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    Tom Palen,

     a broadcaster, pilot, writer, and our Guest Columnist!

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I Swear It's True

8/25/2021

 
​Last Thursday, a person commented on one of my stories: "These are all stories. Nice stories, but totally made up. Urban legends in a way." Totally made up? Ouch! I've literally spent my life living these stories – all true stories that really happened.
 
I'll often quote things said by my dog June and cat Edgar Allan. Doubters will say dogs and cats don't talk; I'll openly confess that I take the liberty of translating what they say into English for people to understand. Then I quote John Denver's song, Boy from the Country: "He tried to tell us that the animals could speak. Who knows, perhaps they do, I know they do. How do you know they don't, just because they've never spoken to you?"
 
My stories are true, and I'm sorry this person felt they're made up. But, all the same, I shouldn't worry about it. I know the truth; and, they're entitled to their thoughts and to express them. But admittedly, I was letting it bother me, and I need to focus on what I was doing.
 
I talked with a man about buying his camper that was for sale, and I needed to get ready for my trip, leaving early Friday morning to go look at it. Although I'd rather avoid Chicago traffic, finding a Scamp with the floor plan I wanted made it worth driving through the Windy City.
 
The journey would give me ten hours of windshield time, also known as thinking time – of which I spent way too much stewing over that person's comment. Finally, I arrived at the man's house Friday evening. Everything was just as he had described it. (I love honest people!) We finished our business deal, hitched the trailer to my van, and I started for home.
 
My home was another ten hours of driving away. Obviously, I wouldn't make it all the way, but I wanted to get north of Chicago to avoid the morning traffic. I was still wide awake, feeling so good about finding this camper. I drove through the big city, all the way past Madison, and finally stopped near the Wisconsin Dells, at a rest area where I got a good night's sleep. The following morning, I decided to treat myself to a nice breakfast.
 
I pulled into a Denny's Restaurant, which was attached to a large truck stop. There was a single black ankle sock in the driveway between the gas pump islands and the store. It was laid out perfectly as if someone was going to press it with a hot iron. It must have been run over by dozens of cars as it had tire tracks and was mashed as flat as could be. It just looked odd laying there; I stopped briefly to study it, then went inside.
 
I asked the waitress for a seat at the counter, then ordered a big breakfast with eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, toast, hash browns, and pancakes. Remember, I was treating myself. After placing my order, I got another treat when the man next to me struck up a conversation. Meet Dave.
 
Contently satisfied, Dave wiped his mouth with his napkin, then laid it on his plate. As the waitress gathered his dishes, he said, "You tell the cook that was the best sirloin I've had in years, and I've had a lot of steaks. It was perfect." Then he addresses me, "I don't know what you're having, but you can't go wrong with the steak." I told him I'd already ordered cakes and eggs. He shook his head as if I should reconsider, "You're missing out."
 
Dave was older than me. As he drank his coffee, he told me he drove a school bus. "It gives me something to do. I retired after forty years as a salesman with the National Cash Register company." Dave had lived in Ohio, Detroit, Minneapolis, Chicago, Arkansas, and more during his career. Since both of us traveled extensively around the country, we had many tales to share. But, no matter whose turn it was to tell a story, they all seemed to start the same; "Have you ever been to…"
 
"You ever been to Detroit," Dave asked?
 
"I went to a Lion's game a long time ago, but I usually just drive through. I love Michigan, especially the UP, but Detroit isn't my favorite place."
 
Dave jumped in, "Well, you're not missing much. That city has always had a problem with crime. The interstates and major roads are in a hole, low spots. When it rains heavily, the roads flood. At least they did when I was there in '75. If you hit the water going too fast, your engine could stall out. Anyway, you didn't want to stop on those roads for anything. Raining or not, there were always thieves and thugs around.
 
"Well, I was late for a meeting at the office one morning, and I'm never late; we had too many meetings, but that's not the point here.
 
"When I finally got there, the meeting was almost over. I'd left my jacket in the car. I was hot and sweaty, and my hair was a mess. My white shirt was partially untucked; I had dirt and grease all over it and my suit pants; we all wore suits back then.
 
"Everyone asked, 'Where've you been?' and 'What happened to you?' They all assumed I had trouble because it was raining and figured the roads were flooded.
 
"So, I told them I had a flat on the highway; it was the front tire on the driver's side. Anyway, I got my jack and tire iron and loosened all the lug nuts before I jacked the car up, then I went back to the trunk to get my spare tire. When I was rolling the tire around to the front of the car, my hood was up. I said to myself, 'What the heck? I didn't put the hood up.' So I went to close the hood, and there was a punk up there bent over my engine.' What do you think you're doing,' I asked him.
 
"He looked surprised by my question. He stood up and said, 'Since you're taking the wheels, I thought I'd take the battery.'" Dave and I shared a real hardy laugh about that; I could tell he'd laughed a million times telling that story – it was a good one!
 
I asked Dave if he'd watched the movie Smokey and the Bandit, "Many times. It's a great movie."
 
"Your story reminds me of the bride who stopped her car on the side of the road, then hopped into the Trans Am with the Bandit. As soon as they sped away, the Dodge van pulled up, and the guys jumped out to start stripping the car."
 
"Yeah! It was just like that!" Dave recalled as we shared another good laugh.
 
Dave looked at his watch, drank the last swallow of coffee, set the cup on the counter, and picked up his ticket. He spun around on his stool and stood up, "Well, I've got to get going. It was fun chatting with you."
 
We said our farewells, and he walked toward the door. I looked over my shoulder to see him at the front counter. It looked like he was telling the cashier a story. I laughed, wondering if maybe he was telling her that he'd sold Denny's the cash register she was using?
 
Another man came in and sat at the counter on the second stool to my right. I was just finishing my last bite of pancakes when he asked me, "Did you have the steak? I wonder how it is today."
 
"Nope, cakes and eggs. But I heard the sirloin steak was really good." I picked up my ticket, "Have a good day." I said to the man, then headed for the register.
 
When I walked outside, a quite round, elderly gentleman with a cane was bent over at the waist trying to pick something up from the ground, but he couldn't reach it. The walk was a ramp sloping downhill toward the driveway, and he was leaning way forward. Then, finally, he stood up, kicked at it, then bent over to try again. "Dang it. Just forget it, I can't pick it up," he said disappointed, talking to himself while slowly standing up again.
 
I leaned down, picked up the shiny dime in front of his left foot, and handed it to him. "Sure you can," I said, "we all need a little help sometimes." We shared a laugh about that.
 
He was offering me the coin, "You picked it up; you may as well keep it." Then added, "I just can't stand to walk by a coin laying on the ground."
 
"Me neither, but you saw it first, so rightfully, it's your dime."
 
He slipped the dime into his pocket, smiling, "Well, thanks, I'll keep it."
 
Feeling like I had just made his day, I walked to my van with a spirited step.
 
Because I was pulling a trailer, the van was parked on the far side of the lot. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to buy a bottle of water for the trip home, so I walked back to the convenience store.
 
A guy was standing in the middle of the driveway looking at the black sock. I stopped and looked at the abandoned garment with him, then broke the silence. "I hope the dude wasn't wearing it when this happened." We shared a laugh about that.
 
With a somber tone, as if to offer a memorial service, he asked, "Do you suppose we should say a few words, then put it in the trash can?"  
 
"What? And spoil the fun for everyone else coming by wondering what happened? No way, man." We shared another laugh. I got my bottle of water, then hit the road.
 
A couple of hours up the highway, I heard a clanking metallic noise. It sounded like my trailer's safety chains were dragging on the pavement. I turned down the radio and looked in the side mirror. That's when I noticed the car passing me in the left lane, pulling a rental trailer. His chains were dragging, and one of them had actually worn in two.
 
I accelerated to catch up to them. I tapped the horn to get the passenger's attention. When she looked at me, with exaggerated mouth movement, I said, "Your safety chains are loose," while pointing to the back of their car. I wasn't sure she understood what I was saying, so I waved my hand, motioning them to follow me. There was an off-ramp right there, so I pulled off, and they followed – the car behind them did too.
 
We stopped on the shoulder and examined the broken chains. The man explained the people at the rental shop connected the chains. "They shouldn't have let you leave with the chains that loose." I told them I'd rented a lot of trailers, and knew how to fix the problem and get them back safely on the road, then asked, "Do you have a pair of pliers?"
 
He told his son, the younger man in the second car, to bring me the tool. But, unfortunately, his pliers were too small. So I went to my van a grabbed a couple of tools. We shortened the chains to a proper length and reattached them to the car.
 
The lady thanked me, "I'm so glad you took time to wave us over. That would have ruined our vacation if that trailer came loose. I hate to think what could have happened." Then, with the chains securely attached, we were all on our way. I drove away first.
 
On the highway, the car with the trailer was passing me again in the left lane. The lady looked at me, patted her chest, then, with an exaggerated movement of her mouth, said, "Thank you. Thank you." I smiled and waved as they went by. Crisis averted.
 
As I drove home, I reflected on the events of the day and all the friendly people I had come across. I had to put this into a story. Then I started thinking about the person who said my stories were all "totally made up." I began to feel bitter about the comment.
 
What about Dave and his adventure with the flat tire and the battery. I'm sure some would say he made it up – but I believed his story; every word because it came from his heart. 
 
My emotions became thankful instead of feeling offended; because I have truly been blessed to live these stories my whole life.
 
I swear, it's true – all these things, and more, really happened in one day, and I couldn't wait to get home to tell June all about it. I already knew what she would say, "Gee, Dad, I sure wish I would have been with you."
 
Oh, and to the skeptics who don't believe my dog June talks: how do you know she doesn't, just because she's never spoken to you?
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The Universal Language

8/18/2021

 
​Being the second youngest of eleven children, you could say my father-in-law comes from a rather large family. He and his siblings take turns organizing and hosting the Carlo Family Reunion. With his brothers and sisters, their children, spouses, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, it's a lot of people. To keep one person or family from bearing the duty of all the cooking, everyone brings a dish, side, dessert, or something for the dinner. It turns out to be an annual celebration where everyone eats very well.
 
I was making rolls for the Carlo Family reunion and having so much fun, I got carried away and made way too many! Eventually, I ran out of pans to bake them. I could have frozen the rest, but I prefer rolls to be made fresh for every meal. After filling my last two round cake pans, I still had a lot more dough. I needed to give some of these away.
 
I went to a couple of friends' houses to borrow a pan and a clean dish towel from each, then returned a short time later with a pan of rolls and baking instructions. I still had more dough at home.
 
I went to my neighbor's house. Francisco speaks very little English, and I speak even less Spanish. Still, we communicate well enough for our occasional meetings/bull sessions in the back alley. I knocked on his door to explain that I wanted to give them some rolls. He didn't understand.
 
His wife came to the door to see if she could help, but I think she speaks less English than Francisco. I asked if they had a nine by thirteen-inch cake pan. They didn't understand. He leaned on the banister and called up the open stairwell for his daughter.
 
His daughter, probably ten or eleven years old, came down the stairs with a youthful spring in her step. "Si Papa." He explained what he wanted, and she attempted to translate for us, but she didn't know what I meant either. "A nine by thirteen-inch baking pan? Do you mean a cookie sheet," she asked?
 
"Kind of, but it's deeper," I answered, holding my fingers to indicate two-inch sides. Her mom came from the kitchen with various cookie sheets, cake pans, muffin tins, and bakeware. 
 
I nodded my head and took the rectangular pan she was holding. I told them I would bring it right back. "You want to borrow," Francisco asked?
 
"No," I replied, "I'm going to bring it right back with rolls in it."
 
He still didn't know what I meant but graciously offered to let me keep the pan, "Okay. You have it."
 
Then I asked if they had a clean dish towel that I could use to cover the rolls. Again, I didn't know the Spanish word for towel, and Francisco didn't know what I was asking for. His daughter had already returned upstairs, so I smiled, "I'll be right back."
 
I filled the pan with fifteen rolls and covered them with one of our clean dish towels. When I returned to Francisco's door with the pan covered with a green checked towel, he smiled, "Oh, Toalla." I assumed that to be Spanish for a towel. I lifted the corner of the checked cloth to show him the rolls inside. His eyes lit up, "Aah!" With this new visual, he understood what I had been trying to tell them. His wife waved for me to bring the pan to the kitchen.
 
I pointed to their wall clock to help communicate times. Using hand gestures, I said, "The rolls needed to raise for about 30 minutes under the towel," while running my finger from the twelve to the six. "Then bake them at 400 degrees (I pointed to the oven temperature setting, held up four fingers, then made two zero signs) for twelve to fifteen minutes" (pointing again to the clock). His wife nodded as I spoke. Finally, we all seemed to understand.
 
I went back to my kitchen, formed the remaining dough into rolls filling a pie pan. I covered them with another towel. They just needed to rise, then I could bake them and be off to the family reunion.
 
The next afternoon I went to Francisco's house to retrieve my towel. He was working in his shed. When he saw me coming, he walked out to cheerfully greet me in the driveway. I asked him how the rolls turned out. He nodded and said, "Very, very good." He smiled and continued, "They no more. They all gone." Waving his hands like an umpire making a safe call at home plate, he repeated, "All gone, right away. My wife bake, and they all gone. We eat them all." That made me smile.
 
A sparkle came over his soft brown eyes. He patted his chest over his heart and said, "My mom in Mexico make very the same. Just like my Mama." A tear welled up in his eyes. Although we spoke different languages, I could see in his eyes and hear in his voice – very fond memories had been rekindled.
 
Francisco took my hand with his right hand and affectionately covering it with his left. Then, while shaking my hand, still with that look in his eye, he said, "Gracias. Mucho gracias mi amigo." I understood that very clearly. Then he gave me a hug.
 
Feeling the depth of sentiment within his embrace, I fought back a tear of my own. Who knew one extra pan of rolls could bring another man such joy? When he let me go, I said, "You're welcome. I will make more for you sometime." Francisco smiled. They say the smile is a universal language.  His hug and smile said it all.
 
When we allow communications to come earnestly from the heart, in both talking and listening, in giving and receiving – speaking different languages cannot stand as a barrier.
 
On that day, everyone was understood; love was felt. We said our farewells, and I left, forgetting all about the green checkered dish towel I went to retrieve. My heart was so full I thought it could burst. Grinning all the way home, I walked up the alley feeling lighter than air.
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Junk Mail

8/11/2021

 

While looking at photos from a trip to New Orleans (N’awlins, as the locals say), I began craving some good Cajun gumbo. I had it at a restaurant in the French Quarter, and it was delicious. So, I pulled a recipe from the internet and made it. Unfortunately, eating it left me with an even stronger craving for some good Cajun gumbo (the keyword being good). Needless to say, it didn't go well.   

Fortunately, I only made a small batch because I don't like wasting food. I ate the leftovers over the next few days – my wife tried it but declined to partake in the dish. A second attempt, with a different recipe, failed miserably as well. I was ready to concede, "Maybe it's just me. Perhaps gumbo is one of those things I can't make." I had read the secret to a good gumbo is in the roux. Unfortunately, I wasn't getting it right. I needed advice from an experienced Gumbo Roux Guru – but who!  

I remembered our friends Keith and Claudine, whom we met in Ouray, Colorado. When we asked where they were from, they told us, Louisiana, naturally I thought of N’awlins. Surely, they would know how to make gumbo. So, I sent a message to Keith asking for tips or a recipe. "Sorry, Claudine is the gumbo maker," he admitted. He added that they would send a cookbook with recipes submitted from members of their church. I was looking forward to receiving his gift. Still, I had plenty of other things to do in the meantime; I was busy preparing our Scamp for an upcoming trip.   
Saturday morning, the Scamp was loaded and ready to hit the road. The last thing to do was put our dog June and cat Edgar Allan in the van – oh, and put the trash can out by the road. The garbage truck doesn't come until Monday, but I put it out early since we would be gone. The trash can would just have to sit by the road until we returned home.  

When we’re planning to be gone for a while, I'll call the post office to put a hold on our mail. Apparently, I had forgotten to do so on this trip. While we were away, we got a package that wouldn't fit inside, so the mail lady fastened it to the handle of our mailbox with a rubber band.   

Our neighbor noticed the package and knew we were out of town. Bonnie sent me a text, "We put a package in your garbage can to stay dry." I was very appreciative; whatever my wife had ordered, I'm sure she’d want it to stay dry. Besides, we keep our trash can clean enough that it would provide good protection from the elements.  
I sent a message back: "Thank you, Bonnie. Any chance you could roll the can back to the house? We'll be gone until Wednesday, and I would hate to see the trash guys throw away the package on Monday if the can is still at the road." The content of the message had me laughing. We have good neighbors, and they gladly helped us out.   

By the time we got home, I had forgotten about the package but noticed the can was back in the driveway. I was rolling it into the garage and could tell something was inside. I opened the lid, saw the package, and started laughing; everything was coming back to me. Although she wasn't there, I spoke aloud, "Whatever you ordered, Melissa, it just about became junk mail - literally." I had a good laugh about that.  

I carried the package upstairs, reading the label, "Tom Palen? What the heck? I didn't order anything." Then reading the return address, "From Keith and Claudine. What are they sending me?" (I still wasn't putting two and two together.)  

Inside was a cookbook in a very nice three-ring binder. The cover read, "A Little Slice of Heaven. Acy's Creek Missionary Baptist Church." I thumbed through the pages thinking, "This is nice," then looked at the inside cover.   

There was a handwritten note: "We pray you'll enjoy these recipes for years to come. Love Keith and Claudine. P.S.-My gumbo recipe is on page 35." It was as if I had come to see the light.   

"Hey, hey! This isn't junk mail at all! The long-awaited gumbo recipe is here!" I was excited to try it; I was looking for ingredients in the kitchen cabinets when my wife reminded me that the Scamp still needed to be emptied. Unfortunately, by the time that was done, it was too late to start cooking. So, I curled up on the couch with my new cookbook, the same way my wife would with a glass of wine and a novel.  

I was a little disappointed to discover I did not have most of the ingredients on hand. Actually, I had very few. So, I ran into ZUP's, our local grocery store, and found they had some of the items I'd need – but not all. So, the next day, I went to Duluth, to the larger store, where they had some more of the items I needed, but when I inquired, they all looked at me and asked, "What is Gumbo File."    I ordered the Gumbo File and Liquid Crab Boil online. Anxious to make the gumbo, I was on the phone expressing my frustration to my brother in Oklahoma. I told him the stores here had frozen okra, but it was breaded, which would be a deal-breaker. "Just buy fresh okra and cut it yourself," he said.   

I explained, "If they didn't have frozen, they certainly would not carry fresh okra."    

"What kind of store doesn't have okra? That's a southern staple." He declared.  

I explained it was a geographical difference and challenged him, "Oh yeah? Well, your stores carry chicken's feet and crawdads, too - but go to your grocery store and try to find a pre-made pasty." (Very common here in the north - but I digress.)       

When the crab boil and gumbo file arrived, I rushed to the store to get the rest of the ingredients, hurried home, and made a pot of gumbo!  

I sent a message to Keith and Claudine: "Oh, this isn't going well at all. I didn't cook my roux long enough - I should be much darker than I made it. Haste makes waste.  

"I was in a hurry when I went shopping. I bought (and used) a vegetable mix called Seasons Blend, with broccoli, carrots, sugar snap peas, and water chestnuts. A far cry different from Seasonings Blend, with onions, celery, red peppers, green peppers, and parsley flakes. That's going to make a difference in flavor! But, again, haste makes waste.  

"The good news is, the andouille sausage, shrimp, crab meat, crab boil, and gumbo file definitely give it a Cajun flavor. But it clearly lacks and desperately needs the onion, celery, and green pepper.  

"The snow peas and water chestnuts add a touch of the orient. I have no idea where the broccoli and carrots fit in. The whole mess was made in a northern Minnesota, almost to Canada, kitchen.  

"I think I just invented the first pot ever of French Canadian, Norwegian, Northwoods, Chinese, Cajun Gumbo Stew Soup. FCNNWCCGSS, for short. (Which I believe may be another way of spelling FUBAR in some foreign language.)   

"On a brighter note, the recipe only yields about two gallons. Even though I've never tried your gumbo, I am sure this is definitely not it!  

"Well, haste makes waste - and I can't stand wasting food, so when these two gallons of FUBAR Stew are gone (I pray it freezes well), I really, really want to try Claudine's Cajun Gumbo."   

Weeks later, the lousy stew finally went away. I took it to Missouri and tried to feed it to my brother. After eating his first bowl, he declined my offer for seconds, so I ate the rest myself.   

With the old gumbo gone, I bought new and correct ingredients and came home excited but somewhat nervous to try the recipe again. Almost everything was going well; although the flavor was outstanding, the stew was thin and runny – not thick like it should be. "It's the roux," I confessed to myself, "I'm still not getting it right." I don't have trouble making a roux for gravy and other dishes. However, I was still in need of advice from an experienced Gumbo Roux Guru.  

I'm thankful this cookbook was saved from the fate of the garbage truck because it is not junk mail by any means. I'm looking forward to making the Salmon Patties on page 137, but where on Earth will I find: ¼ box of Guidry's fresh cuts creole seasoning in the Northwoods of Minnesota?   

​My wife suggested I should just call Claudine to find out what kind of pie goes well with gumbo and ask what time we should arrive for dinner - authentic Cajun gumbo. I'll bet I’d even find the Guidry's down there. Besides, we're due for another trip to New Orleans anyway. Oops, I meant N’awlins; maybe that's my problem – I'm not saying it right! 

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