graves were marked with an American flag for Memorial Day and Veterans Day. They purchased larger flags to fly across the front of the cemetery. The Morrow's raised old tombstones and placed them on new concrete bases to preserve them, among other things. "We're trying to raise enough money now to replace all the old fencing around the perimeter," she said.
Her passion for keeping this cemetery well-kept was heartfelt.
When working on projects, people often give me tips. The tip is generally fifty or one hundred dollars. We are not rich people, but we are not starving either, so when I get these tips, we give them to others who may need the money.
I remembered a one hundred dollar bill in the car we hadn't given away yet. Listening to Sara talk, I smiled, thinking we had just found a good use for that money. Melissa was thinking the same thing.
Sara expressed great appreciation for the gift—one would have thought we had just given her thousands! We, in turn, expressed our gratitude for the Morrows' work keeping the cemetery nice.
This Memorial Day, when you're out visiting loved ones who have passed, especially in small rural cemeteries, please look for a donation box. If you don't find one, take the time to call your county and find out if the cemetery maintenance is funded or done by donation. Find out who maintains the grounds, and send them a donation and a note of gratitude for their hard work.
I don't notice the exhaust fumes from unleaded gasoline anymore. Did they go away, or did I just get used to the scent - taking it for granted?
Let us never forget nor take for granted why we celebrate Memorial Day: to honor the veterans and loved ones who lay to rest in the Coatsville cemetery and similar small cemeteries throughout our great nation. Let's seek out and support the Morrow's all over our country, who quietly take care of these cemetery grounds.
Thank you to all who served our country, sacrificing their lives for our freedom! You are remembered this Memorial Day and always.

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Jell-O Salad

5/22/2024

People get excited for Memorial Day weekend. In just a few days, the schools will be out for the summer, traditionally kickstarting the summer vacation, camping, and picnic seasons. I love a picnic. I remember picnics with my family when I was a small child.
Mom was a great cook who could make something out of nothing when there was "nothing to eat in this house." She also packed a delicious picnic.
Sometimes, our picnics featured hotdogs and hamburgers on a park grill—an old-fashioned grill mounted on a steel post in the park. Dad would start the charcoal, and when it was ready, he placed the hotdogs on the grill and burned them. Dad would never take the blame for charring the dogs; one of the kids distracted him and caused the hotdogs to burn.
To avoid the grilling fiasco, Mom would usually pack sandwiches. Bologna salad sandwiches were always a hit, but I liked the liverwurst with Miracle Whip better. My favorite picnic entree was Mom's homemade fried chicken; at home or in the park, Mom's chicken was the best! No matter the main dish, every picnic included Tupperware.
Sandwiches were stacked in oblong flat containers. Every picnic had a big yellow or green Tupperware bowl of Mom's homemade potato salad. Of course, all Tupperware containers were properly burped for freshness.
Tupperware pitchers were filled with lemonade, iced tea, or Kool-Aid. Ice for the drinks came from the bottom of the cooler, which was used to keep food items cold, especially sandwiches made with mayonnaise. Although Mom usually used Miracle Whip, she was a stickler for keeping anything with mayo (or similar products) cold. I never did get Mom's recipe for potato salad, but a few years ago, I got a recipe from Melissa's aunt Gail.
Aunt Gail makes a mean bowl of potato salad because she uses lots of boiled eggs and finely diced onions; Mom did, too. Gail shared her potato salad recipe with me, and I've made it several times since then. However, Melissa tells me, "There's just something a little different. It's not the same as Auntie Gail's." Hmm. Why? It's the same recipe.
One summer, my buddy Stu Stetter was visiting with a couple of friends. The four of us went on a men's camping and fishing trip to Ester and Devilfish Lakes on the Arrowhead Trail. I made a batch of Gail's potato salad for the outing. "Isn't this potato salad just the bomb," I asked Stuart.
Stu shrugged his shoulders. "It's okay."
"Okay? Just okay?" I was aghast. "Are you going to tell me that's not the best potato salad you've ever had?"
"It's okay," Stu repeated. Then he chastised me, "It wasn't made with Hellmann's mayonnaise." Seriously? I'd known this guy for over thirty years and had no idea he was a Mayo snob!
When we got home, I called Gail to tell her that Stuart didn't love her potato salad. "He complained because it wasn't made with Hellmann's Mayonnaise," I reported.
Gail questioned, "Well if you didn't make it with Hellmann's, what did you use?" I told her I used Miracle Whip. "YOU USED MIRACLE WHIP IN MY POTATO SALAD?" She was aghast. "I certainly hope you didn't tell him that was MY recipe!" I've known Gail for twenty years and had no idea she was a Mayo snob, too.
After being chastised a second time, I have since switched to Hellmann's—and only Hellmann's—mayonnaise in potato and other salads. However, I will admit I still prefer Miracle Whip on bologna, tuna fish, and peanut butter and pickle sandwiches.
A couple of weeks ago, I made a batch of potato salad and used the rest of my jar of Hellmann's. I immediately wrote Hellmann's on the grocery list. Heaven forbid I should start a batch of potato salad someday and discover I was out of Hellmann's. I just don't think I'm emotionally strong enough to handle a third chastisement for using Miracle Whip. On my next trip to the store, I bought a jar of Hellmann's.
Unfortunately, I didn't notice the mayo was gray until I got home. I don't know if the jar had an air leak or what, but you can bet your last dollar I will return it for a good jar. The only thing that could get me chastised more severely than not using Hellmann's would be making potato salad with bad mayo and giving my wife a case of green gills. Maybe I'll try something other than potato salad for this year's picnic.
Years ago, I told people about a Jell-O salad I had in the 60s made with lime Jell-O and green olives. People didn't believe me; not even my siblings remembered it. People said, "You're sick!" and, "That's just gross!" But I swear to you, Mom made such a salad, and it was good!
Mom made the salad in a fancy mold with lime Jell-O as its base. It had mixed in chopped celery, onion, green olives, and chunks of cheddar cheese. But nobody believed me until one day, I found a Jell-O advertisement in a vintage magazine from the 1950s featuring this very salad.
Mom made a variety of Jello-O salads. Another lime Jello-O salad had cottage cheese, pineapple, shredded cheddar cheese, and pecans. One of my favorites was orange Jell-O with shredded carrots and raisins. I can still taste them. They were delicious and pretty, too.
Speaking of pretty, how about a red Jell-O salad with bananas or strawberries. Jello-O with mandarin oranges is fantastic. Jello-O salad with fruit cocktail or peaches is good, too. And, you can never go wrong with any flavor Jell-O with miniature marshmallows stirred in. (Of course, today, people add whipped cream and call it fluff.)
I haven't replaced that bad jar of Hellmann's yet, and we might be having a picnic this Memorial Day weekend. It may be time to surprise my wife with a cool, refreshing Jello-O salad with green olives, diced onion and celery, and chunks of cheddar cheese. I wonder if it would be good with a few sardines added in? I could make it look like the fish were swimming inside.
I could even put a figurine of a barefoot little boy in coveralls fishing on top of the salad. I could have a fishing line with a hook and a worm running from his pole into the Jell-O dish.
Happy Memorial Day, my friends. During your gatherings with family and friends, be sure to remember the purpose of this weekend: to celebrate, honor, and remember those who gave their lives in military service to this great country of ours.

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Widowmakers

5/8/2024

I have wonderful neighbors. One is a retired machinist, which comes in handy for me. Being able to tap into his expertise has often times helped me. He is talented in many ways, including having the best garden along the north shore - maybe all of Minnesota! He’s a giving man, Melissa and I benefit from his bountiful harvest every summer and fall.
Gene is a Finlander, through and through, and mighty proud of it; he’s also a great storyteller with a charming accent. I love listening to him share his tales.
I’m a bit of a storyteller myself. That may come from being Irish on my mother’s side. Between the two of us, storytelling can become competitive.
One summer day, I took a few slices of homemade cherry pie on a plate and walked to his house just down the road. Lois greeted me at the door. “Hello. Come in, come in.” She said with a big, warm smile, her arm extended, welcoming me to the dining room. “Oh, would you look at that pie! It looks wonderful!” She praised, then turned and hollered through the house, “Geno! Tom is here.”
“I’m coming.” Came a reply from the hallway.
Lois offered me a beverage. “I can’t stay long,” I said. “But how about a Jack Daniels with a splash of Coke?”
Lois blushed, “Well, I don’t believe I have any of that here. How about some fresh-brewed iced tea or water?” I enjoyed a tall, cool glass of iced tea.
Gene entered the room, greeted me, and said, “I’ve got a lot of lettuce in the garden. I’ll send some home with you.” He pulled up a chair, and we began to chat. He took a fork and started on the first slice of cherry pie with a lattice top.
He told an impressive story. Lois jumped in at the end, declaring, “Geno, you embellish your stories.”
He quickly justified his position, “Of course I embellish them. Nobody wants to hear a boring story.” We shared a good laugh over that, and I made a mental note for future reference: nobody wants to hear a boring story.
After we said our farewells, I headed out the door, leaving them with their pie. Gene followed me outside with a plastic sack in his hand. “Let me get some lettuce for you. I’ve got a couple different kinds. Lettuce doesn’t last long once it’s ready, so you take all you want.” Melissa and I had an amazing garden-fresh salad that evening with dinner.
A few weeks later, after church, I went downstairs to enjoy the pancake breakfast the Knights of Columbus served. I sat at the men’s table with Gene. The conversation was about chainsaws and how good we were at cutting and trimming trees. It soon turned to mishaps that occurred while doing so.
I told a story. “When I was about fifteen, I was already pretty good with a chainsaw, yet still in the learning stages. I was standing on a four-foot ladder, cutting a branch about seven inches in diameter from the crabapple tree.
This wasn’t one of the newer, sturdy green Werner plastic ladders with the yellow top step. It was an old wooden ladder that was wobbly and swayed back and forth. You had to keep rhythm with it to maintain your footing. As I cut through the branch, it started falling toward me. I knew it was going to knock me and the ladder over, so I jumped to save myself before that could happen.
As I came down, landing on my feet, my knees naturally bent to absorb the impact. As you can imagine, while I was jumping with a running chainsaw, I had a firm grip on it. Inadvertently, I had squeezed the throttle wide open, and the spinning chain came down, hitting the top of my left thigh.
I instantly pulled up on the chainsaw. As I was standing up, I hit the kill switch, throwing the saw away from me. I stripped right there in the yard to examine my injuries. I feared losing my leg; I was prepared for the worst!
The saw shredded my jeans, cut through my heavy thermal underwear, and got my leg. There was just a little blood, about the same amount you would get from a nasty scratch. My cat-like reflexes saved my limb, possibly even my life, but I tell ya, it sure could have been a lot worse.” The men were all in awe, praising me for saving the leg.
The Finlander leaned forward; I feared he would one-up me. “Do you know what it means when a tree jumps?” He asked me.
“Sure.” I answered, “It’s when the falling tree comes completely separated from the stump, and the trunk literally jumps up in the air. It can be dangerous when it jumps to the side.”
Impressed by my knowledge, Gene said, “That’s right,” then rolled into his story. “One day, I was cutting down a birch tree; they call them widowmakers because the tops can fall on your head. They’ve been known to kill a few men, so you need to know what you're doing – you have to be real careful.
“Anyway, I cut through the trunk, and this monster tree started to fall. Right at the end, the trunk broke loose and jumped up from the stump. The tree came my way and hit me while I was still holding my chainsaw; it flipped me and the saw, sending us straight up at least ten feet or so into the air.
“I did a full somersault - a complete three-sixty- before returning and landing on my feet. Now, while flipping twenty-five feet through the air, I held that saw real firm with my hand still on the throttle. The saw still ran wide open when I landed and hit my leg.
“I shut the saw off, then set it down to check my leg. That chain ripped through my Carhartt’s, my jeans, my long underwear, and my leg.
“I was bleeding pretty good, but it wasn’t that bad. Some of the boys thought I should go get stitches, but I just called up to the house, ‘Lo, bring me some Band-Aids.’ I put a couple of Band-Aids on it and kept cutting wood the rest of the day.”
The men around the table were astonished. Clearly, I was defeated by a more experienced master storyteller.
Now there are some unwritten rules in competitive, embellished storytelling. One must never directly denounce, discredit, or attempt to put down their opponent. You have to be a bit passive-aggressive when one-upping.
I looked at Gene to clarify, “You were launched thirty-some feet, possibly more, into the air, did a complete somersault, and still landed on your feet while holding your chainsaw?”
“That’s right. I came down with my saw still running in my hands.” He assured. Gene was prepared to defend the integrity of his story. Of course, I wasn’t there when it happened, so I couldn’t challenge the validity of his story.
I looked at him and said, “You’re a Finlander, aren’t you?”
Gene sat up straight with his chest puffed out, “You’re darn right I am, and what of it?”
I grinned, then bragged, “Because I am an Irishman. An Irishman would have topped the next tree while he was up there.”
We all shared a good laugh over that. “Have a great day, gentlemen.” I offered. Saying no more, I quickly gathered my dishes, then headed for the door before the Finlander had a chance for rebuttal.
I have wonderful neighbors, and I appreciate Gene teaching me about widowmakers; they can be dangerous.
A few weeks ago, I was driving west on Bergquist Road just outside Two Harbors. We’d had plenty of high winds along the north shore, and a tree top snapped off a big birch tree. “Wow,” I told my dog, Nova Mae, “that’s the biggest widowmaker I’ve ever seen!” I turned the van around to get a photo.
I only pulled the van about halfway to the narrow gravel shoulder and turned the flashers on. “You wait here,” I told Nova as I grabbed my phone and got out of the van.
Walking in the grass, I noticed how steep and deep the ditch was, eventually running into a small creek at the bottom. “Boy, I’d hate to run over that embankment,” I said to myself. I took several photos of the broken tree top, then saw something in the grass that caught my attention.
An empty Smirnoff Vodka bottle lay in the ditch; not far from it was an empty Fireball bottle. I shook my head. “I’ll guarantee, drinking and driving has made far more widows than all the birch trees in the north woods put together,” I said. “Then, you had to throw your empty bottles in the ditch to boot. Nice.” I was disgusted but still picked up their trash and started walking back to my van. Something else caught my attention.
Nova Mae was sitting in my seat; she always does that when I get out, but something was strange. It looked like she was sitting at an angle. “Holy crap,” I yelled. “The van is sinking into the shoulder.” I hurried back to the van.
I turned the steering wheel slightly toward the road and slowly drove forward, but the van only slid farther into the ditch. I put the van in reverse and tried to back up onto the pavement, but again, I went even deeper into the ditch. “This is not good,” I told Nova Mae. I made one more short attempt to pull forward, but still, the van slid farther away from the road.
I was recalling how deep and steep the embankment was in my mind, and that I did not want to go over the edge. My van is a high-profile vehicle, and I seriously thought it would roll over. I reached for Nova’s leash. “Come on, girl. If this thing is going to roll, we’re not going to be in it when it does.” I never realized how heavy the van doors are, especially pushing them at a sharp angle. Finally, I pushed the door open, and Nova and I climbed out.
I called the St. Louis County Sheriff’s Department. “Are you away from the vehicle and safely off the road?” the dispatcher asked. When I assured her I was, she said she would send a deputy and a wrecker. Nova and I waited in the grass.
Several people stopped in four-wheel-drive pickups, offering to help. “I’m afraid if I try to move it again, it’s going to roll,” I told them. It’s not worth the risk; I’m going to wait for the wrecker to pull me out.” They each agreed.
The Sheriff’s Deputy arrived shortly. “Did you just drift off the road,” he asked.
“No, I pulled over to take a photo of that tree,” I said, pointing to the birch.
“The widowmaker,” He asked. “You got a little too close to the edge, eh?”
“No,” I said. I showed the deputy my tire tracks on the shoulder. “I wasn’t far on the shoulder at all,” I said. “The van just started sinking, and when I tried to move it, it slid farther into the ditch. I was afraid it was going to roll, so I called for a tow.”
“You probably made the right call,” the deputy said.
While waiting for the tow truck, I pointed to the empty liquor bottles in the ditch. “I’ll bet bottles in the ditch have made a lot more widows than all the birch trees in the north woods combined.”
“That’s for sure,” the deputy said, “and I’ve been on too many of those calls.”
Just then, the driver from Two Harbors Towing arrived, assessed the situation, and decided how to pull the van out of the ditch. “Do you want to climb into the driver’s seat,” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. The tow driver assured me the van wouldn’t roll once he connected it to the truck.
“Once I get hooked onto the van and get a little tension on the cable, I need you to put it in neutral and turn the wheels slightly toward the road.” I trusted the driver, but just in case….
I took Nova and handed her leash to the sheriff's deputy. “Just in case it goes over, there’s no sense in both of us being in the van.”

The deputy held the dog, and the driver winched my van out of the ditch without incident, saving the day.
Nova and I continued on our way out Bergquist Road. I called the person I was going to meet and told them I would be delayed about an hour.
So, my neighbor Gene taught me what a widowmaker is, as in a birch tree, and I already knew drinking and driving can be a widowmaker. I’m just glad I didn’t discover that Ford vans can also be widowmakers, especially when driven on soft shoulders near steep embankments.

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National Library Week

5/1/2024

Libraries are much more than books. I use our library fairly often to research things online because it doesn't have the distractions I have at home. For example, at the library, I've never had a cat (Edgar Allan) walk across my keyboard, typing random gibberish while I went for a drink of water.
The ladies at the Silver Bay Public Library are great! Shannon, Eileen, Julia, and Tracy have helped me a lot over the years, especially with printing and technical issues. (I'm not the kind of guy who can hit 'control print' and make it happen without an intervention.) National Library Week was coming, and I wanted to do something to give back to our local library.
Shannon, the librarian, told me they would serve coffee and cookies for Library Week. I promised to send some homemade cookies. Sunday evening, before National Library Week, I baked a couple hundred cookies for the event and gave the library a Pie-O-U.
A Pie-O-U is something I came up with years ago for fundraisers. Instead of an I-O-U, people buy chances for $1 each, or 6/$5. If their name is drawn for the Pie-O-U, I will bake a pie of their choice and deliver it to them. It's far more delicious than an I-O-U.
I delivered the cookies on Monday morning. On Tuesday, I stopped at the library. "I went to my kitchen for a cookie, but I didn't have any," I said. "If I want one of my cookies, I have to go to the library." We all shared a good laugh about that, and then I snatched a maple nut and a ginger crack cookie.
Wednesday, I got a message from my friend Gretchen. (She was my boss when I cooked for the assisted living home.) "Are you home as in Silver Bay? I know, a weird question, but I have a question for you." Well, that certainly got my attention, so I called Gretchen.
"Do you have anything made up at home," Gretchen asked. "Something you baked or cooked that would be ready right away?"
"I have a pan of lasagna in the freezer," I said, "But that would take two days to thaw."
"I need something sooner than that," Gretchen said. "Do you have any cookies, a pie, or a cake at home?"
"Okay, that is a strange question," I said. "Tell me what's going on."
"I have a friend named Star from Silver Bay," Gretchen said. "Do you happen to know her?"
"I don't," I answered. "Is that her real name?" Her real name sounded familiar, so I looked her up. "Oh, yes, she is a Facebook friend."
"She's a very dear friend of mine who reads all your stories; she thinks you're the greatest," Gretchen said. "Anyway, she's been under Hospice care for a while now. Last night, just out of the blue, Star said, 'Before I die, I want something Tom Palen made.'" I certainly was not expecting that.

"She sees your posts of dinners you make for your wife and the desserts you bake; she wants something you made," Gretchen said. "Star has no idea that I know you, and I was hoping to take something for her when I visit tonight."
"Consider it done. I can run to Zup's and whip up a fresh pan of lasagna," I offered.
Gretchen said lasagna would be too much. "Do you have any cookies, a pie, or cake at home?"
"I baked over two hundred cookies Sunday," I told her, "But I gave them all to the Silver Bay Library for National Library Week."
"I know; Star told me all about it," Gretchen said. "She wanted to go to the library for your cookies but can't get there anymore. Star is an avid reader and visited the library almost daily when she was able."
"Of course! That's why she looks so familiar," I said. "I would frequently see her there when I went to the library." I had an idea.
"Shannon would give me a plate of cookies for her. I can get them to you or deliver them if you'd like." Gretchen explained that Star and her two sisters were staying at a cabin in Beaver Bay, on Lake Superior, about ten miles away, for a couple of days.
"Do you have time? That's asking a lot, and I don't want to put you out," Gretchen said. I laughed.
"Gretchen, you haven't put me out since that Memorial Day weekend when you scheduled me to cook. It was the weekend I had family coming into town, and you put me on the schedule – but I'm over it now, Gretchen, so don't even worry about it."
"It doesn't sound like you're over it," Gretchen rebutted. "You're bringing it up again ten years later!" We shared a good laugh about that. (I am over it.) (Almost.) I told Gretchen I would get the cookies together and call her on my way.
Next, I called the library and told Shannon what I was doing. "Could you put together a plate of ginger cracks, maple nut, and snickerdoodle cookies for Star? Three of each, if you have them; her sisters are visiting."
"Absolutely," Shannon said. "We love Star. Do you want any date cookies?" The date roll cookies are the hardest to make, so I took fewer of them to the library than the others. Besides, I made another batch of date roll cookie dough the night before to send to my brother but only baked half of the batch.
"I just turned the oven on to bake some," I told Shannon. "Do you need more date roll cookies for the library?"
I wrapped the freshly baked cookies and went to the library to pick up the other plate. The ladies also made a card for Star: "Silver Bay Public Library loves you, Star. Happy National Library Week. Thanks for being such an amazing supporter. With care, Shannon and Julia." It was perfect! Nova Mae and I gathered the gifts and headed to Beaver Bay.
When we arrived at the cabin, Nova stayed in the van. A lady met me at the front door. "You must be Tom," she said. (Gretchen told them I was coming so they wouldn't be alarmed when a strange man showed up at the door with cookies.) "I'm Star's sister, Sue," she said, inviting me inside. "And this is our sister Kitty. Star is in the living room; Sue showed me in.
"Hello, Star," I said. She was sitting in a chair where she could look out the patio doors to Lake Superior.
"Who's there," Star asked. "I don't see distances too well these days."
I approached the side of the chair. "I'm Tom Palen." I introduced myself, as we'd never met in person.
"Tom Palen? Oh, my goodness!" Star's face lit up, which made me feel good. "What are you doing here, and how did you even know I was here," she asked.
I replied, "Do you know Gretchen?"
"Yes, she's a dear friend of mine, she and I go way back," Star said.
"So do I," I replied.
"Did Gretchen put you up to this?" Starr said.
"Gretchen just told me you wanted something I baked," I said. "So, I brought you something."
Star's face lit up again. "Is it pie?"
"Not pie," I chuckled. "I wanted to bring you cookies, but I gave all my cookies to the library."
"Oh, I know that," Star said. "I read that they were serving your cookies all this week, and I so badly wanted to go, but I just can't get out anymore."
"Well, I called Shannon at the library, and she sent a plate of cookies for you," I said. "They also sent a card for you." Star read the card and got a little teary-eyed.
"Bless those dear hearts." Star sighed, "I just love Shannon, Julia, and all the girls at the library. They treat me so well." I gave her the plate of cookies, and she smiled. "And are these your cookies?" I told her they were, and she said, "Well, tell me about them."
"These are Ginger Cracks; I learned to make these with my mom."
"Oh, those are the cookies I see in your pictures; I've wanted to try those for a long time," Star said.
"These are snickerdoodles. I just started making them not too long ago." Star said her sisters loved snickerdoodles. "The light-colored cookies are Maple Nut, made with Wild Country 100% pure maple syrup harvested right here on the north shore. The key word is nut, so they have walnuts in case you have any allergies," I cautioned.
Star said, "I'm not allergic to anything; I can't wait to taste them." Next, I unwrapped the last package of cookies.
I handed Star the small tray. "These are Date Roll or Pinwheel cookies made with my Grammy's recipe."
"Oh my," she said. "Kitty, Sue, come feel these; they're still warm!" I told her they came out of the oven just before I left home. "I want to try these first while they're warm. Sue, will you get some plates?"
As the sisters enjoyed cookies, we shared some wonderful conversation. I learned how Star met Gretchen over twenty years ago. The girls told tales of growing up, and of course, I shared a couple of stories myself.
We visited for an hour, and Star was getting tired. "I'd better get going," I said, getting up. But Star began telling her sister another story.
"Tom and his wife, Melissa, have a black cat named Edgar Allan and a border collie named Nova Mae. They had another border collie named June Bug before Nova. They travel all around the country with their pets."
Star had a twinkle in her eye when she talked about Nova. "I know it will never happen, but I would give anything to meet Nova. She is such a beautiful dog." That warmed my heart.
"She's out in the van," I said. "Would you like to meet Nova Mae?"
"I would love to, but I don't think I can get out there," Star said. I suggested bringing Nova inside. "We're not allowed to have pets in the cabin," she said.
"But if I brought Nova inside, then technically, you did not have a dog in the cabin - I did." I looked to one of the sisters, who nodded with approval. "I'll bring Nova in for just a few moments," I said.
Nova Mae was excited to come inside; I held her leash short to keep her from jumping. "Oh, Nova Mae, you are such a pretty girl. Come here, sweetie." Star leaned forward in her chair, sharing hugs and affection; Nova returned the sentiment. "If I could, I'd be rolling on the floor playing with you, Nova." They were buddies from the get-go.
I would have loved to have visited longer, but Star was tired, and I wanted to stay within our welcome. I held her hand to say our farewells.
"Thank you so much for coming; this really meant a lot to me," Star said. "Thank you for the cookies and for bringing in Nova Mae. I'm so happy I got to meet both of you." I told Star that Nova and I enjoyed meeting her and then went to the van.
Driving home, I contemplated people and life—the things we want. We become very goal-driven and busy with work to achieve our wants and desires. We want a bigger house, a new car, a more powerful boat. We save money to go on that exotic vacation and attend a particular school, and of course, we're always worried about putting away enough money for retirement. In contrast, there is Star.
In the final chapter of her life, what does Starr want? A cookie! One of my cookies. I'll admit, I was flattered. Such a request could quickly go to my head, but instead, it had a far more spiritual effect on me than feeding my ego. My thoughts ran deep.
Star wanted a cookie, but why one of my cookies? There are a lot of bakers on the north shore, and many are far better than me. It humbled me that Star should request something I baked.
I believe my ability to bake is a God-given talent. A talent is simply that—just a talent—until it is shared. Once shared, the talent becomes a gift, and gifts are meant to be given away. Something was happening here, and it was more than sheer coincidence. Was this another case of God putting me where He wants me when He wants me there?
I felt emotional and blessed to have met Star. I shifted the van to park at the stop sign and took a moment. I was moved to tears as I recited an old Kris Christopherson song: "Why me, Lord? What have I ever done to deserve even one of the pleasures I've known? Tell me, Lord, what did I ever do that was worth love from you and the kindness you've shown." I said a prayer of thanksgiving, dried my eyes, and drove home.
Gretchen texted me: "I don't even have words, Tom. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Star means the world to me…I just wanted to do something for her that she wanted…I seriously owe you."
Gretchen didn't owe me anything. She told me, "You really made Star's day with your visit." But in truth, I was thrilled to be there—it was Star who made my day!
The weekend came and went, and with it came the end of National Library Week. On Monday, I went to the Silver Bay Public Library; there was still the matter of drawing a winner for the Pie-O-U.
Shannon brought out a clear container of tickets and asked me to draw the winner. I struggled and laughed, reaching into the jar. "My fat hand won't go through the mouth." A young man, maybe a volunteer, was working behind the counter. "Let's have him draw the winner."
The young man's hand fit into the jar just fine. He swirled the tickets vigorously, mixing them well, then pulled a single ticket from the jar. Shannon read the winner's name. (Imagine a drum roll.) "And the winner is Gretchen Jacobsen." Needless to say, I started laughing. What are the odds? Shannon would notify the winner.
Gretchen sent me a message: "I appear to have won the Pie-O-U at the library. I'd like to call the cookies an even trade." I wasn't going to accept that. "I'm serious. It was about making a donation to the library," she wrote. "I never win anything, so who'd have thought…."
"She's not getting out of the pie that easily," I said, then replied, "What kind of pie do you want?"
"Peach is my favorite," Gretchen replied. "Does the pie come with wine?" And so I made a peach pie for Gretchen, sans the wine, and delivered it. I felt very content.
"Another Pie-O-U paid in full," I said. What did Gretchen do with the peach pie? She shared it with Star, of course.
I thought about the whole week, how one thing led to another, and everything kept falling perfectly into place. These events were much greater than just coincidences. All in all, I'd say this was my best National Library Week EVER!

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