But Did You Die?

In the fall of 2016, we pulled our Scamp fifth wheel halfway across the country on our way to Prince Edward Island, Canada. Along the way we stopped in Bar Harbor, Maine. For those who have never been there, there are no Rs when pronouncing Bar Harbor; it’s Bah Hah Bah. (The locals will help you if you pronounce it wrong.)
Two years ago, in Treasure Island, Florida, while walking our dog Nova Mae, I met a nice police officer. We struck up a conversation and I asked if he was native to the area. “No, I’m not sure anyone is from here,” he laughed. “All the people I know have moved here from other parts of the country,” he said. “I’m from Bar Harbor, Maine, myself.” He pronounced the Rs.
Since I’ve been there a few times now, I had to question him. “You pronounced the Rs. Are you really from Bar Harbor?”
“Yes,” he assured me. “I’ve been down here long enough to have lost my down east accent, but I am from Bah Hah Bah.” We shared a good laugh about that and then discussed the best places on the island to buy lobster. “I can tell you the lobster is much better in Maine than it is in Florida.” We shared another good laugh about that, and then Nova and I went on our way and let the man do his work. While in Bar Harbor, we got good advice from the campground host where to go for the best lobster.
“Where do you suggest we go for the best lobster without paying a fortune,” I asked our host. “Where do the local people go?” 
The campground host sent us to a restaurant downtown, on the water. “You’ll get good lobster anyplace in Bar Harbor,” he said. “But you’ll pay more in the downtown area.” We took his advice and tried the restaurant downtown. 
We both ordered the lobster dinner, which came with corn on the cob, roasted potatoes and garlic bread. When the waitress returned to our table, asking how our meal was tasting, I told her this was the first time I’d ever had lobster in Maine, and it was clearly the best I’d ever had. “And how about that corn on the cob? Isn’t that just the best in the world,” she commented. I smiled.
“We’re from southern Iowa,” I said. “You won’t find better corn anywhere than that which comes from the mid-west.” I probably should have stopped talking, but went on to say, “This sweet corn is very comparable to our field corn.” When she asked, I told her field corn was raised to feed the animals. But I quickly added, “The lobster we get in Iowa doesn’t hold a candle to this! This is amazing!” The smile returned to her face.
We ran into the host the next day and thanked him for his recommendation of the restaurant. I told him that the lobster was amazing. “If you think that was good, you ought to try Thurston’s Lobster Pound in Bernard, on the other side of the island. It’s a bit of a drive, but well worth it in my opinion.” The next day, we headed to Thurston’s for an incredible lobster lunch on the pier. As good as the lobster was in Bar Harbor, Maine, we found something even better! We returned to our Scamp and fed June her dinner before taking an evening walk. 
While on our walk, we ran into a real nice couple at their campsite and struck up conversation. Pete and Karen were their names. “Are you the couple that’s in that Scamp,” Pete asked. I told him we were. Our new friends had a slide in camper in their pickup. “We’ve been thinking about a different camper,” he said. “This is nice, but unless we unload the camper, we have to breakdown our campsite every time we want to go sightseeing.” 
I don’t honestly remember if Pete asked or if I offered, but we invited Pete and Karen to come see our Scamp. I could tell Melissa was a bit nervous about having company, not feeling like we were ready for company. “Just give us a couple of minutes to tidy up and make sure I didn’t leave my unmentionables laying in the middle of the floor,” I said. 
Pete and Karen really liked the Scamp. Melissa really liked Pete and Karen. We exchanged contact information to keep in touch. “Let us know if you ever decide to sell it,” Pete said. Eventually, Pete and Karen drove to northern Minnesota to buy our Scamp. We had them stay at the house with us, not as buyers, but as our house guests – friends. Since then, Melissa and I have visited Pete and Karen at their place in Virginia and stayed at their house. The Morrison’s are really neat people. They were both nurses; Pete was a helicopter life-flight nurse, and Karen worked in hospitals. Both have a great sense of humor.
Karen told us a story about a patient who was very demanding. “One day, when my shift was unusually busy and we were short-handed, this patient complained, ‘You’re late with my medicine.’ I explained it was not a time sensitive medication and they would be okay. But they kept complaining. ‘You’re five minutes late with my medicine.’ I finally turned around and said, ‘I know I’m a few minutes late, but did ya die?’” I thought I was going to die when she said that because I was laughing so hard! We visited them again at their farm. Anytime I complain about something, usually small and petty, Karen will quickly ask, “But did ya die?” It cracks me up every time she says that.
Despite the distance between northern Minnesota and south central Virgina, we’ve come to know the Morrison’s quite well. They have a hobby farm with a lot of goats. They also have cows, pigs, chickens, and I think a couple of sheep. For all I know, they might have lions and tigers and bears, by now - O my, but mostly goats. They have a couple of large
Great Pyrenees dogs to protect the herd. “Tom, stay a few feet back from the fence if you go near the goats,” Karen warned. “The dogs don’t really like men.” I asked why and she replied, “Who steals goats in the middle of the night, men or women?”  I guess that makes sense. But what about Pete? Do the dogs like Pete? 
“They keep a close eye on me when I’m around the goats, and I keep a close eye on them, too” Pete said. We shared a good laugh about that. I’ve come to learn there isn’t much Pete can’t do.
One time, I saw photos of Pete and Karen spinning honey, on their Facebook page. Come to find out, there was a swarm of bees in a tree. Pete (with proper attire) stood in the front bucket of their tractor. Karen raised the bucket so Pete could reach the bees. He retrieved the swarm and relocated them to a hive. Now, I am not afraid of bees, but I don’t go moving their homes, either! Since then, Pete has developed more hives and has become quite the beekeeper, which has been good for us. They’ve shared jars of honey with us on a couple of occasions, and it is the best I’ve ever had. In exchange, I will send cookies and such, but I know we’re getting the better end of the deal. Karen can bake, but I can’t make honey.
Sometime last year, we ran completely out of their honey. I offered to buy some from Morrison’s, but Pete said it had been a dry year, and the bees didn’t produce much. “We left what little honey they had in the hives for the bees to eat over the winter. We didn’t get any honey this year.” Boy, that was disappointing. What would we do without their fresh honey? We would be forced to return to store bought stuff. Karen assured me that I would be okay, but it was a long winter without our stash of honey. But I had bigger things to worry about than honey. I have a Scamp I need to get ready to sell. 
Yesterday, I was working on a Scamp in the driveway. The red stripes are faded, so I ordered new decals from Michelle at Scamp. “Those might still go out in the mail today,” she told me.
This morning there was a package by the mailbox. “There’s no way those decals could be here already,” I said. “I just ordered them yesterday.” Nova Mae and I walked swiftly in anticipation of finding my parts. The box label was facedown, and I was disappointed when I picked up the package; it was way too heavy to be Scamp decals. “It’s probably just shampoo and dish soap that Melissa ordered.” Carrying the box inside, I turned it over to read the label. I smiled and hurried to the house; the package was from the Morrison’s.
Before I even opened the box, I set the oven to 450° and pulled out the flour. I opened the fridge, “Darn, no buttermilk. Oh well, I’ll improvise” I said, and pulled out the heavy whipping cream. The dough texture was off, but in record time I had a sheet of biscuits in the oven. Next, I got a knife to open the package. “I’m going to be bummed if Pete sent me a box of Virginia rocks,” I said.
I dug through the Styrofoam peanuts and pulled out two jars of the best honey in the world! “Come to Papa,” I said to the honey. Melissa pulled out an envelope with a nice card from the package and read it to me. I pulled the biscuits from the oven, while thinking how long I had suffered with store bought honey. Just then Melissa showed me an embroidered patch that was in with the card (I’m sure it was from Karen), it read, “But Did You Die?” I had to laugh! I’m going to find a place to put that patch to remind me not to complain about the little things in life. 
I drizzled honey over a warm biscuit and took a bite. The honey was amazing! The biscuits had good flavor, but they were a little over baked and a bit flat, probably the difference between whipping cream and buttermilk. I smiled, because in my mind I heard Karen saying, “But did ya die?” Come to think of it, the biscuits were fine, too – so I had another