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    Tom Palen,

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

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Toothpaste

10/26/2022

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

10/19/2022

 

We had been home for about an hour from our fall camping trip. When I heard the buzzer on the dryer sound off, I gathered the sheets from the bed in our Scamp. I put them in the washing machine, then retrieved the clothes from the dryer.
I dumped a hamper full of clean, warm clothes from the dryer onto the bed. First, I pull out any items that need to be on hangers. Next, I like to fold the T-shirts, so they don't wrinkle. Socks and under ware are next, and towels are last. When I had folded everything, I picked up a lone sock. "Darnit!"
It was one of my favorite pairs of socks: they are short, beige in color, with Peanut's characters on the ankles. Charlie Brown is holding the phone for Snoopy. One of the Peanut's socks had a small hole, but I refused to throw away a pair of clean socks. If I'm going to toss a pair, I do it after I've worn them. If a holey sock gets washed – it will be worn again.
One sock always gets a hole before the other. With most of my socks, I throw away the failed garment while the good sock gets washed, then put it back in the drawer, waiting for another matching sock to go bad. Then the survivor gets a new mate. That's not so easy to do with a theme or printed socks.
I shook the towels well, and I would have felt the sock if it was clinging inside a T-shirt. I'm reasonably sure I know the culprit: that sock-eating Maytag dryer. I returned to the basement and checked the drum - no Snoopy sock. "Savage beast," I called the dryer as I shut the door, then went back upstairs to my bedroom.
I pushed my hand inside the Snoopy sock. Looking it over, I smiled, "At least the dryer took the sock with the hole in it." Expecting the worst but hoping for the best, I would place the lone sock in the drawer – just in case.
Still holding the Snoopy sock, I took a single grey sock from the drawer. "I haven't had any of these for years." Then, as I tossed the single sock into the bathroom trash can, I began to ponder philosophical things and proper etiquette.
"What is the proper amount of time to keep a surviving sock when its solemate has been consumed by the dryer before admitting the lost soledure isn't coming back?" Keeping that grey sock for years was undoubtedly beyond a reasonable period.
While holding my Peanuts-themed sock, I remembered my younger days when Mom and Dad always had a basket filled with single socks.
It was an oval-shaped wicker basket, larger than most oval wicker baskets. As a kid, I thought thousands of socks were in that basket. I'm sure it was only two or three (maybe four) hundred as an adult. Dad had a standing agreement: "I'll pay a penny for every pair you match," he offered. Many times, I thought I could make a fortune in that basket.
I presented ten pairs of socks to Dad. The socks had to be fastened at the arch with a safety pin to collect your pay. "We wouldn't have single socks if you kids would learn to pin your socks together before putting them in the laundry," he lectured.
Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his little green vinyl coin pouch. It was oval-shaped, like the basket, and when you squeezed the ends, the middle would open like a clam shell. He poked through his coins and handed me a dime. But then Mom got involved. You see, Dad was somewhat colorblind.
Mom looked over the socks I had brought. "Son, this is a black and a blue sock you've paired together." Dad would never have caught that. She continued, "These are two different shades of brown; these greys don't match, and the white socks; one has red stripes around the top, the other has orange." I returned to the paymaster wondering why Mom couldn't just mind her own business.
Saturday mornings, I was often determined to match several pairs. So I brought the sock basket to the living room, where my lazy siblings watched Saturday morning cartoons. "Anybody want to help match some socks and make some money," I asked. Glued to the TV, they had no interest in matching socks. Shaggy and Scoobie Doo soon gained my attention, and I also lost interest in the socks. But it was still worth bringing the basket to the living room.
I laid inside the basket on top of the socks. Then, resting my head on one rounded end, with my feet hanging over the other, I joined my brothers and sisters watching TV. Soon the wicker edge felt uncomfortable on my head. I went to my bedroom to get the pillow and blanket from my bed.
When I returned to the living room, someone had taken my basket. "You didn't call 'place backs,'" they declared. I would have to wait until the wicker edge was hurting their head, then seize the opportunity to reclaim my basket when they went for their pillow.
When that person returned with their pillow, they demanded I surrender the basket. "You didn't call place backs," I said.
"I did so," they argued.
"Did not," I insisted.
Another sibling would vouch for them, "Yes, they did. I heard them."
"I don't care," I said. "I brought the basket to the living room and had it first." Now it was a matter of size.
Determined to keep my nesting place, I gripped the sides of the basket, locking my knees over the end. The larger sibling would flip the basket, with me still in it. Socks spilled everywhere. An argument ensued, getting louder and louder.
Eventually, Dad would come around the corner in his bathrobe, "You kids need to pip down, or turn that TV off!" Saturday was his only day to sleep in, and he wasn't happy, "Why are these socks all over the place?"
"Instead of just sitting there, you guys could be matching socks while watching TV." (Note that the 'penny a pair was not offered' as we had disturbed his slumber.) The lecture would always follow, "We wouldn't have all these loose socks if you kids would learn to pin your socks together before you put them in the laundry." Those were simple days.
I stood by my dresser, holding and studying my sock. "Can a dryer eat two socks at once," I asked Snoopy and Charlie Brown? They just looked at me. "I know people lose a sock in the dryer all the time, but I've never heard of anyone losing a pair at the same time. So I wonder, if you pin a pair of socks together, would it be impossible for the dryer to eat them?"
While I pondered these questions, my dog sat at my feet. "Dad, do you really think those cartoon characters will answer you?"
"Sometimes they do," I answered. I heard the washer clunk as it finished its spin cycle. "Come on, Nova Mae. Let's go put the sheets in the dryer."
When the dryer buzzer sounded, Nova and I went to retrieve the sheets and dumped them onto the bed. I fold the pillowcases first, then the flat sheet to free up space on the bed before tackling the fitted sheet.
As I spread the fitted sheet, I swore I heard a faint voice, "Hello. It's for you."
"Did you say something," I asked my dog?
"I didn't say anything, but I heard it, too," Nova Mae answered.
I felt inside the corners of the fitted sheet and found something, probably the Bounce dryer sheet. I pulled it out. "Would you look at that," I said to Nova Mae. It was the lost beige sock, with Charlie Brown handing the phone to Snoopy.
I immediately went to the sock drawer, folding the two matching socks together. "I should get a penny for this," I said to my dog.
"I think you should get the penny," Charlie Brown said. “Me too,” said Snoopy.

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Sticks and Stones

10/12/2022

 

​Mom often said: "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." But, come to think of it, Dad said that as well. As a matter of opinion, I think every parent has probably recited that exact phrase. Children learn from their parents; I used the term raising my kids, and I have heard my daughter say this to my granddaughters. It's an easy thought to preach but not always so easy to practice.
I try to stay positive and say nice things, but I am as guilty as anyone when it comes to taking a negative attitude and saying things that aren't very nice. I frequently wish I could retract my words, but it's too late; I already said it. Sooner or later, Mom found out what I did. I can still hear her voice, "Thomas, if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."
"But Mom, they started it." I tried to justify my actions by telling Mom what the other person said to agitate me.
Mom interrupted me, saying, "Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words will never hurt you." As I grew older, I challenged Mom on this theory.
One day, Mom sat in her wing-backed chair in the living room. I held a hank of yarn stretched over the backsides of my two open hands while she wound it into a ball. When she finished, Mom pulled a lead from the fresh ball of material, dropping the ball into the basket next to her chair. She wrapped the strand of yarn around and between her fingers, then the tip of her needle, as she resumed working on her project.
While she toiled, I began a conversation: "Are you familiar with Sir Issac Newton's third law of motion?" She said that she was. "Then, if I should throw sticks and stones and break someone's bones, the opposite and equal reaction would be that my bones would be healed, right?"
Mom rolled her eyes, "Newton was talking about physics, not an age-old adage."
"Correct," I agreed. "Physics; as in motion. Throwing sticks and stones is clearly a motion." Mom found knitting very relaxing; I was annoying her with my ridiculous point, and I knew it.
Mom looked over the rim of her glasses, "Go find something to do, son before I clean your clock." She said this tongue-in-cheek, but I also knew she meant it. I pressed on.
"I don't have a clock that needs cleaning," I said, "But if I did, would cleaning my clock create a motion?"
"Cleaning one's clock is an idiom," she said.
"Don't call me an idiot," I retorted.
Again, looking over her glasses, Mom chuckled, "If the shoe fits…."
"Is that an idiom," I asked?
Now, I don't know much about knitting, but I know it requires two knitting needles. One needle gathers the knitted yarn, and the other needle, which seems to do all the work, is easily freed. Mom pointed the free needle in my direction, "Get before I create a motion you're not going to like!" She had had enough; it was a good time for me to skedaddle. Maybe I could go bother Dad; he always enjoyed a good play on words.
Dad was big on first impressions. "Choose your words wisely," he would say, "You'll never get a second chance to make a first impression."
A person's first impression is often drawn from the words we speak. But, accurate or not, it can develop into a long-lasting opinion. Dad also taught me the importance of your tone of voice. "You can say to someone, 'I like your shirt.' Depending on your tone of voice, that can come across as a compliment, or a sarcastic insult."
These childhood lessons from my parents have carried well into my adult years. The older I get, the more care I take in my wording when meeting a new person; doing so has brought good returns.
My wife and I enjoy taking our Scamp to Canada in the fall. Near the end of the season, when it's cooler, the campgrounds are quiet; sparsely populated. Still, we've met some wonderful people there.
One morning while camping at Sleeping Giant, I was talking to a man at a nearby campsite. "This might sound crazy," I prefaced my question (in case it sounded crazy). "But did you hear music this morning? Maybe a harp?"
The man smiled, "That was my wife, Sally. She brings her harp along when we travel. I hope she didn't disturb you."
"Disturb me," I questioned? "It was beautiful. I thought I was being serenaded by angels sent from heaven." Good first impressions were made both ways, and my wife and I have stayed in touch with Al and Sally ever since.
Last week, we set out to enjoy the fall colors on the far east side of Lake Superior. The bright red and gold maple, birch, and aspen leaves are spectacular! To break up the ten-hour drive from our home to Lake Superior Provincial Park, we stopped at Sleeping Giant to camp the first night.
Being the last week of camping in Canada, all the stores and gas stations were sold-out of firewood, and we arrived after the park office was closed. "I guess we won't have a campfire tonight," I told my wife.
While I set up camp, Melissa spoke with the neighbor asking if he knew where we could buy firewood. "I bought two bundles at the office," he told her, "I'm only going to use one tonight, so I can sell you the other." That was very generous of him. So Melissa returned with a bundle of firewood. But we still didn't have a fire.
The wood wasn't very well seasoned and needed a good bed of hot coals under it. Without dry wood, I had no way to create a bed of coals. Unsuccessfully, I tried to light the fire several times, then finally gave up. "Oh well, that's how it sometimes goes," I told my wife. We had six more hours of driving to get to our next destination, so we headed to bed for a good night's rest.
The drive through the Canadian countryside was gorgeous. The hills, the trees, the lake; everything added to the beautiful scenery.
We arrived and set up camp just in time to walk the beach, collect a few rocks, and watch the sunset over Agawa Bay on Lake Superior. We wanted to close the night with a glass of wine at a campfire, but the only wood we had was that bag of fire-retardant greenwood.
I walked the campground, searching empty campsites for any firewood that might have been left by another camper. Instead, I found a campsite that was left a total mess!
Beer cans, empty liquor bottles, and trash were scattered all about. A brand-new tarp wadded up and shoved into the fork of a birch tree. The tarp wrapper, and a couple of plastic sacks, had blown across the road, getting caught in a bush. Even the fire pit was a disgusting mess.
It looked like the people tried to start their fire using a blue koozie as kindling. The koozie melted and left a few burn marks on the wood, but it did not ignite. So I gathered the wood from the fire ring and saved it for our fire.
I used the shopping bags to collect the trash, empty cans, and bottles. I kept the green tarp; I could use it to cover my wood piles at home. I also kept the full bag of well-seasoned firewood they left behind. Score! The wood and the tarp were my rewards for cleaning up the mess they left behind.
The recovered wood made a nice, warm fire, creating a good bed of hot coals. That allowed me to mix in some of the green wood, while savings some dry wood for the next night. We enjoyed wine by the fireside while listening to the rhythmic waves lapping the shore of Lake Superior on a chilly fall evening in Canada. Life is good. Really good and would get even better. Sleeping Giant was not the only Canadian campground where an American could hear sweet music in the morning.
As Nova Mae and I strolled along, I heard a beautiful voice floating through the crisp morning air. The singer would stop for a moment, then sing out again. It was as if she was singing a duet with a silent partner. The sound was terrific, but I couldn't locate the source.
The scenario reminded me of the movie; The Little Mermaid. Call me crazy, but I wondered if Ariel (the mermaid with a beautiful voice) had relocated to the north for a moment. As I looked out on Lake Superior, expecting to see a mermaid appear, I was distracted by a woman walking down the road.
The young lady with long dark hair was coming our way. I also thought about walking to the road to ask if she had heard the music. But, just then, she started singing. She strolled with casual confidence, perfectly content singing to the trees, wildlife, or anyone else who might be listening. I was mesmerized by her angelic voice and watched as she passed by.
The girl stopped to talk to a lady sitting in a car at a site across the road. Perhaps to tell her, "I'm going to take one more stroll around the loop before we go." Then she continued walking, singing her song. I couldn't help myself. I had to go talk to the lady in the car.
"Your friend has a beautiful voice," I said.
The lady humbly replied, "Thank you. That's my daughter, and yes, she does."
"I sure hope she sings on stage or in the theater," I said. "Her voice is a gift that should be shared." Her mom and I had a brief conversation. They were packed up, ready to head to the UP of Michigan. "The UP colors should be at their peak now," I commented.
Always on the lookout, I noticed a partial bag of firewood by their picnic table. Although the thought had entered my mind, to ask would be rude. "Well, I sure enjoyed your daughter's music," I said. "Her song made my morning extra special." We said our farewells, then I went back to our Scamp. The morning serenade wasn't the only unexpected blessing that day.
The weather forecast called for overcast skies, an 80% chance of rain all day, and colder temperatures. Fortunately, the weatherman was wrong. It was a day of sunshine, mild temperatures, and brilliant fall colors. Melissa, Nova Mae, and I took advantage of this bonus day; we set out to hike the trails along the Sand River.
The views were breathtaking! The Sand River is a canoeing trail with many portages for paddlers to get around the many waterfalls and rapids. And yet, father upstream, the water was perfectly calm ahead of the falls. A bright red maple tree reflected like a mirror on the smooth water's surface. Looking up and down the river, I commented, "It's amazing how calm and serene water can so quickly become turbulent and dangerous." We finished hiking the trail, then returned to our van.
We debated stopping for another bundle of firewood on the way back to our Scamp. "The clouds are moving in; we're leaving tomorrow and can't take any wood across the border home. So I think we should hold off," Melissa suggested.
I agreed, "Besides, we still have a half bundle of dry wood and a few pieces of the green wood for a fire – if the rain holds off."
As I backed the van into our campsite, I glanced at the picnic table across the way – just in case. "Someone else grabbed the rest of that firewood," I said to my wife. She wasn't surprised.
After parking the van, Melissa and I walked down to the beach. This part of Lake Superior has different rocks than ours, so we gathered some pretty stones for our granddaughters to polish in their rock tumbler.
Next, I walked around the Scamp to build a fire. "Would you look at that," I said to my wife. "Remember the lady with the daughter singing this morning, and I went over to tell her what a pretty voice her daughter has? Remember she had some left-over firewood?"
"You didn't ask her for it, did you," my wife queried.
"No, but she brought the wood over and set it next to our fire ring while we were gone," I said. That was very cool! We enjoyed a nice fire on our last night camping using the wood she gave us mixed with the last couple of pieces of our greenwood. We still had the other half bundle of dry wood.
The following morning, we packed up for home. On the way out of the campground, we saw an old Boler camper, the predecessor to the Scamp. I stopped to chat and offered them the rest of our wood. "We don't want to take your wood," the man politely declined.
"We're headed back to Minnesota today," I said. "We can't take the wood over the border; we'd like you to have it." The couple graciously accepted our gift. I drove away feeling good about the whole experience.
I reflected on my conversation with Mom years ago; sticks, being sticks of firewood; stones, being rocks from the beach. Then, adding Dad's advice, I concluded: Sticks and stones can be really good if you 'Choose your words carefully, use the right tone of voice, and make a good first impression. 
Life is good.

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My Ship

10/5/2022

 
​The moon was not up yet, and the road was dark. I drove along highway 61, coming home from Duluth. The road runs parallel to the shore of Lake Superior. Broken yellow lines dashed by in my left peripheral vision as I drove along. I kept looking toward the dark waters of the lake. I was hoping to see a ship at night.
To avoid the stronger, seasonal winds, big iron ore and freight ships may travel closer to shore. Headwinds are not their friend; traveling closer to the shore allows the natural terrain to work as a wind block. So, there it was. The ship I was hoping to see.
Lights from the crew's sleeping rooms, the workrooms, and other areas glow at night. The bridge sits on top of the other rooms. The pilot house is lit up like a small town five or six stories tall. Lights line the deck from bow to stern marking the walkways looking like light strings of Christmas lights. Soon, I spotted another boat, and then a third.
During the one-hour drive between Duluth and Silver Bay, I saw five ships in all. The vessels travel quietly under a black sky littered with stars too numerous to count. It was truly a beautiful sight, one that could easily go unnoticed.
The boats could have been fifteen or twenty miles out at sea through most of the shipping season. A distance where most people would not see them because of the earth's curvature. But whether I see them or not, the ships are there, silently doing their work.
They are there moving tons and tons of iron ore. Ore will be turned into steel, eventually becoming products we use daily. Items generally taken for granted, never giving thought to the ship hands that labored to bring us the steal.
Most of us relate to a higher power in our own ways. So, I began to correlate the ships to my faith. There are times when my faith is close. It is easy to see, close enough to grasp when I need it. Yet, other times, I am guilty of taking for granted all the goodness that comes to me through my faith.
Sometimes I fail to give credit where credit is due. I foolishly believe the good I produce is from my own hands, of my own making. As a result, I find false satisfaction, thinking I am in control when there is always a greater power behind me. A force that guides me, steering the ship on which I am traveling.
It was good to see the ships tonight. They offered more than just a pleasing, tranquil sight; they gave me a much-needed nudge.   A reminder that I need to recognize the source of my blessing.   I need to acknowledge that my good deeds result from the guidance that comes from above. 
My evil deeds result from turning away from the word and the voice, thinking I can handle things on my own.
Jesus is my higher power, my source of strength. He is the light in my day. Even when I fail to see Him, he is still there protecting me. He is the ship that travels quietly on course through the night, whether I see it or not.
I am grateful for His presence in my life.   I am blessed to be shown the way and to have accepted Him. I wish I were always mindful of Him, but sometimes I fail. 
I love how He shows up in the most unexpected places when He needs to correct my course; set me straight. Times when He will touch my shoulder, saying, "Come this way. Follow me." He keeps me on the intended line where I am meant to be, and brings me back should the winds blow me off course.
Late fall is a fantastic time to drive the shoreline of Lake Superior. Seeing five ships in one night was not a coincidence. I look forward to seeing where I will find the vessel tomorrow. I pray that you, too, will see the beauty of a ship when it is close by and know in your heart that it is there even when you cannot see it.
Peace, my friend. May the wind always be at your back. I wish you smooth sailing today in calm waters.
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