​It was a lazy Monday morning, Memorial Day, to be specific. I enjoyed a morning cup of coffee with my wife, my brother Dan and his wife, Petrina.
 
We were on the deck at their home in the Ozarks, overlooking the boat dock and water in the cove. We watched the fish and turtles in the water, coming near the banks to catch their breakfast.
 
Petrina went into the house for a refill of coffee. My wife pointed out my pasty white skin with a smile, suggesting I should wear shorts to catch some sun - maybe get a little color. I questioned her thought process as we were sitting in a heavily shaded area.
 
Heeding her advice and being somewhat of a prankster, I dropped my pajama pants to the deck and sat back in my chair, wearing my boxer shorts, a TOM-FM t-shirt, and a grin that went from ear to ear. "Is this better?" I asked of her. She rolled her eyes.
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Petrina came out, laughing at my attire, while my wife demanded I pull my pajama pants back up. And so, following her instruction, I did. But, little did she know, I was seizing the opportunity to set the stage for my next display of obnoxious Tomfoolery.
 
Grabbing the elastic waistband of my flannel pajama pants, I pulled them up. All the way up, past my waistline, over my belly, stretching and pulling them up to my chest as high as possible, covering most of my t-shirt. Taking a deep breath, sucking in as much air as my lungs could hold, I then pushed my stomach out as far as possible. 
 
I call this my Old Man Pants look. My wife, who finds it less than flattering, made some comments, expressing shame and embarrassment on my behalf. "Oh my gosh!" Petrina blurted out, "Dan does that all the time, pulling his pants up to his armpits, then struts around."
 
Hmm. I thought I was the only one who did this. But, of course, Dan is my brother; maybe it's genetic. I should have applied for a patent or copyright when I originated this look.
 
Although it was fun acting silly on the deck, it's essential to remember the solemnity and purpose of Memorial Day - paying tribute to those who gave their lives for our country, to whom I am grateful.
 
Memorial Day is also a time when I reflect on those who have passed before me, specifically, people who positively impacted my life. I am thankful for them doing so. One such person was a lady named Linda Akers.
 
Linda Akers was the organist at St. Patrick's Church. She accompanied me on several occasions when I was singing for a wedding or funeral. Linda often inquired, "When are you going to become a cantor at mass?"
 
"It makes me nervous," I'd tell her.
 
"You're a radioman; you should be used to talking in front of people," she reasoned.
 
"Linda, there's a difference between talking into a microphone in a room where people aren't watching me and talking in front of many people staring at me," I reasoned. "Besides, cantors don't talk; they sing."
 
Linda wasn't going to give up. "So tell me," she said, "what's the difference between singing in front of a church full of people at a wedding and a church full of people on Sunday morning?"
 
"Okay," I gave in, "I will in a few weeks when I get done with..." I always found a reason.
 
I've always enjoyed singing, so I don't know why I kept putting her off. I guess the idea made me nervous. The weeks turned to months, the months to years.
 
One day, the phone rang. "Are you in town this weekend?"
 
Not recognizing the voice on the other end of the line, I replied, "Yes, I am. What's up?"
 
"My cantor for the ten a.m. mass can't make it. Can you fill in for him?" Then, suddenly, I recognized the voice.
 
She had me cornered. I had already told her I was going to be in town. Backpedaling, I said, "I might have to do something else." I was trying to wiggle free.
 
"Why don't you do that in the afternoon and sing for me at ten?" It seemed she had all exits blocked; I had nowhere to run. "We can practice Wednesday at four?"
 
"Okay, I'll see you then," I told her. Then, after I hung up the phone, I asked myself, "What did you just do?"
 
Many people fear public speaking; fortunately, I do not – but this is different; I would be singing. What if I mess up? People will laugh at me. I would be embarrassed, possibly humiliated, to the point I would never be able to show my face in public again. Would I be forced to leave town to start a new life with a new identity in a faraway land? Like most fears, mine was unrealistic and unwarranted.
 
During practice, Linda assured me if I made a mistake, it would be no problem. "Just keep singing. No one will say anything about it." She assured me. "If you make a mistake, which you won't, but if you do, and anyone says anything to you, hand them the cantor's book and say, 'If you think you can do better, have at it.'" We shared a good laugh about that.
 
Sunday came, and I sang. I enjoyed singing at mass. Not only was it fun, but I also found it very rewarding. Why had I put this off for so long? I came up with so many excuses all those years, but never good reasons. I was on Linda's regular rotation schedule for the next fourteen years.
 
One day, Linda decided she needed to lighten her schedule. She would only play for the five p.m. mass on Saturdays; someone else would play the organ on Sunday mornings. After so many years, it was different singing with other accompanists.
 
Not long after this change, I sold my radio stations. My wife and I planned to move to Minnesota. For weeks I said I wanted to sing with Linda at least one more time before our move, a move that was coming soon. I could sing with Linda the next week, or maybe the first of next month. I would ask Linda to schedule me to sing on a Saturday night.
 
I finally called Linda to tell her I wanted to sing with her again before we moved. She told me she had not been feeling well, but we would do it when she was feeling better. "I would like that," she assured, "We'll have fun."
 
A week or so later, Linda wasn't feeling any better and went to the Emergency room. They took her from the hospital to the Hospice House. She didn't even know she had cancer, but Linda's cancer had grown and spread so rapidly that there was nothing the doctors could do for her.
 
When I heard the news, I went right out to visit her. Linda was resting peacefully. Her husband, Frank and daughter, Molly, were in the room with her. We chatted for a while; they caught me up on her medical situation.
 
They told me how Linda enjoyed playing the organ so much. "She just loved playing at mass." Frank added, "She loved playing for weddings and funerals too." Frank said, "Do you know she never took money for playing a wedding or funeral? They always offered, but she wouldn't take it. She just liked to play."
 
It got me when Frank said, "She especially liked playing when you would sing. She enjoyed that." I turned away a bit as Frank was sitting to my right, but Molly was seated to my left. I looked straight forward, acting like I had something in my eye to avoid getting caught as I brushed a tear away.
 
No matter who was singing, Linda always made them feel special. "I truly enjoyed singing with her, too," I said.
 
Linda didn't go back to her house. Instead, she went home.
 
I just wanted to sing with her one more time before we moved. That didn't seem like too much to ask. How was I to know that she would move on before I did?
 
We don't know. We never know what today will bring. Still, things get put off until tomorrow, as if there is no limit to the time available.
 
Along with several other cantors, I sang for Linda one more time. I was one of several soloists that sing at her funeral. Honestly, I was a bit nervous, but didn't worry too much. Instead, I smiled as I recalled Lind's advice; If I should make a mistake, I'll just keep singing. If anyone says anything about it, I'll hand them the cantor's book saying, "If you think you can do better, have at it."
 
I spent a lot of time on Memorial Day weekend thinking about Linda Akers, a beautiful soul who impacted my life.
 
I never got to tell her in person, but thank you, Linda, for recognizing a gift within me that I didn't see myself. Thank you for being persistent until you finally convinced me to share that gift. Thank you for encouraging me.
 
One Sunday morning after we moved, I climbed the stairs to the choir loft. First, I introduced myself. Then, with the courage Linda instilled in me, I asked Lana if she could add me to the rotation of cantors at St. Mary's Church in Silver Bay. She did, and to this day I still enjoy singing at Mass.
 
As for Linda, I know she continues to play. Now she plays as a chorus of angels sing along. (She's that good.)
 

​Last November, my wife drove down to visit her parents for a week in Gulf Shores, Alabama. She returned with a white Styrofoam cooler with red letters across the front, “Rouses Market.” Melissa presented the cooler to me. “Happy birthday, honey!”
 
My first thought was, “You bought me a disposable cooler for my birthday? Um, how nice.” When I took the cooler from her, it was fairly heavy. Much to my surprise, inside the cooler was three pounds of fresh Gulf shrimp on ice. “Wow! This is awesome, babe. Thank you.”
 
Now, if you want the best walleye, northern pike, or lake trout, y’all from the south need to come to the north shore, eh? Our coldwater lakes have the best freshwater fish. But clearly the best shrimp I’ve ever tasted, comes from the southern states along the Gulf of Mexico.
 
I didn’t care if it was mid-November in northern Minnesota. I cleared the snow from the deck, pulled out the Weber and began the feast. Imagine, fresh gulf shrimp, in Minnesota’s winter weather. Now that’s a northerner’s delight!
 
Just five months later, Melissa and I were going to Picayune, Mississippi, to get our new puppy, Nova Mae - less than thirty minutes from the Gulf. After that we would travel 120 miles along the coast. Coincidentally, I brought a cooler with us. There would be plenty of opportunities for me to stock the cooler with fresh Gulf shrimp to bring home.
 
Our trip would include a five-day visit to her parents’ house in South Carolina. We were still over a week from home and that’s a long time to keep fresh shrimp on ice. I was afraid it wouldn’t survive the trip and I gave up on the idea of taking more fresh shrimp home.
 
Instead, we stopped at a restaurant in Pascagoula, Mississippi. Melissa had blackened fish tacos, I had the large shrimp boil, with fresh gulf shrimp, spicy sausage, corn on the cob and boiled red potatoes. This is a common meal in the south, but to a northerner, this was a real delight.
 
After visiting in South Carolina, we started the long drive home to Minnesota. The weather in Greer was cool, by southern folk’s standards, but to a couple of Minnesotans, temperatures in the upper sixties were just right. We had been watching the weather at home, and knew we had twelve more inches of snow while we were away.
 
Less than twenty minutes into our journey, I started seeing signs for fresh strawberries. The middle of April seemed way too early for fresh fruit. “Surely someone leaves those signs up year-round,” I said, not seeing any produce stands. Not long after, I saw newer signs, “Fresh Strawberries. Open Now.” I took my foot off the gas and started to slow down – just in case.
 
“What are you doing,” Melissa asked.
 
“There’s a strawberry stand ahead,” I answered. I’m sure my eyes were bulging out of my head when I saw those tables topped with white buckets, filled to the brim with strawberries; each with an American flag, as I turned into the farmer’s driveway. There was a truck full of more strawberries under a shelter.
 
“Hello,” the farmer greeted me. He glanced at my license plate, “Are you really from Minnesota?” I assured him we were. “What brings you all the way down to South Carolina,” he asked.
 
I smiled, “Strawberries. Oh, and to visit my in-laws, too.” We shared a good laugh about that as I selected a quart container. It wasn’t an easy choice. The tables were full of square green quart containers, and white gallon pails of perfectly bright red berries.
 
“These are special strawberries,” he told me. “Most farmers don’t want to mess with them because they’re harder to grow; they more finicky. I have to charge a little more for them, but I think it’s worth it because they have about twenty-percent more natural sugars than other varieties. Go ahead and try one.”
 
“Try one,” I questioned? “Is that a sales pitch?”
 
“No sir, not at all,” replied the farmer as I bit into a big, juicy strawberry. “It’s a sale closer.” As I ate the fruit, I must have been smiling from ear to ear. It was as close to heaven as I’ve ever been in South Carolina. “You can have another if you’d like,” he offered, “but if you’re going to eat a third, I’ll have to charge you for the quart.” We shared a good laugh about that.
 
I questioned the farmer, “How long will these keep in a cooler on ice?”
 
“Well, I spect a couple of days at least. But don’t let them sit directly in water,” he warned. Then told me, “Ripe strawberries are like you and me – they like to drink water. But once they’re picked, the water will draw the natural sugars from the berry.”
 
I set my quart of strawberries back on the counter and picked up a gallon. The farmer smiled, “It was the taste test, wasn’t it?” We shared another good laugh about that. I paid him twenty-dollars for the gallon of berries, and he gave me a plastic bag to put the bucket in. “This will keep them out of the water,” he said.
 
I lifted the end gate to put the berries in the cooler I had intended to use for fresh shrimp. “Why don’t you just bring those up here for now,” Melissa said.
 
I chuckled thinking, “I’ll bet she wouldn’t have said that if this was raw shrimp.”
 
I set the bag on the front seat floor. Melissa opened the bag. “You bought a gallon? What are we going to do with all these?” I had an idea.
 
Our neighbors up the hill, produce a bumper crop of rhubarb each summer, and gracefully share their bounty with us. I still had some of their rhubarb in the freezer. Our other neighbors gave us several quarts of wild raspberries, and we still had some wild blueberries in the freezer. My mouth was watering over the thought of a strawberry-rhubarb pie, and a mixed berry pie. Yum.
 
On the trip home we each ate several strawberries, and I assure you, they tasted much better than raw shrimp would have. I put the pail of strawberries in the back of the car, on ice, so that we wouldn’t eat them all. Each time we stopped, the end gate was opened to grab a few more strawberries.
 
The next day we stopped at a rest area just outside of Indianapolis. I put Nova Mae on her leash and took her out of the kennel. Just as I set her down on the ground, the man parked next to us opened his back door to let out his large black dog. Yikes! I had no idea how the two dogs would react. They sniffed noses, and that was that.
 
The man’s wife came around the car, “Well that’s a real cute puppy you have. He looks pretty young.”
 
I thanked her, then said, “This is Nova Mae. We just got her in Mississippi. She’s about ten weeks old.”
 
“And she likes to travel already,” the lady asked? I told her Nova would be a traveling dog, and so far, everything was going great. “Our dog is getting pretty old, but she still likes to travel,” she said. “She’s made this round trip from Alaska to Indiana with us over twenty times.”
 
We enjoyed some small talk. The man told me they come down in the very early spring, or late fall, “The summers here are just too warm for us.”
 
I went to the back of my car and grabbed a handful of strawberries. “Here, I have a little gift for you. Naturally ripened, fresh strawberries we bought them yesterday from a farmer in South Carolina.”
 
His eyes really lit up, “Wow, this is a real treat. We don’t get fresh strawberries like these in Alaska.” The man gladly accepted my offer and thanked me. When his wife returned, he shared the berries with her. They seemed to enjoy them so much, I went to the back of our car and grabbed another handful.
 
“Would you like some more for the road,” I asked.
 
“Absolutely,” he said, putting his hands out to accept them. He thanked me again, then the man got in the passenger side of the car. His big black dog was in the back seat. He and his wife drove away smiling – eating strawberries. I could only imagine, if these South Carolina berries were such a treat for a couple of Minnesotans, just how good they must taste to a couple of Alaskans? A real northerner’s delight, and I was pleased to share them.
 
When we got home, I cleared the snow from the driveway. A day or two later, after we were settled in, I pulled the rhubarb from the freezer cutting up just a little over two cups to thaw and mix with the strawberries. This pie was going to be awesome! I went to grab the pail of strawberries from the fridge. On the floor of the pail were five bright red strawberries. They looked so lonely after seeing the bucket so full.
 
“Honey,” I called out, “where are the rest of the strawberries? I’m going to make a pie.”
 
“We ate them,” she replied.
 
In disbelief I questioned, “You went through a gallon of strawberries?”
 
“We,” she replied adamantly. “We went through a gallon of strawberries. I saved the last few for you.”
 
Hmm. I drove into Zup’s grocery store to buy a quart of strawberries for my pie. When I got home, I cut them up, mixed in the rhubarb, then put my pie in the oven. I went to the fridge to grab the rest of the South Carolina berries to eat while the pie baked – but the bucket was empty. “Where’d the rest of the strawberries go,” I called out, but got no answer.
 
When the pie had cooled, I cut it up and shared it with two of our neighbors. A strawberry-rhubarb pie made with rhubarb from the neighbor’s patch – a real northerner’s delight.
 
The next time we go south, we’ll do our visiting first. I’ll take two coolers: one for fresh gulf shrimp and another for fresh strawberries. Maybe I’d better take three – the Georgia peaches should be ready by then.

I love hard-boiled eggs, and most generally have them in the refrigerator. I can eat them anytime as a snack, an appetizer, or the main entrée. I’ve even had them for dessert. I love hard-boiled eggs.
 
This morning, I ate the last boiled egg from the fridge while my oatmeal was cooking. Yum.
 
When I had finished breakfast, I put a pan of water on the stove and turned the burned on high. I set the remaining seven eggs from the carton into the water. I smiled, thinking about all the different ways people have for hard boiling eggs: Use fresh eggs, never use fresh eggs. Boil the water first, or, put them in cold water. Cover the pan with a lid, don’t cover the pan. Add vinegar; use salt, not vinegar. So many ways to boil an egg, and they’re all opinions.
 
How hard can it be? Put the eggs in water, boil them, peel them, and eat them. That’s it. But people have specific techniques. I suppose I can understand why; maybe there should be a recipe for hard-boiled eggs.
 
One hot summer day, I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner. We would have chef salads, but I forgot to hard boil the eggs. So, I called my daughter Annie who was about fifteen years old. “Can you boil eight eggs for me?”
 
“I don’t know how,” she replied. “Do you have a recipe?”
 
“Are you serious,” I questioned. Annie told me she had never boiled eggs. “Put eight eggs in a pan, fill it with water, about a half-inch or so over the eggs. Put the lid on the pan, put the pan on the burner, and turn it on high.” I told her to use the burner on the grill outdoors. It was hot outside, and I didn’t want the heat or humidity inside the house.
 
“How long do I boil them,” she asked?
 
“Just turn the burner on high, and I’ll take care of them when I get home.” I would be home in fifteen minutes which would be perfect. I noted the time, but as usual, I ran into someone I knew at the store and got home fifteen minutes late.
 
When I got home, a horrible stench came in through the kitchen window and was wafting through the house. It smelled like something rotten was burning. I worried the eggs may have boiled dry and ran out the back door. There was smoke pouring out the vents on the lid of the pan.
 
I quickly turned off the flame. I removed the lid with a hot pad, nearly gagging on the smell of black smoke billowing out of the pan. “What the heck?” I hollered, “Annie, get out here!” When she came outside, I showed her the charred disaster, “Why did you crack the eggs before putting them in the pan? You’re supposed to leave them IN the shells.”
 
“You didn’t say that,” she justified. “I put the eggs in the pan and added water covering them by a half-inch.”
 
I was perplexed. “Did you smell the eggs burning? Why didn’t you come out and shut the burner off?”
 
“You told me to turn the burner on high and just leave them alone,” she said. “I assumed you knew what you were talking about.” I couldn’t argue with her; she did exactly what I said to do, and I did fail to specify leaving the eggs in the shells. The pan was ruined. I threw the whole mess in the garbage can, got another pan, and boiled more eggs for our salads.
 
I laughed as I thought about that incident while my eggs were boiling. (Although I was not laughing when it happened.) We often remind Annie of the “Hard-Boiled Egg Incident.” She gets defensive every time, “I did exactly what Dad told me to do!”
 
Everyone has their technique for boiling eggs, claiming, “Do it my way, and the shells peel super easy – every time.” Right. The way I boil eggs works (almost) every time for me. But I find eggs have a mind of their own, and some are just plain stubborn!
 
When I cooled my eggs, the shells peeled real smoothly from the first six eggs; one egg’s shell stuck to a small piece of the egg white, leaving a small mark, but it was still plenty pretty to keep with the other eggs. The seventh egg? Not so smooth.
 
I couldn’t seem to get the membrane loose from the egg. Big chunks of egg white ripped away with the shell. The egg white was torn so badly that it exposed the egg yolk in several places. Most people would have chucked the bad egg into the trash – not me.
 
The battle was on; Man vs. Egg. I was determined to win, and I did. However, I’ll admit, when I claimed my victory, I was looking at one of the ugliest eggs I’d ever seen. The egg looked like I peeled it with a weed-whacker, a lawnmower, or maybe a hammer and chisel.
 
I looked at the seven eggs on the plate and remembered my elementary school assignment. “Which one of these doesn’t belong?” I had learned that lesson well.
 
The egg was way too hideous to put in the refrigerator with the other eggs. Some of that ugliness could rub off on the others. I mean, seriously, what if we had company and they went to the fridge for an egg? When they saw the pathetic resemblance of an egg, they would say, “This man can bake a wonderful pie, but he has no idea how to boil eggs.” Some would even claim, “I’ll bet his children can’t hard boil an egg either.”
 
To avoid bringing future shame onto my kin, I did the right thing - I got rid of the evidence. I ate that battle-scarred egg. As ragged as that egg was, it was actually quite tasty (with a bit of salt and pepper.)
 
I pondered the whole situation further. People and eggs have a lot in common. Most people are good eggs, but you’re going to run into a bad or stubborn egg once in a while.
 
When you come across a bad egg, give it the benefit of the doubt. If you take time to look beyond the outer appearance, even a bad egg can turn out to be a good egg – especially with a bit of seasoning.

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​I remember a song from my childhood; "The bear went over the mountain, the bear went over the mountain, the bear went over the mountain, so see what he could see." The song has a good message that still holds meaning for me. As an adult, I'm still going places to see what I can see.
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Most of the day Sunday, we had clear skies and sunshine, which was exciting! I was hoping those sky conditions would hold on into the night as there would be a total lunar eclipse. For a change, the lunar eclipse would happen at a decent hour so we could stay up and watch it. I intended to go out on my deck and watch the entire spectacle. But then the clouds moved in. Ugh.
 
Still, I walked out onto the deck numerous times, hoping to find a break in the overcast, granting me a sneak peek at the moon. No such luck. I wondered, "Why do we make such a big deal out of seeing the moon blocked by the showdown of Earth? Technically, we can't see it if it's blocked, can we?" I laughed to myself over my analogy, then went to bed.
 
My daughter and her boyfriend watched the eclipse under clear skies in Iowa. With their telescope, they took some excellent photos. I appreciated them sharing their photos, but pictures just aren't the same as seeing it for yourself. It's spiritual for me to experience a lunar eclipse firsthand.
 
Monday, I took Nova Mae out to potty a little after six in the morning. The sun was shining, the skies were blue, and a gentle breeze played a sweet melody on the wind chimes. "Looking at the clear sky," I said. "Where were you last night when I needed you?"
 
I went back into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Two hummingbirds hovered around the red feeder just outside the window over the sink, keeping me well entertained. They fed on nectar from the small (plastic) red flowers. It was a delightful show to see. This same feeder has been the source of much entertainment.
 
Earlier this week, a male Baltimore oriel was hanging around our deck. He also was attracted to the red hummingbird feeder. Several times, I watched him perched on the feeder just outside the window. His bright orange and black feathers, with accents of white, were beautiful, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching him. Then, wanting to encourage him to stay, I researched oriels. They like to eat fruits, nectar, and insects, but they won't eat birdseed.
 
Unfortunately, his beak was too large to draw nectar from the flowers, and there weren't a lot of insects out yet. So, I set up a four-foot ladder on the deck. I put a red lid filled with nectar and two strawberries on the top step. I added a few sunflower seeds, should the bird want to expand his palate by trying something new. The oriel returned a short time later. He enjoyed the strawberries more than the nectar but feasted on both.
 
The Baltimore oriel was perched on the left side of the step. Soon, a rose-breasted grosbeak landed on the right side. With wide-open beaks, the two chattered loudly at one another; the grosbeak had the oriel leaning back away from him.
 
A red-headed woodpecker landed on the end of the step between the two birds. It looked as if the third bird had taken his place, seated at the head of the table. The woodpecker listened to the two other birds present their case like an arbitrator. He'd soon had enough of them squabbling over the buffet and began squawking angrily at both. "Enough! I've heard enough!" Finally, the orange oriel and the rose-breasted grosbeak gave heed to the wood pecker's warning and flew away.
 
Now alone on the ladder, the woodpecker inspected the offerings for himself. "No insects? What kind of restaurant is this?" Then, he, too, flew away, allowing the oriel and grosbeak to return.
 
The bird feeder that sits on the deck was low on seeds. A hungry red squirrel climbed the wooden pillar that supported the house's roof. He was making his way to another feeder hanging from the soffit. The squirrel jumped from the post onto the wind chimes; he was making his way to the hanging feeder. Unfortunately, the smooth metal tubes proved a little too slick for the squirrel, not to mention the vibrations as the clangor struck them again. Sliding down the pipe, the little trapeze artist quickly retreated to the wood post.
 
Meanwhile, the oriel and grosbeak were again disputing rights to the feast on the ladder. The funny thing is each bird was after a different feed; the oriel wanted the strawberries while the grosbeak was after the seeds. The bickering birds were chased away again - this time by the red squirrel who climbed the ladder. The fluffy tail rodent made a quick meal of the sunflower seeds. The squirrel sat and ate them all, leaving empty shells scattered about. After sniffing the other entrees, the disinterested squirrel climbed down the ladder, looking for more seeds.
 
Once the sunflower seeds were gone, the grosbeak joined the other birds at the hanging feeder, leaving the oriel alone on the ladder's top step. But the oriel wasn't alone for long. Soon, he was joined by a female oriel, not as brilliant in color as the male, but still a beautiful bird. Hoping they will stay and nest in our yard, I bought some oranges (another fruit oriels enjoy), and we've kept oranges and strawberries for the birds since. It's a real treat to see so much wildlife gathering on our deck for us to view.
 
There's wildlife nearly everywhere. Sometimes, you have to look a little harder to see the critters.
 
Friday, I was at a Burger King restaurant enjoying a Whopper with my granddaughters. When we had finished our meal, a man in the dining room called us to see something he'd found. A baby turtle was on the quarry tile floor, no bigger around than a quarter.
 
I put the tiny reptile in a water cup. The turtle flipped over onto his back, exposing the beautiful red and black pattern on his tummy. "Cool," Addison exclaimed, "Can we keep him?"
 
Evelyn wanted to know, "Why is he in a Burger King?"
 
"Well," I began to expel my wealth of knowledge, "turtles will eat lettuce, and a Whopper has lettuce. Maybe he stopped in for a sandwich." We shared a good laugh over that.
 
"Papa, I hardly think that little thing could eat a Whopper," Addison said, then asked again, "Can we keep him?"
 
I explained, "The turtle would be a lot happier if we would help him back to the water rather than living in a water cup." So I dropped the girls off at their appointment, then took the turtle to the city park.
 
A man and his two young sons were fishing from the bank. I showed the dad the turtle; he, in turn, called his two young boys over to see the little guy. They were both amused and had a lot of questions. "Is that a snapping turtle? Will he bite me? Where's his mom?" I once again was able to share my vast knowledge of turtles. The boys were thrilled to watch as I released the small turtle at the water's edge. Soon the little fellow took to the water and swam in front of us. The older boy spoke up, "Could we use him for bait?" 
 
I thought to myself, "Swim, little man, swim away!" Then said to the turtle, "You have no idea how lucky you are that I'm the one who brought you to the water."
 
This morning in my kitchen, I looked at photos of last night's lunar eclipse. "Boy, I wish the skies would have been clear. But it is what it is, and it was what is it was." I smiled, thinking about the bear that went over the mountain to see what he could see. I want to see as much as I can.
 
Maybe I didn't get to see this eclipse, but how many people get to see a Baltimore oriel, a rose-breasted grosbeak, and a red-headed woodpecker all sitting on the same ladder, having a discussion? When is the next time I'll get to save a baby turtle? There was certainly something spiritual in watching him swim freely away into the water. And who knows, maybe I'll get to watch baby Baltimore oriels in my yard this summer.
 
I decided I needed to be more thankful for what I get to see and not fret over what I don't. Besides, I read that there's supposed to be another lunar eclipse, visible from my neck of the woods, in 2025. Maybe next time.

​If thirty-five years in radio broadcasting didn’t teach me anything else, I sure learned how to pull pranks and practical jokes. There is a code of ethics in pranking; it’s only funny if no one gets hurt, and if you’re going to dish it out – you have to be able to take it, as well.
 
Mark Denny was our news man at that time. He was a nice guy; well informed, polite, and maybe a little bit bashful in those days. Mark was a bachelor, and I used to give him a bad time for eating out every day. “Don’t you ever eat at home?”
 
“Nope,” Mark replied, taking a bite of his sandwich, “Only if all the restaurants are closed.”
 
Our FM studio and newsroom were separated by a large glass window, double paned to keep sound from transferring. Mark had just finished reading the eight-o-clock news. Bill Bishop was our morning announcer at the time. After the news, I would join Bill from the newsroom desk for our “Morning Show.” The morning show in those days only ran twenty-five minutes.
 
I had a large coffee mug that I made in a ceramics class. It was white with a black lightning bolt on the side. It read, “Mr. Cool,” from the Snoopy cartoons. But I messed up when I painted the cup. Snoopy’s character was “Joe Cool.” Not Mr. Cool.
 
I filled the cup with java, but forgot it by the coffee machine. No problem, I needed to run to my office for some show material, and grabbed the cup while I was there. As I was coming back, Bill started the bumper music for the Morning Show, and I took my seat in the newsroom. I adjusted the microphone and was ready to go. Bill opened the show, “Good morning, everyone…”
 
Bill and I shared a little chit chat, then he rolled into the first story. By now, my coffee had time to cool a bit. I could tell from the feel of my coffee cup, the beverage was the perfect temperature. I took a good size gulp of coffee. HOLY THUNDER BUCKETS! WHAT IS THIS?
 
There was so much salt in my coffee, my mouth was burning. At the same time, I nearly gagged on the sickening amount of sugar that was added into the mix. I desperately needed to cough, but couldn’t with the liquid in my mouth.
 
There was no time to hit the “cough button” that would have cut off my mic. I pressed my lips together as tight as I could. Unsuccessfully trying to suppress the cough, coffee shot out my nose, all over my papers in front of me. I could no longer contain the pressure. A cough and sneeze happened simultaneously. Coffee projected from my face, all over the glass window in front of me.
 
On the other side of the glass, Bill and Mark nearly died, rolling with laughter. Mark literally had tears rolling down his cheeks from behind his glasses. I had been wondering why Mark was hanging out in the FM studio with Bill.
 
The window, the desk, my face and shirt were all covered with a brown spray. It was a mess! After a raging fit of coughing, and trying to clear coffee from my airway, I told Bill we needed to take a break. Through his laughter, he said, “Well, Tom, we’re not scheduled to take a break yet.” He and Mark shared more laughter. Finally, Bill announced, “We’ll be right back after these important messages.”
 
Bill and Mark came to the newsroom, still laughing. “What’s the problem in here,” Bill asked with innocent curiosity? I reached inside Mark’s desk drawer and grabbed some napkins.
 
Mark always had a stash of napkins, plastic tableware, and straws; packets of salt and pepper, parmesan cheese and hot peppers. There was catsup, mustard, and mayo; taco, BBQ, soy sauce, sweet and sour sauce, and every condiment you can imagine, in his desk drawer. I think there may have even been an old hamburger in there. “A man never knows when they’ll forget to put something in your bag at the drive-up,” Mark would reason. With a wad of napkins, I attempted to clean my shirt, the window and desktop.
 
Now this was a good prank; no one got hurt and the coffee stains would probably come out of my shirt in the laundry. Bill adamantly swore he had nothing to do with it. “So, this was all you, Mark?” Mark was too innocent to pull a prank on anyone, let alone his boss.
 
Mark tried to compose himself, then said in a dry tone of voice, “I thought that was funny. Don’t you think that was funny Mr. Palen.”
 
“It was a riot,” I said, dabbing coffee off my shirt. “Now go rinse out my cup and get me a fresh cup of coffee; hold the sugar and salt this time.”
 
Mark refused. “It’s not in my job description to wait on you, or go get your coffee.”
 
“It’s not in you job description to sabotage my coffee either,” I told him. “Now come on, we have to get back on the air, go get me a cup of coffee.”
 
Mark refused, “Why should I go get your coffee?”
 
“Because you ruined my coffee,” I justified. Mark still refused, claiming I had no proof that he did it; at least no proof that would hold up in court.
 
However, Mark was willing to negotiate, “If I go refill your cup, will you buy a Mountain Dew for me?”
 
“No, I’m not going to buy you a bottle of pop. I didn’t do anything to your Dew.” Mark stood firm on his decision.
 
Anyone who has ever worked in radio, knows the importance of having a beverage with you when you’re on the air. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll get my own coffee,” then reminded Mark, “But remember what they say about paybacks!”
 
I went to the back of building, and got a fresh cup of coffee. I noticed more than a dozen empty salt and sugar packets in the trash can. I looked a little closer, “He put five packs of soy sauce in my coffee, too?” Revenge would be mine.
 
The morning show ended at eight-thirty, the same time Mark had to be on the AM station to host the Buy, Sell, and Trade Show. With only thirty minutes to orchestrate my own gag, I had to work fast, and that I did.
 
With just a few minutes left in the show, Bill rushed into the AM studio, giving Mark the time out signal. Mark started a commercial. “Don’t waste anytime wrapping up the show,” Bill said. “There’s a fire at the high school and you need to get up there right away to cover it.”
 
Mark dismissed the incident, “It’s probably just some smart aleck kid that pulled a fire alarm. It happens all the time.”
 
Bill reassured him, “No, it’s real. I checked it out. The fire started in the basement and has already spread to the third floor. The whole building has been evacuated. I’ll have the equipment ready when you wrap up.”
 
Mark quickly closed the Buy, Sell and Trade show. Bill met him in the studio doorway with the cell phone. (An original Motorola bag phone.) “Get going man, we’ll simulcast your reports on both stations.” Mark, took the phone, ran to the newsroom for keys, then out the front door, taking the twenty-seven steps down, two or three at a time. Bill and I ran to the FM studio to watch out the front window.
 
Mark’s truck was parked right outside the front door; a bronze-colored Nissan pickup with a topper on the back. Mark jumped in the truck and started the engine. We could hear him revving his motor, and slipping the clutch, but his truck wouldn’t move. He tried in reverse; no luck. He stepped out of the truck for a moment, then got back in and tried again. Still nothing.
 
An elderly lady was watching the spectacle from across the street. Trying to be helpful, she pointed to the back of his truck. We could easily read her lips as she said, “There’s something under your back wheels.”
 
Mark stepped out to the middle of Main Street, bent down and looked under his truck. He stood up, looking up to the FM studio window where Bill and I (along with the rest of the staff) were watching and busting up laughing. Mark just shook his head. I smiled as I held up my Mr. Cool coffee cup in my right hand, and pointed to it with my left index finger.
 
Mark came back upstairs. “Very funny, Mr. Palen. Now go take my truck off those jack stands.”
 
I could only remind Mark, “You don’t have any proof that I did it – at least no proof that will hold up in court.” I smiled with a vengeful, ornery grin. Then offered, “I’ll take your truck off the jack stands if you’ll go get me a cup of coffee.” Mark refused, and so did I.
 
Mark’s truck sat on the street all day. Marge the meter-maid, started putting parking tickets under his windshield wiper at ten-o-clock; adding another ticket every hour until five-pm. The next morning, Mark’s truck was still there on the jack stands, drawing another ticket each hour from ten to five.
 
The following morning, Mark’s truck was off the stands, and parked on the other side of Main Street. I suppose he parked there to keep watch on his truck in case another vandal, or prankster should return.
 
The jokes had ended, or so I thought. Later that day I asked Mark for the jack stands. “Jack stands,” he replied innocently, “What jack stands?”
 
“Come on Mark,” I explained, “I have to return those to Goodyear.”
 
Mark insisted, “I have no knowledge of any jack stands, but if you buy a Mountain Dew for me, I might do some investigative work to see if I can help you locate your jack stands.”
 
“Never,” I declared!
 
A few days later, I asked Mark again for the jack stands. Once again, he denied knowing their whereabouts, then asked if I wanted to buy a bottle of pop for him. I went to Goodyear, confessing to Gary that I wasn’t going to get the equipment back that I had borrowed for the prank. These were commercial grade jack stands, that cost a hundred bucks a set. I told Gary I would pay for the jack stands out of my next paycheck.
 
When I went in to pay Gary, he asked, “What about the floor jack?” He said Mark had borrowed a two-hundred-dollar floor jack to get his truck off the stands, but never returned the jack.
 
“Man, this prank is getting expensive.” I said, then told Gary I would pay for the floor jack from my next two paychecks. “I would rather buy a new floor jack for you, than to cave in and buy Mark a twenty-five-cent bottle of pop.
 
Gary started laughing as he handed my check back to me. “Mark brought the floor jack and stands back the same day he borrowed them,” Gary admitted. “He asked me to play along with it to see you squirm.” Hmm.
 
The next morning, Mark and I called for a truce. I bought a Mountain Dew for him, and he brought me a cup of coffee. I took a skeptical sip of the coffee. “Just as I suspected,” I said, “That rat fink salted my coffee again!”
 
From the AM studio, I heard Mark coughing, “What the heck? Palen!”
 
As if Mountain Dew didn’t already have enough sugar.  

June has always had an overabundant supply of energy and desire to play. She especially loves to play catch - with anything. A tennis ball or stick is preferred outdoors. Indoors, she has a wide variety of toys but shows favoritism to her stuffed moose, beaver, and ropes. She gets so excited to play that sometimes it's hard to get her to settle down.
 
I was lying on the couch and wanted to pet her. "Come here, June." June came running to me with her orange stuffed moose, trying to push it into my hand. I set the moose on the back of the couch. "No, June, I just want my dog." She ran off and returned with her rope. I took the rope, "No, Bugs, I just want my dog." Next, she brought a shredded rag; what's left of her stuffed beaver. I took the toy, set it on the back of the couch. "Buggy, I just want my dog." Finally, June sat down, and I scratched her head while telling her she was beautiful.
 
I scratched behind her ears; I remembered a day almost 12 years ago.
 
"Honey, can you come here for a minute?" Melissa sat at the left end of the antique wooden dining room table. She had the newspaper classifieds spread out, two pages wide, in front of her. Then, with a pair of scissors, she clipped an ad from the middle of the page.
 
"Look," Melissa said, reading the ad while holding it up for me to see. "Free Puppies. Border collie, blue heeler mix. Eight weeks old, weened, and ready to go." The ad went on to say they also had free puggle puppies.
 
Our daughter Annie had been pressing to get a family dog. "We can think about it," Melissa told her.
 
A couple of weeks earlier, Melissa had briefly mentioned, which led to us having some minor discussions about the slight possibility of maybe thinking about getting a dog sometime down the road. "You're not thinking about a puggle, right?" Don't get me wrong, puggles are cute, just not my style.
 
"No," she said. "Remember, we talked about looking into the possibility of a border collie? I wonder what a border, blue heeler mix would look like?"
 
At that time, I was more eager to get a dog than Melissa – but she was open to at least discussing the idea; I mean, she's the one who found the ad. "We could go look at them," I suggested, with an open cell phone in my hand. "Is there a number listed?" I called the people and got an address. "They'll be there anytime today."
 
Melissa cautioned, "We are just going to look, okay?" Then, in tune with my thought process, she repeated, "We're just looking, right?" I agreed. It was Melissa's way of saying we didn't want just any dog; we would take our time to find the right dog for our family.
 
We turned into a farm lane off the north side of the Eddyville, Albia highway. There were several cars and many people in the yard and driveway. The site was as chaotic as an estate sale with really good prices. A couple of pre-teen kids and their mom strolled among the crowd, answering questions and offering sales pitches to people who showed interest.
 
Several people were holding puppies. Other pups ran around; one group chased an adult border collie. Another litter of pups was in tow behind a pug. Both female dogs had heavy nipples swaying under their tummies, trying to elude their young. Neither dog showed any interest in letting their offspring nurse.
 
A loose beagle greeted anyone who showed him any attention. On the opposite side of the driveway, an adult blue heeler was chained to a dog house. One of the kids referred to him as Sergeant. The heeler jumped up on the roof, sitting on the peak like Snoopy, but Sarge sat on the front edge more like a gargoyle. He looked over the lot of puppies as if to boast, "Yep, those are mine."
 
We paused at the puggles; most of them were tan and white with some black – traditional beagle colors. But a few of the puggles were gray with black speckles. A little kid held a puppy to his cheek, pleading, "Mom, please. I promise I'll take care of him."
 
But Mom stood her ground, "I said we're just looking."
 
"I feel ya, kid," I muttered. "I'm in the same boat."
 
"What did you say," Melissa asked.
 
Thinking quickly, I pointed to one of the gray and black speckled pups, "I said it looks like ole Sarge is quite the lover. That is not a beagle mix." Melissa told me to stop it, but I pressed, "Seriously, look at the chest and body colors on the heeler. I'll bet he's the daddy of some of these puglettes." Melissa gave me a look, but I laughed, "What would you call them? Pugeelers? Blue Ugs?"
 
 "Let's go look at the other puppies," she said.
 
The young boy and girl approached us where we were petting the border-blue heeler pups. Then, being quite the salesman, he asked what we were looking for. "This one is a really good puppy," he said, scooping up a little male. But another pup had caught our eye. It was a roly-poly little female who seemed to have a mind of her own.
 
While all the other puppies followed their mother trying to nurse, the little girl pup roamed off to explore on her own; in the barn, around the tree, she wasn't interested in being part of the pack, begging for milk.
 
At one point, the pup wandered across the drive, under a gate into an area with cows. She had every intention of herding those cattle – rounding them up. But, instead, the mother snapped and growled at the litter, leaving them while she ran over to scold the free-spirited renegade and bring her back to the fold.
 
Melissa picked up the wayward puppy. "What about this one," she asked the salesman.
 
His sister answered, "Oh, that's Zoey. We might be keeping her." Melissa and I took an instant liking to "Zoey." She had a lot of black in her coat with black around her eyes and ears. There was an hourglass shape of grey and white with speckles over her nose and head. On her black back was a perfect letter J in lighter colors.
 
"So, what do you think of this little guy," the boy asked, again presenting the male. It must have been obvious Zoey was the puppy we wanted.
 
"We really like this little girl. Are you sure you don't want to let her go," Melissa asked?
 
The boy and his sister looked at one another, shrugging their shoulders as if to say: we need to find homes for all these puppies. Then, finally, their mom walked up, saying, "We were trying to decide if we were going to keep Zoey or the other male."
 
Melissa gazed into the young pup's eyes; they were still blue-grey, and her puppy breath was more alluring than any perfume. "Do you know when was she born?"
 
The young man answered right away, "June 23rd."
 
Melissa quickly did the math, "She's only six weeks old. Are you sure she's ready to go?"
 
"Yep, they're all weaned and ready to go." The boy said. "If you really want her, you can take Zoey, and we'll keep the male instead."
 
"Are you sure," Melissa asked. "We don't want to take your puppy."
 
"We're sure." The boy and girl answered together; Mom agreed. We loved the puppy, but not so much her name. We would work on that.
 
The puppy nestled in on the padded console between the front seats in the truck, enjoying the cool air from the a/c vents. With her head laying on my arm like a pillow, Zoey slept all the way home. Melissa stroked her back, "She was born in June and has a big J on her back. So let's call her June."
 
"June Bug. I like that," I said.
 
Melissa corrected me, "It's June."
 
As time went on, June Bug affectionately acquired more names: Bugs, Bugsy, Buggy, Bugzerellie. I have no idea where Melissa came up with Tater Bugs, but that was another one. But, even with all those nicknames, she's still June and always will be. Well, June Palen, when she was in trouble – which wasn't very often, but there were times.
 
Although she got along better with people than other dogs, June was kind to everyone. (other dogs couldn't throw a stick, but they did try to take hers)
 
 
On her seventh birthday, we surprised June with a black cat. Edgar Allan. "Are you kidding me," June asked in disbelief? However, within a few days, June accepted Edgar, and the two became best buddies very quickly. "Look, kid; if you're going to live here in my house, you will have to learn a few things."
 
June showed Edgar the ropes, and the little black cat grew up learning to walk on a leash, hike, camp, and travel. While the duo adventured through all lower forty-eight states with us, June taught Edgar how to pour on the charm when meeting new people. "Good morning, ma'am; you look lovely today." Or, "Hello, good sir. Would you happen to have a stick with you?"
 
June would let Edgar share her seat in the car, her spot in front of the fireplace, her bed, and toys. But she drew the line if Edgar messed with her tennis balls. Those were sacred. Oh, and the red laser dot. June would run over Edgar for the red dot. Then, she'd let Edgar have the first drink from a freshwater bowl. June was very kind.
 
It totally breaks my heart to tell you that June passed away peacefully on Friday, March 25, 2022. We are crushed beyond words.
 
Just two weeks prior, June was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. She was full of life and intended to live the rest of her days to the fullest. Instead, June had a few days of lethargy and days where she was so energetic you wouldn't have known there was anything wrong with her.
 
We celebrated the first day of spring as a family, sitting on the back deck in the sunshine and grilling pork chops. Then, Edgar began staying even closer than usual to June. He insisted on napping next to her and giving her head boops. He no longer lurked under a bump in the rug to ambush June in the dark hallway or from under the bed. 
 
Wednesday was a really good day for June. She carried her moose around and brought toys to Melissa and me to toss for her. Thursday, she was tired. Friday, I had to go to southern Minnesota. Melissa would stay home with June.
 
She was lying on the futon when I talked to her. "Bugs, I'm supposed to go on a short trip. I'll be home by ten tonight. Are you going to be okay?" She assured me she would be. "Are you sure because I can stay home if you need me?" She again said she'd be okay. "Alright, then give me kisses." I pressed my lips together tight, and June gave me five or six licks on the mouth and mustache.
 
By the time I loaded the car, it was half-past noon. June had moved to the living room. I went to see her. I petted her head and scratched behind her ears. "I love you, June Bug. Give me kisses." I went to the kitchen for my coffee mug. Returning, I knelt down to her. "I love you. If you need to go, baby, it's okay. I just don't want you to suffer," I whispered. "Can I have kisses?" She gave me just one kiss. Perhaps the sweetest kiss ever.
 
I backed out of the driveway and gave two toots on the horn. "I'll be back soon, Buggy; please wait for me." I was worried something would happen to June while I was gone, and I wouldn't be there for her. Still, a voice told me I had to go.
 
I ran errands in Silver Bay and Superior. I talked to Melissa a couple of times as she kept me updated on June's condition. I was crossing the bridge back to Duluth when I got word from my wife. "Babe, she's not going to make it." I immediately canceled my appointment, then called Melissa back. She held June and put me on speakerphone, "June Bug, hang on, baby girl. I'm on my way home."
 
"She raised her ears, Tom. She heard you." Melissa said.
 
June loved living here in the north woods. The cool air, the trees, wildlife in her yard, the woods, and the lakes. She loved traveling, but the north shore was her home.
 
Melissa didn't want June to pass inside the house; that's not how June would want to go. So she carried June to the open front door so that June could see outside and breathe the fresh air.
 
The red squirrel June always chased off the porch, stopped eating seeds. He remained calmly in the bird feeder to show June respect and say farewell. Across the walk, a grouse stood under the trees – the grouse June always chased whenever she saw him. But this time, the grouse didn't run away. Instead, he fully ruffed his feathers and fanned his tail, offering a salute to June. "Thank you for letting me live here, June, and letting me live." June never killed anything – she was kind to everyone.
 
Melissa tried to keep June from seeing her cry and focused on the nature June loved. "See all the birds at the feeder, June? Do you feel the breeze? Look at all the pine trees waving at you." June's heartbeat was fading. "There's the squirrel and the grouse." Melissa held the free-spirited pup, telling her, "Go chase them." Melissa wept, holding her. June took her last breath, and her heart quietly stopped beating.
 
By the time I ran into the house, June was lying peacefully on her bed in the living room. Her beautiful black coat was brushed and shiny. Her face was washed, and her soft brown eyes sparkled. June looked so peaceful; I had to ask Melissa, "Is she gone?"
 
Melissa nodded and said, "I'm so sorry, Tom." Her tears fell like rain, as did mine.
 
I picked June up, carried her to the couch, and held her in my arms. My eyes burst with tears, "Oh, June bug. My sweet, beautiful June Bug, I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you." Melissa sat next to me with one hand on my shoulder and the other on June's back. We wept together, mourning the loss of our little girl.
 
I felt sick to my stomach, and my chest hurt like someone had punched me, tearing my heart out. I was devastated and felt like I'd failed June for not being there for her. Then I heard that same voice telling me earlier to go, "Tom, you had to go. June needed you to go away so that she could leave. She didn't want you to see her pass. June needed to be alone with Melissa." I cried even harder.
 
I began to pray out loud, "Thank you, God, for the gift of June and for trusting us to take care of her for almost twelve years. Thank you, God, for having Melissa here with June, to be with her, and hold her while she passed on to You." We both cried even harder. "And thank you, Lord, for not letting June suffer a long illness. Thank you."
 
Melissa cried and said, "Isn't it ironic this beautiful, gentle dog, who was so kind to everyone, died of a large heart." 
 
Thank you, June Bug, for the joy you brought and the love you showed us. Thank you for working and playing with us, camping, canoeing, fishing, and hiking – you're the best trail dog there ever was. Thank you for traveling the country with us; for the stories you made, for all the hearts you touched along the way; the lives you changed. You certainly changed ours. We will always hold you dearly in our hearts. Life won't be the same without you, June.
 
We ran our fingers through June's soft coat, and tears continued falling. Edgar was close by; I whispered to June, "We just want our dog."
 
June Bug Palen, June 23, 2010 – March 25, 2022

​Ah, March. The month comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. This year March came in like a lamb, so theoretically, the month should go out like a lion – weatherwise, but we'll have to wait and see.
 
There's a lot to celebrate in March; Saint Urho's Day, Saint Patrick's Day, Fat Tuesday, and Ash Wednesday, followed by Lent and spring.
 
Fat Tuesday came early this year, catching me off guard, and we didn't do anything festive. But it did cause me to yearn for New Orleans and some good Cajun-style food. It took me two weeks, but on March fifteenth, I finally made some Louisiana Red Beans and Rice with Andouille sausage, a spicy little dish with a nice glow. (Beware the Ides of March.) We enjoyed this meal with our last bottle of Yuengling beer, which we bootlegged into Minnesota from Texas.
 
The month moved along, and we came to the first day of spring. Usually, I consider spring in northern Minnesota to be the second coming of snow. But this vernal equinox brought us a gorgeous sunny day with temperatures in the mid-forties.
 
Melissa and I put on shorts and went out to the deck to bask in the sun; I even took off my shirt to catch some rays – good ole, natural vitamin D. Our black cat Edgar Allan and dog June Bug came out to join us, contrasting my pastie white torso and legs.
 
Our patio furniture remained snowed in stored underneath the deck. So, we laid blankets and beach towels out on the wood top and enjoyed the day laying out in the sun – just as a southerner may head for the beach on an exceptionally nice first day of spring. Sunbathing in forty-five-degree weather may sound crazy to some of you, but you'd have to understand the warmth and intensity of the Minnesota sun.
 
Around one-o-clock, a few clouds rolled in, bringing a breeze with them. But, just that quick, forty-five degrees was way too cold to be outside wearing just a pair of shorts. So, with goosebumps covering my arms and legs, we gathered our blankets and retreated indoors.
 
Melissa walked into the living room with a broom and a vacuum. It appeared she would start cleaning, so I tried to slither back into the kitchen quietly. If I could escape out the back door, I could resume goofing off elsewhere on this first day of spring. But unfortunately, it was too late – she'd already spotted me. "You could take these area rugs out on the deck to let them air out?"
 
I tried to reason with her, "Honey, it's way too nice out to be working inside. Let's go do something fun."
 
"Do you know what day this is?" Was she testing me?
 
"Of course, it's the first day of spring." As soon as I said it, I knew I should have answered, "March twentieth?" But, instead, I'd just set her up like one volleyball player sets up another to spike the ball and score!
 
She smiled as she seized the opportunity I offered. "That's right, honey, it's the first day of spring, and we're doing some spring cleaning." She handed me the rolled-up rugs, and I headed for the deck.
 
I tried to sneak down the hallway toward the bedroom back in the house. But it was too late; she'd already seen me. Over the noisy vacuum, she suggested, "Why don't you bring up the mop and bucket from the basement? We'll clean the floors today." I started to tell her I'd rather not but quickly recognized – that wasn't really just a suggestion.
 
Melissa kept cleaning while I was mopping the floors. Finally, the house was starting to look good. I glanced out the window at the sun reflecting off the snow in the yard. Although this day felt like spring, there was snow forecasted for the next two days. I swished my mop in the hot, soapy water bucket, then squeezed out the mop head and began swabbing the floors again. I laughed, "Spring in Minnesota – the second coming of snow."
 
Looking out the windows at the yard gave me an idea. I decided to open a few windows to let the fresh air make its way through, airing out the house as part of our spring cleaning. "This glass could use a good cleaning, too," I said as I raised the sash. Our windows tip inward, making the panes easy to clean. I thought about my dad cleaning the windows when I was younger.
 
First, he would remove the storm windows. Then climb his stepladder with a small pail of soapy water and a rag. After washing the window, he would clear the water with a squeegee. Then, he'd pull a clean, soft cotton rag, usually an old cloth diaper, from his back pocket and polish the glass. Finally, Dad would carefully inspect the glass for any missed smudges or, worse yet, streaks.
 
If he found a spot or streak, Dad would huff his hot breath on the spot, then move his rag in small circular motions, cleaning the defective area. Next, he'd come off the ladder to inspect the glass from the ground. If the glass was sparkling clean, he would go back up the ladder to hand the screen over the window for the upcoming warmer days.
 
Dad was a stickler for clean glass. The windows on his car were always spotless – inside and out. On occasion, one of the kids would touch a window in his car. "Doggone it. Look at that. You left fingerprints on the glass." He'd complain, "You don't need to touch the glass to look out the window." Then Dad would go to the truck, get his little bottle of glass cleaner, and clean the affected area.
 
Dad was the same way with his eyeglasses. He was constantly cleaning them, and mine too.
 
I started wearing glasses when I was about two years old. My dad would take my glasses from my face and hold them up to the light. "How can you see through these?" He would huff a couple of times if we were outside, covering my glasses with steam from his breath, then polish them with his handkerchief. He would use his soft cotton shirttail if he didn't have a hanky. I liked it when Dad cleaned my glasses.
 
He would go to a sink inside the house and let the water run until it was hot. Dad rubbed the bar soap between his hands, then cleaned my glasses with the suds between his fingers. Next, he'd wash the lenses and the frames, even the bows. After rinsing my glasses, he'd set them on the edge of the sink. Then Dad dried his hands and used the hand towel to dry my glasses. When they were dry, he'd polish the lenses with his hanky. Dad always expressed the importance of having clean glasses.
 
When he put the glasses back on my face, they were warm. He'd work the fitted bows around the back of my ears with his warm fingers. His touch was gentle and felt good. After Dad cleaned my glasses, the world always looked like a whole new, brighter place. Then, he would pull his black plastic comb from his pocket to groom my hair. Those were beautiful memories.
 
I made those same memories with my daughter Delaney, who also wore glasses as a little kid. I would take them from her face and hold them up to the light. "How can you see through these things?" Now I do the same thing with my granddaughters. I wonder if someday they will have the same fond memories.
 
The spring weather was still around when we finished cleaning the house. I put a chocolate cake in the oven and fired up the Weber grill. Melissa asked if I'd like a beer with dinner. After the incident a few nights earlier, I decided just to have water.
 
Several nights earlier, Melissa asked if I'd like to share the last Yuengling beer. (Bootlegged in from Texas) "Sure," I said. She poured half the bottle of Yuengling into a small glass for me. I drank the brew before eating our Louisiana Red Beans and Rice dinner. Then I rinsed the glass and set it on the kitchen counter, or, at least, I thought I did.
 
Later, after dinner, Melissa and I split a Snickers bar while watching a movie. I wanted just a couple of swallows of milk, so I went to the kitchen. There was no need to turn on the lights; the light from the fridge would suffice. I also didn't see the need to dirty another glass – I'd just use the same glass I used for my beer.
 
I poured a little milk into the glass and drank it. "YUCK! This milk is spoiled." I declared. Then I remembered, I intended to but never drank the rest of my beer. Instead, I poured the milk into a glass that still had some warm beer. Yuck!
 
I'm trying to decide if I should close this story with a reminder from Dad of the importance of always having clean glasses - even drinking glasses, or write it off as Beware the Ides of March.

I sensed something had moved on the couch. It was uncomfortable, causing me to wake up. I opened my eyes and saw a three-quarter round blue oval with the letters "DVD" floating aimlessly about the air on the far side of the room. I thought I was hallucinating.
 
It turns out the movement on the couch was our thirty-five-pound dog, who was now attempting to sit on my head. I quickly realized I had fallen asleep on the sofa watching M*A*S*H. My wife must have opened the bedroom door upstairs for June; either she needs to go out, or Melissa sent the dog to retrieve me to come to bed.
 
I checked the clock on my cell phone; I couldn't go back to bed. It was time to get up, but why was it so dark outside?
 
In the kitchen, June was ready to eat. "You're going to have to wait a moment while I put my breakfast in the microwave." First, I put oatmeal in the bowl, then added cinnamon, raisins, and water. Next, I chopped up some fresh peaches that were leftover in the refrigerator, stirring them into the mix.
 
As I placed the bowl in the microwave oven, I noticed a flashing yellow light on the side of the neighbor's house. According to the microwave clock, the recycling truck was an hour early! Argh! I don’t like that feeling of failure when missing the recycling truck.
 
I ran to the back door, fumbling with the knob to open the spring-loaded lock. I grabbed the full recycling bin from the enclosed porch and then kicked the door with my foot behind me to make sure it latched.
 
There was no time to run outside and around the house; I’d cut through inside. I was careful to avoid spilling anything as I ran through the kitchen and dining room with the open top receptacle. "Get out of my way, cats; I have to get through!"
 
I balanced the red plastic container against my hip with one hand while I grabbed the door handle with my other. Opening the French door, our cats Salem and Eve bolted between my legs and around my feet, tripping me up as they escaped into the living room. I started to stumble and hit the recycling bin against the other half of the still latched French door. The door banged and rattled; the tin cans and glass bottles clanked together like a giant rattle. A few of them spilled onto the floor. I was surprised we didn't wake the whole neighborhood, let alone everyone in the house. "Come on, June," I said, gathering the falling cans, "they won't wait!"
 
My tennis shoes sat next to the front door, but there was no time. The truck had already passed our house. It was now in front of the neighbor's house to the west. I had to catch him; the bin wouldn't hold another week's worth of recyclables. "I should have just taken it out last night when I was thinking about it."
 
Somehow, I thought I would magically change my ways overnight and I'd get up early enough to run the trash out before heading to work. I have that same intention every week.
 
The man was very nice. He saw me running down the sidewalk and signaled for the driver to hold up. He crossed the grass boulevard to meet me. I handed him the bin and waited as he sorted the materials, tossing them into his truck.
 
The cold concrete was rapidly chilling my feet through my socks. The crisp twenty-degree morning air felt refreshing as I stood there in my flannel pajama pants and thin v-neck t-shirt, but I knew I couldn't stay out very long dressed like that.
 
A crow in the trees across the street began to caw. I felt he was laughing at the sight of me standing there in the cold. The man handed the bin back to me. I thanked him for waiting and wished him a good day.
 
While we walked up the front steps, the crow continued to chatter. "Come on, June Bug, let's go get breakfast," I said, opening the porch door.
 
Inside the porch, I reached for the knob on the front door…dang! Salem and Eve stood on the other side of the glass door, snickering from the living room at the man and the dog that locked themselves out of the house. I was trying to be quiet, "Salem, buddy. Can you open the door?"
 
"Sorry," he said, holding up his paw, "no opposable thumbs."
 
It's an awful feeling when you're outside a locked door, with your keys on the other side - especially when it's cold outside and you're wearing pajamas without shoes. I imagined the mail carrier would eventually find my frozen body later in the day.
 
Fortunately, I had checked the time earlier, so my cell phone was in my pajama pants pocket. I could avoid ringing the doorbell. My daughter Annie was not happy to see me but did come down to let me in.
 
Annie went back upstairs. June and I went to the kitchen. I enjoyed my oatmeal with peaches and toast made with a slice of homemade bread. June was looking forward to her morning bowl of Iam's mini chunks dog food.
 
As we ate together in the kitchen, I noticed a flashing yellow light on the side of the neighbor's house to the west. I glanced at the clock on the range. "Wow, the garbage truck is running early, too." I set down my bowl of oatmeal and headed to the back door to get the trash can.
 
I picked my phone up from the counter to double-check the time. It was an hour fast. "What the heck?" Suddenly it clicked with me, "It's daylight savings time. No wonder everyone is early." I set the phone back down.
 
My tennis shoes were next to the front door, but there was no time to grab them. "Let's go, June," I said while I fumbled with the knob to open the spring-loaded lock on the back door. I pulled the door shut behind me so the cats wouldn't get out. "I should have taken the trash out last night when I was thinking about it, "I grumbled.
 
June ran ahead and barked at the trash truck as if to say, "Hold on, Dad's on his way." Each time I stepped on a small stone in my stocking feet, I let out a little curse. "Oochie, ouchie, ouch…." The hollow plastic wheels made a boxy noise as they rolled briskly down the sidewalk.
 
The engine whirred, then the air brakes hissed and squeaked as the big truck pulled up, stopping in front of our house. I was just rolling around the corner with the can. The man walked over the grass to meet me. My feet were getting cold standing on the concrete while he emptied the can. Then, he finally put the trash can back by the curb, "Have a nice day," he said.
 
My socks got wet in the frost, crossing the grass to retrieve the can. I pulled it to the back door; June followed. Inside the enclosed porch, I reached for the doorknob. "No way." I saw my phone on the kitchen counter through the glass – on the other side of the locked door.
 
June and I walked around to the front door. With hope, I reached for the handle – no such luck. Instead, through the glass, I saw Salem and Eve looking at me, snickering, "Sorry, no opposable thumbs," Salem said.
 
Across the street, the crow chattered in the park. "Caw, caw, caw," he said. "You did it again, didn't you?" Then he flew away laughing to tell his friends. "Caw, caw, caw."
 
Dawn was just breaking as I rang the doorbell. It's a loud bell with three long brass pipes that resonate a nice tone across the wooden floors and through the house. I heard two feet hit the floor upstairs, "Really, Dad?"
 
Annie rambled down the steps, unlocked the door, then stomped back up the stairs to her bedroom. She didn't say anything.
 
The cell phones automatically adjust for the time change; I have to set the other clocks manually. I ran through it aloud, "Fall back. Spring forward. Dude, you're running late for work." I'd have to set the clocks later.
 
I took a quick shower, got dressed, and ran down the steps. June tried going out the front door with me and trampling over my tennis shoes, kicked one forward into the door jam, which stopped the door from closing.
 
I pushed the shoe back into the living room with my foot. Then I reached in my pocket for my car keys while explaining, "Bugs, I have to go to work. You need to stay here and guard the house." As I spoke, I felt around my empty pocket. "Good catch, June Bug."
 
I went back to get my keys off the dining room table, then gave my dog a brisk rub on the head. "Thanks, June. I don't know if Annie would have been so understanding a third time."

​I keep a running list of people I want to mail cookies to, and thet list was growing. I would also be driving my granddaughters to southern Minnesota in a couple of days, and they're always up for Papa's Ginger Crack cookies. So, I baked about eighteen dozen. Then, after hand-delivering several bags of fresh cookies, I packed and mailed five dozen more. I put the rest in a bag to take to Addison and Evelyn.
 
I met my daughter at work to trade my truck for her car. (It gets better mileage) I moved the things I needed to the car. Then I grabbed the bag with eighteen cookies handing them to Sydney, "Do you want some cookies? You'd better grab a few before the girls get to them, or there may not be any left."
 
Sydney reached into the bag, laughing, "Ain't that the truth."
 
On the road trip, the girls each ate four cookies. At our destination, Evelyn asked, "Papa, can we take the cookies with us."
 
"Sorry babe, those are going home for John." I gave them kisses, and I headed back for Duluth.
 
I hate returning a car with an empty tank. So, I turned off I-35 at the exit to go to a gas station on Superior Street. They usually have the best fuel price in town. I had to backtrack a few blocks, but it's worth it; I topped off the tank.
 
Driving east on Superior Street there’s a fork in the road; to the right takes you up the hill to Mesaba Avenue - left continues on Superior to downtown, and I can get on I-35 from there. But, to me, it always feels like going right should keep me on Superior, so that's what I did. "Crap! Wrong-way again." No problem, I can take the first right, go downtown.
 
I missed the first right turn because it was hiding behind tall snowbanks. So, I took the second…or was it the third turn? Anyway, I made my way downtown, then turned left on Superior. I can get around downtown Duluth, but the unlighted street signs were hard to see in the dark.
 
"Darn it, that was Fifth. I should have turned right," I said as I cruised through the intersection. "No problem, I'll get on I-35 at Lake Avenue.
 
A few blocks later, I came to a traffic signal. "Is this Lake? No? Yes?" I was talking to myself. The traffic light turned green before I saw the street sign. I started to go straight, then second-guessing myself; I began to turn right, then straight, then saw the Pizza Luce sign on the corner. "This is Lake Avenue," I said and committed to turning right.
 
Meanwhile, the oncoming car had no idea what the heck I was doing, and he started to turn left in front of me, then hesitated, then turned anyway. So, we were both turning south on Lake Avenue at the same time. No problem, with two southbound lanes, there was one for each of us.
 
I needed to move to the left lane; the ramp to I-35 comes up quickly. It was awkward trying to change lanes with the other car over there. I had my signal on, and he backed off to let me over. That was nice of him.
 
The ramp to I-35 North comes up so quickly it always feels like I'm turning onto the ramp coming off the interstate. If I hesitate and miss the turn, I have to drive into Canal Park to turn around and come back. I almost missed it again tonight but quickly made my turn onto the ramp. That's when the driver of the other car turned on his lights. The red, amber, blue and white were all so pretty and flashy!
 
With my hands on the wheel at ten and two with open palms, the officer came up to my window. His greeting was unusual, not "Good evening," or "May I see your driver's license?" Instead, "Do you know why I'm standing here outside your window on the side of the road?" For some reason, that struck me as being very funny.
 
I started laughing. (The cop probably thought I was drunk to boot.) Then, I told him exactly what I did, "Of course I do, but was it my first or second erratic turn that caught your attention? Because whenever I'm going to make a couple of uncoordinated, erratic turns, without signaling, I always do right in front of a cop." By now, the officer was laughing too.
 
He reminded me, "Don't forget that smooth lane change, too." I started laughing again. "I figured you were just lost but have to make sure you’re safe to be driving." He asked me who owned the car, where I'd been, where I was going, had I been drinking – all the routine questions, then, "Can I see your driver's license?" He took my license and went to his patrol car.
 
While I waited, I started laughing alone again about the whole situation. Although my turns were not pretty, I didn't do anything illegal other than failing to signal; I doubted he would write me a citation for that. He was just checking to make sure I wasn't drunk, and rightfully so. That's his job, and my driving display did give cause for suspicion.
 
The officer handed me my license, "At least you weren't speeding this time." Hmph. He must have checked my driving history.
 
After telling me to drive safely and have a good night, he turned away. "Hey, wait a minute," I called out to him. I reached across the seat and offered him the bag of cookies I had saved for John. "Here, I want you to have these."
 
"For what," he asked?
 
"For pulling me over and doing your job. I appreciate you keeping the streets of Duluth safe." I was being sincere.
 
"That's okay, you don't have to do that," he said, politely declining. But I saw the way he looked at those cookies.
 
"No, seriously. I want you to have them," I said, reaching further out the window, "One good turn deserves another." He commented on my turns not being so good, and we shared a laugh about that. "Seriously if you don't take them, I'm going to leave the bag of cookies here on the side of the road. Don't make me litter!"
 
He thanked me, took the cookies, and went to his car. For all I know, he may have thrown them away to keep me from littering, but I hoped he would enjoy them. I'd hate to think I gave away John's cookies for nothing.
 
I turned off London Road, heading to my daughter's house. A teenager was standing at the end of a driveway in the T intersection. I was going to drive by, but it was cold and dark, and she looked distraught. As I turned right, I noticed the car was off the driveway, in the snow. I rolled down my window and backed up. "Are you stuck?" She said that she was and seemed happy when I offered to help. I didn’t mind lending a hand, I was having a good night, and one good turn deserves another.
 
A second teenage girl got out of the driver's seat. "I must have turned the wheel the wrong way, and my car kind of slid into the snow," she explained. "We tried to dig it out, but it won’t move."
 
Three aluminum scoop shovels were standing upright in the snow to the side. They had cleared a lot of snow trying to free the car, but it was still in deep. Snow was up against the passenger side and under the vehicle. Both front tires were in ruts where she'd spun the tires trying to get out. We weren't going to get the car unstuck without a lot more digging.
 
Pointing to my car, I said, "This is my daughter's car, and I can't use it to get you out. But I'm going to get my truck at her house, just a few blocks from here. I have chains and everything we'll need to get your car out of the snowbank. I'll come back in a few minutes, and pull you out."
 
I returned a few minutes later. There was a third teenager with them now. "Look," she said, pointing to the car with excitement. "We got it to move quite a bit." 
 
"I see that," I said, "That's awesome." Unfortunately, the car was on a slight slope, and they only moved it deeper into the snowbank. I couldn't get around them in the narrow driveway to pull the car forward with my chain, and I didn't want to pull it back any deeper into the snow and chance damaging their car. The bumper of my truck and her car lined up well.
 
I folded a packing blanket into a small thick square, handing it to one of the girls. "I'm going to push you out of the snow. I don't want to scratch my truck, or your car, so hold this here.” I showed her where I wanted the blanket. “I'll pull forward slowly until I pinch the blanket between the bumpers.
 
With the blanket positioned as a buffer, I told the girl driving, "Put your car in neutral, and I'll push you forward."
 
"Do you want me to put it in drive and give it some gas to help," she asked?
 
"Nope. You just steer the car to the middle of the driveway. I'll do the rest." She got in her car. I made sure my truck was in four-wheel drive, and checked to ensure no one was in front of her. Then I called out the window, "Straighten your wheels."
 
I started forward slow and easy. My truck had no problem pushing the small car until it rolled freely out of deep snow. I stopped, "Put it in park," I said, then backed away from her car.
 
I got out of my truck and picked up the blanket. The driver got out of her car. The three girls gave grinning looks and glances to one another as if to silently say, "We did it! We did it." I felt like once I left, they would cut loose and do a victory dance. That’s what I would have done when I was sixteen.
 
I looked at the passenger side of their car. "It doesn't look like you hurt it at all," I said with a reassuring smile. "Clean all the snow out of your wheel rims; otherwise, they'll shake when you drive."
 
The driver looked at me with relief, "Thank you so much for stopping to help us."
 
"No problem at all," I said and wished them a good night.
 
I backed out of their driveway. As I pulled away, the three girls were in the driveway waving. I gave a couple of toots on the horn and drove away smiling. I felt good about my good deed.
 
A lot had happened in a thirty-minute time frame, and it all started with a couple of non-typical turns downtown. Granted, they weren't pretty turns, but they got the job done. After all, one good turn...