I was very tired when I pulled into the Visitor’s Information Center and Rest Area, on I-94 near Pleasant Prairie, Wisconsin. It was around midnight. I’d had enough driving for the day and climbed into the back of my wagon where I crawled into my sleeping bag and curled up with my dog, June. Laying my head on the pillow, I went out like a light.
 
I awoke just before seven in the morning feeling rested, but a little chilly. Guessing the temperature was around fifteen degrees, I leaned forward, turning on the key to check. “That’s odd,” I said, wondering why the outside air temperature didn’t display. I hunkered back into my warm sleeping bag; June snuggled inside with me.  “Oh well, it doesn’t matter.” I said, “We’ll just sleep a while longer then get up and head out.” I tried to fall back asleep but was burdened by a looming thought. “Why didn’t that temperature light come on?” 
 
I slid from under my cozy covers, into the driver’s seat, and turned on the key. All the dash lights were dim. Suspecting the inevitable, I tried starting the motor but the battery didn’t have enough juice to turn the engine over - it was so dead the starter wouldn’t even click. This is not what I wanted to deal with early on a Sunday morning. Still, being equipped to handle such a situation, I wasn’t too worried.
 
I pulled on my shoes, coat, and stocking hat. I smiled with confidence as I reached behind the driver’s seat for the portable battery pack my father-in-law gave me a couple years ago. At first, I thought the pack was just a gimmick - sure, it might recharge a cell phone or other such device, but there was no way this little box, only 3 X 8 X 1 ½” thick, was going to start a car.
 
I had the opportunity to put the battery pack to the test at home one time. My old dump truck had sat for over seven months, through the winter, and the battery was dead as a doornail. I must admit I was shocked when that little emergency power pack actually started that big V-8 engine. That’s how I knew it would also start my little four-cylinder Subaru. I quickly became a believer and carried that power pack with me on all my ventures.
 
I plugged the special jumper cables into the pack, then clipped them onto the battery posts. I sat in the driver’s seat, pressing the clutch pedal to the floor, I turned the key and…nothing. “Ah,” I told June, “I forgot to push the power button.” I took care of that and went to start the engine again. *Urr, urr, click, click, click.* I climbed out again to check my connections. They certainly looked secure so I checked the LED lights on the battery pack itself. Only two of six lights were on. I recalled on the previous trip using the pack to help a stranger with a dead battery. I failed to recharge the pack afterwards.
 
 
Inside the Visitor’s Center, I found an electrical outlet to plug in the unit.  I got cleaned up while it charged. There was nobody in the building but me so I left the charger sitting unattended and went for a walk with June. Not long after, people started to show up, so I put June in the car, then headed inside to watch my power pack.
 
Some of the people seemed way over thrilled with the snow. I struck up conversation with them and learned they were from southern California. They all appeared to be in their later fifties, and none of them had ever seen snow before. How neat! I went outside with them to take several group photos, so they could all be in the pictures. It was fun to share their excitement over snow - something we Midwesterner folks take for granted and frankly a lot of us are sick of it this year!
 
My new friends moved on, but not before one of the ladies threw a loosely packed snowball at her husband. The snowball flew apart in midair while sailing toward him. He in turn scooped up a wad of snow and lobbed it back in her direction; it also fell apart in the air, nearly hitting an innocent bystander. I shook my head, “Amateurs. You didn’t pack it tight enough,” I muttered while walking through the front door. I’m not picking on them, I’m just saying they were in Wisconsin and if you’re going to throw snow around here, you better know what you’re doing. Those Wisconsin folks will throw snow back and they’re pretty good at it – although I don’t think a bunch of Wisconsinites would stand a chance in a snowball fight against a group of Minnesotans, but I’m not trying to start anything here so let’s not go there.
 
Inside the building a tall man was standing at the counter with his back toward me, thumbing through literature. He wore tattered, tan coveralls, a heavy canvas jacket and brown knit leggings that came halfway up his shins to keep his ankles warm. He sported a large purple backpack – not like a school kid would carry, but one a serious hiker would pack with all sorts of pockets and places to carry gear and gadgets. Tucked under the top straps was a large, worn, beige teddy bear.  An American flag, about 18” mounted on stick was poked into the pack, displayed proudly.
 
I walked up next to him. He appeared clean-cut and shaven, wore round, gold wire rimmed glasses and a weathered ball cap bearing a tattered patch that read “U.S. Marines.” I greeted him, “Hi. How are ya?” He turned my way and glared without saying a word. Perhaps I should have walked away, but I didn’t. “You look like a man on a mission; a man with places to go.” I said, in a friendly, inviting tone. He again briefly stared at me, almost scowling when he answered, “Yeah. Something like that.” Then he moved farther down the literature rack as if to intentionally put distance between us. I got the distinct impression he did not want to talk, or be bothered. I left him alone.
 
My power pack was now showing six LED lights – a full charge. I packed up the device and walked to my car. After reconnecting the jumpers again, I sat in the driver’s seat, turned the key and the engine fired right up. June seemed happy to hear the motor running. “We’re in business now, June Bug!” I said. She seemed a little too happy. “You have to go potty, don’t you?” I asked. Once that business was taken care of, we pulled away from our parking space.
 
At the end of the lot, I signaled to turn left. I looked left, then to the right, “McDonald’s!” I happily exclaimed. A cup of hot coffee was on my mind. I turned right!
 
Pulling in under the golden arches, I drove toward the back of the lot. I like to park away from the front entrance to keep June from barking at other customers. As I did so I noticed a man walking. The man with the purple backpack and Marines ball cap. I rolled down my passenger-side window, stopping alongside him. “Have you had breakfast yet?” I asked him cheerfully. He looked at me almost as if he was thinking, you again. “I’ve had my coffee,” He replied curtly. “Coffee, yeah. But did you get to eat?” I pressed. He mumbled something, but didn’t really answer me. I pulled past him and into a parking space.
 
When I got out of the car, I left my door open. The man didn’t seem very friendly, or happy to see me, let alone wish to talk to me. I approached him anyway. “Would you like to come in and join me for breakfast?” I asked. “I don’t know.” He replied seeming quite standoffish. “I’d like to treat you to breakfast, if you have time.” I offered. About that time, June came charging out of the car toward the man. June’s aggressive approach can be rather intimidating to someone who doesn’t know her. “June, come! Now!” I called, but I was too late. June moseyed up to the man, sniffing his shoes, wiggling her rump and wagging her tail as she danced about.
 
The stranger took right to June’s charm and began to rub her shoulders. He stood up, “Yes.” He said, “I’d like to have breakfast with you.” He extended his right hand toward me, and we shook hands. “I’m Ronnie. Ronnie Wychelewski.” He said. “Ronnie, I’m Tom. Tom Palen. Let’s go eat.” We walked to the restaurant together – he was no longer a stranger.
 
Inside, we ordered breakfast and sat down to eat. “Where are you off to?” I asked him. “Williston, eventually.” He said, then asked, “Do you know where that is?” I felt like he was testing me. “In the far northwest corner of North Dakota, almost to Montana and not far south of Canada, if that’s the Williston you’re talking about.”  I answered. He smiled, “That’s it.” “Why would you want to go there this time of year?”  I questioned, explaining, “It’s bitterly cold there.”
 
Ronnie answered, “I’m a veteran. There’s a VA clinic there.” “There are VA clinics closer…and warmer.” I said. He explained, “Yes, there are VA clinics all over, but they are not all the same. For the medical procedure I need, I’m best off going to Williston.” He added, “I’m not going all the way, now. I’m just starting that way. I’d like to make it to Minneapolis in the next day or so.” I liked this guy and enjoyed his company. June liked him, too, and that says a lot about a man when your dog likes him. “I’m going west on I-94, I could get you as far as Eau Claire, Wisconsin, if that would help.” Ronnie accepted my offer. 
 
Driving down the freeway, we talked about different parts of the country and where we had each traveled. Ronnie said he’d been from coast to coast and asked if I had ever been to California. “Lots of times.” I answered. “What’s your favorite route to get there?” He asked. “Coming from the north, I’ll take I-90 West, then south at Bozeman through the Gallatin River Valley, it’s one of the most beautiful roads in America.” He said, “I don’t think I’m familiar with that road,” I continued. “Just go south on US 191 out of Bozeman. You’ll go through the little town of Big Sky, Montana, and…” Ronnie interrupted me, finishing my sentence, “Yeah, then down into West Yellowstone. I do know that road. Beautiful, man. Beautiful.” I’ve met people who will try to bamboozle me, acting as if they know what I’m talking about when they really don’t. Ronnie wasn’t like that. He was genuine and sincere.
 
We passed a sign that read, “Eau Claire 72 miles”.  After reading the sign, Ronnie said, “If you go north out of Eau Claire, on Highway 53, it will take you Superior, Wisconsin, then into Duluth.  They’re both on Lake Superior; they call them the Twin Ports.” He began reminiscing, “I haven’t been up there for at least twenty-five years or so. I’d love to go up there again, it was so cool.” When I told him I was actually going to Duluth, he got excited and asked, “Would mind if he rode along.” “I thought you were going to Minneapolis.” I said. He replied, “It doesn’t matter where I go as long as it’s westward and north.” He went on, “Highway 2 comes out of Duluth and runs all the way to Williston. Duluth would be perfect, if you don’t mind.” “You want to go to Duluth? Then Duluth it is.” I said. Ronnie exhaled, he was pleased with that.
 
On the way, we talked about a lot of things, including where he would stay in Duluth. “It’s supposed to drop down to about five below zero tonight.” I told him. “I can survive that,” he said, “but I’d rather see if they have a shelter where I can stay.” I made a couple inquiries. A friend told me about CHUM, a shelter in Duluth. I called ahead and they told me they would have a bed for Ronnie that night.
 
We stopped to use a WiFi signal to get information and directions to CHUM.  Ronnie offered, “Would you let me buy you a cup of coffee?” “No thanks,” I replied, “I am completely coffee’d out.” Ronnie went to his backpack and pulled out two cans of beer – tall boys.  Earlier, he told me he doesn’t drink a lot, but he likes to have a beer occasionally at night.  “They had these on sale at the truck stop, two for three dollars.” He offered the cans to me, saying, “I want you to have these.” “You don’t have to give me your beer.” I said, but he insisted. “I can’t take them into the shelter, and I don’t want to throw them away. I want you to have them.” He extended his hands toward me, saying, “Please.”  I smiled and graciously accepted his gift.
 
We drove to the shelter. Parking out front, I opened the lift gate and Ronnie grabbed his pack. After closing the gate, he said, “I don’t accept rides from just anyone. There are a lot of strange people out here. Usually people avoid me; they’ll go out of their way to escape talking to me.  I’m sorry if I was rude when you first walked up to me today. I didn’t know what you wanted.” “Don’t worry about it, my friend.  You didn’t hurt my feelings and the day turned out good.” I said. Then Ronnie asked, “Do you know why I accepted the breakfast and your offer for a ride?” I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. “It was the way June greeted and welcomed me. You can tell almost anything you want to know about a man, by watching his dog.” I must admit, that got me.
 
I asked Ronnie if there was any way I could reach him in the future; he wanted to know why. “I drive a lot and many of those trips are out west.” I said, then offered, “I could probably score a ride for you all the way to Williston, when you’re ready to go.” He wrote down an email address for me and said, “Let’s stay in touch.” Then he lifted his heavy pack. Putting one arm through the strap, he swung the whole thing up onto his back, fastened the buckle on the front, and walked toward me. Ronnie paused, gave me a big hug, then turned to walk away. 
 
A few steps away, he stopped, turned and looked at me. “June is a good dog, because you are a good man, Tom Palen. Thank you for everything. Let’s stay in touch.” He said. I nodded at him, cleared my throat and said, “You take care of yourself, and stay warm, Ronnie Wychelewski.”
 

​I try to walk two miles each day. It’s good for me on so many different levels. I wish I had better self-discipline to walk every day, especially when traveling. Walking is easy to do when I’m at home. I just set the treadmill to run at four-miles-per hour, jump on, and in thirty minutes I’ve done my walk. It’s hard to gauge the distance when walking outdoors. Without a machine setting the pace, my speed varies and I think it takes closer to forty minutes to walk the desired distance.
 
When I do walk outside, I find it’s better to have June Bug on her leash with me. She’s good company and being a spirited, energetic dog, she is a fast walker. Pulling me along at her pace, I rely on June to assure I have covered two miles in forty minutes.
 
One particular trip, I was driving on a quiet highway in eastern Colorado, headed for home. I took notice when I passed mile marker 210, on the side of the road. I smiled, thinking, if I stop at the next marker, 211, then walk between the two signs, I would get my full two-mile walk and the distance would be measured. That’s what I would do.
 
I let off the accelerator and began to slow down, eventually pulling over to the side of the road. Moving off the paved shoulder, I parked in the grass on the edge of the ditch, to keep my pickup a safe distance from traffic. With the truck stopped, the motor shut off and seeing a grassy area just outside the window, June began to bounce around the cab, assuming an adventure was at hand.
 
It was a good day for such an undertaking: at 52° the sun was shining and the sky was blue. The eastern side of this state is flat and agricultural; brown hayfields lined both sides of the road. They would soon turn green with the coming of spring. This far from the mountains, the area looked more like Iowa than Colorado. 
 
Back home on the Northshore, the temperatures were in the single digits and tall snowbanks lined the sides of every road. Weather at the homestead has often been sub-zero lately. Because her feet get too cold, I haven’t been able to take June on a descent walk outside for a long time. This day was a welcome break from the Minnesota winter and I would take advantage of it to treat my dog to a walk in the fresh air. 
 
Being as mild as it was, I decided to wear a flannel shirt without a coat, although I would still wear my favorite stocking cap to protect my ears from the wind. I considered letting June run without her leash, but we were on the side of a highway and there was still some traffic going by at highway speeds. Besides, June would need the leash to pull me along; helping me stay on pace. I planned to time our walk, to see how long it took to cover two measured miles.
 
While June stood in the backseat of the truck, I clipped the leash to her collar and said, “Come on Bugs, let’s go for a walk.” She jumped right out to the ground, where she went berserk sniffing the grass, curious about every scent left by other animals. I checked the time on my phone; it was 11:57 a.m. I would give her until the top of the hour to sniff about and take her potty break.
 
At 11:00, I called, “Come on June Bug. Let’s go.” The first thing she did was run on the opposite side of the mile marker post from me, catching her leash. “Go around.” I told her. She’s such a smart dog, she ran right back to the post, returning to me on the correct side. We didn’t get very far into the walk before June stopped again. She would sniff things, as I kept walking, until the retractable leash was taught, then she would sprint past me to the end of the leash, to find more things that needed to be sniffed. It’s a process that repeats itself, back and forth, over and over again on our walks. At one point, it was June who wanted to keep walking, but I found something interesting I wanted to look at.
 
June was tugging on her leash, so I picked up the piece and carried it with me. It was a tension spring for an old drum brake, off a tractor or something. It had two springs, one on each end, with a shaft the middle. The shaft had a stop, similar to the head of a nail, on each end that allowed the spring unit to be connected between to two brake shoes. This kept the shoes off the drum, until the brakes were applied. It was a cool looking, rusty old piece. I thought I would take it home to hang a basket with a green plant - maybe in the bay window at home. I carried the piece for a while as we walked. Pretty soon I said to myself, “You’re collecting junk you don’t need. Leave it here.” I dropped it back on the paved shoulder where I found it.
 
After I dropped it, I thought someone might run over it, possibly damaging their tire. I set the steel piece just off the edge of the blacktop in that little six-inch space of rocks where the pavement ends and before the grass starts. June tugged on the leash as if to say, “Come on!”
 
We walked farther down the road. In the farm field to my left, there was an old phone pole laying in the taller grass. It still had the insulator on top. Not one of the really old blue or green glass insulators, but a two-tone brown and tan one. It was much larger than the old glass type - probably from the seventies. Anyway, it was cool and I wanted to keep it. June and I walked down through the taller grass in the ditch. I dropped the retractable end of her leash. “Wait here.” I said.
 
I climbed over the barbed wire fence and walked to the old phone pole. The bracket that held the ceramic piece was bolted all the way through the pole. I unscrewed the insulator from its mount and turned to leave the field. June startled me. She was standing next to me. “How did you get in here?” I asked. She said, “Dad, I’m a dog not a cow. I walked under the wires on the fence. Can we go now?” “Sure, Bugs.” I said and we left the field to continue walking toward mile marker 210, with me carrying the big insulator.
 
After we reached the marker post, we turned to start walking back to the truck. The ceramic piece was getting heavy. I switched hands and noticed the weather seemed to be getting warmer. I was starting to sweat a little, so I took off my stocking cap, tucking it into my back pocket. June gave a tug on the leash, “Come on, Dad.” We picked up the pace. June continued sniffing things as we went, but we were making good time and soon rounded mile marker 210.
 
We walked quite a stretch on our return before I stopped again. I found a triangular, flat steel thing in the road. It too was rusty, with serrated edges on two sides and flat across the back. I was pretty sure it was a blade from a sickle mower. I thought it was neat, but had no idea what I would do with it. June gave me an odd look, “Dad, are you collecting junk again?” She asked. “No.” I replied, “One never knows when he’ll need on of these.” I put it in my back pocket. When I did, I noticed my hat was missing. I looked around but it wasn’t near.
 
Still carrying the insulator, I used my hand with the dog leash to shade my eyes from the sun. Squinting, I looked down the road behind me. I could see the hat on the shoulder of the road about a quarter mile behind us. It was about the same place where we crossed the fence to get the phone pole. I didn’t feel like walking all the way back to get it, but it was my favorite hat. June asked, “What are you going to do?” “We’ll walk to the truck, then drive back to get it.” “Good thinking, Dad.” She complimented, I knew she was getting tired. “That’s why I get paid the big bucks, June. The really big bucks.” I said snickering, as we kept walking.
 
Not too much farther up the road, I came across the tension spring again. It was back up on the paved part of the shoulder, still by the reflector post where I had set it down off the asphalt. It laid perpendicular to my path, as if it was blocking my way That was really strange.
 
I checked along the edge where I set it before to make sure there weren’t two of these tension springs. There were not. I looked up and down the highway to see if someone was there messing with me. No one was there and this spring was too heavy to have blown back up on the shoulder – especially with a two or three-inch lip from the gravel up to the pavement. I figured I was meant to keep this piece, so I picked it up to take home. With June’s leash and the spring in my right hand, and the insulator in my left, we continued back to the truck. I laughed, thinking, I’m out of hands, I hope I don’t find any other cool stuff.
 
I set the three pieces on the back floor, then I looked in both the cab and box for any kind of a wrench. If I could loosen those nuts and bolts on the pole, I could get the bracket for the insulator. I didn’t find the tool I was looking for, so we drove back to get my hat. As I suspected, it was right where the phone pole was laying in the field. I stopped the truck. Looking at the pole, I wondered; those old poles shrink over time. Maybe the bolts would be loose enough, I could remove the nuts by hand. As long as I was already there, I crossed the fence to check it out. The bolts were way too tight, but I had another idea.
 
The farmer had the pole cut up in sections and pushed to the side of the field. Maybe I could just take the whole top section. The grass had grown up around the pole laying in the field and was holding it down. As I tried to clear some of the grass, I found a second insulator that was nearly buried in the dirt. After digging it out and carrying it to the fence line, I continued my efforts to free the pole. “Well, I’ll be...” I said aloud, kneeling down. I found the third insulator, deep in the growth as well. The last two pieces I found were each still attached to a small block of wood that was the cross bar on the phone pole. They had been cut loose with a chain saw. How cool is that? Now if I can get the pole, I’ll have the whole circuit.
 
It took a little work, but I freed the pole, carried it to the edge of the field, and tossed it over the fence to the other side where the two insulators laid. Opening the tailgate, I put the two smaller pieces in the truck, then went back for the pole. I carried it up the hill from the ditch, lifting it up into the bed. It was too long for the tailgate to close. “Stupid five-foot box!” I complained. I love the four-door pickup, but I’ve never liked these short boxes.
 
By laying the pole diagonally across the floor, I was able to get it in all the way and close the gate. Pretty smitten with myself, I climbed into the cab, started the truck and got ready to pull away. I shifted the transmission back in park, jumped out, ran about ten feet in front of the truck, retrieved my hat, then returned to the driver’s seat and headed down the road.
 
While I was driving, I began thinking about the treasures I found. The insulators are used to hold live electrical lines. If those lines connect with ground, they’ll short out, blow a fuse and become dead wires. One might conclude they insulate life from death. It takes all three wires to make a 240-volt circuit - the three separate wires, make one circuit. Hmm. The wires were mounted high upon a pole with a cross bar. Boy does that bring some things to mind.
 
I considered the first piece I found, the tension spring. It’s made up of three individual components; a spring on each end and a shaft in the middle, holding them together. The three pieces make one unit. Okay, this now had my attention. What about the sickle mower blade? A triangle with three sides that make one shape. There was clearly a message here.
 
Having trouble finding the message, I called my cousin, telling her my story. “What do you think this means?” I asked her. Robin responded, “I think God is telling you something.” “Indeed,” I agreed, “but what is He trying to tell me?”
 
Robin paused for a moment. “You’ve been praying a lot lately. Have your prayers been answered?” she asked. “No, not yet.” I replied. “Maybe it’s God’s way of saying, I’m still here.” “Yes, but why three signs?” I questioned.
 
Just then, it all made sense. It was the Father in the tension spring telling me, “I’m still here listening. I hear you - keep praying.” The Son was in the insulators and wood pole saying, “I am at your side. I haven’t left you - keep praying.” The Holy Spirit was in that triangular blade, calling out, “Follow me. I will point the way for you - keep praying.” I was humbled beyond words.
 
I shared the experience with my brother, Gerard, asking what he made of it. He asked, “When you threw the spring to the side of the road, were you rejecting someone?” “I didn’t reject Him,” I insisted, “I just didn’t recognize Him.”  Then my brother challenged me, “So, you’re telling me, you carried six-feet of a phone pole, up the hill, by yourself.” “Yes, I did. Why does that seem so unlikely?” I questioned. Gerard answered, “I would think that pole would have been very heavy - too heavy for one man to throw over a fence, then, carry alone.” Then he suggested, “Perhaps someone else carried the wood up that hill for you.” Gerard’s message was clear, and again, humbling. Still, who would have thought spiritual messages could come from, well, just things?
 
With the season of Lent upon us and Easter on the way, I’ve been thinking more about our walk in Colorado that day, and what came from it. Forgetting to check the clock when we finished, I had no idea how long we had been walking. With all our stops, the time would not have been accurate, anyway. The next time June and I go for a walk outdoors, I’ll still depend on her to keep us on pace for a forty-minute, two-mile walk. The next time I find an inanimate object that seems to be sending a message, I’ll stop to ask, “Are you talking to me?”

At a gas station in northern California, a man driving a black van pulled up alongside me and told me he really liked the Scamp Trailer I was pulling. I thanked him for his compliment and we chatted a bit about the camper. He changed the subject. “I noticed you have a big dent in the side of your car. Are you going to get that fixed?” He asked. “Yes, someday I will. For now, I’m leaving it there to remind myself of what happens when one does stupid things.” We shared a laugh about that.
 
“I have a shop where we do no-paint, dent removal, on cars. I can take that dent out of your car without disturbing the paint.” He said, adding, “It will look perfect, you’ll never know it was ever damaged.” “I’m familiar with such services,” I replied, “it won’t work on my car because there’s a crease in the dent and the paint is already damaged.” The man went on to say, we have new techniques for pulling the dent out, and special products that work with heat to blend right over the chips in the paint. Can I give you a free estimate?”  “If you want to,” I said, then explained, “but you’d be wasting your time because I’m not from around here.”
 
The man got out of his van, looked closer at the dent and said, “I can remove the dent for $200 and I guarantee it will be perfectly smooth.” He said. I explained, “I’m leaving town right after I fill my tank.” He was persistent, and introduced himself as if to build trust. “My name is Geraldo. I have a shop where I fix cars. I also do mobile repairs for people at their home or work. I have my mobile tools with me. I can do the job right here and be done in twenty minutes.” “Naw,” I said, “I don’t want to spend the $200.” “How about $150?” He offered. “No thanks.” I said, he countered, “$100 and your fender will be fixed.” “I’m really not interested, but I appreciate your offer.” I said, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet. “$50?” He asked. “No.” I replied.
 
“Okay, you look like an honest man,” he said, “here’s my best deal.” Geraldo said. “Let me take the dent out of your fender. If the dent isn’t completely gone, you don’t pay me anything, but if it’s gone, like I promised, you pay me fifty bucks.” He saw the skeptical look on my face, “I am Geraldo. I told you I guarantee my work. If you’re not completely happy with my work, it won’t cost you anything.” I must admit he had my interest.
 
I repeated his offer. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to take the dent out of the car, making the chipped paint blend in perfectly. The fender will look like new, and if I’m not completely happy, I don’t have to pay you anything?” He looked at me and said with confidence, “That’s right, and it will take twenty minutes or less or the job is free.”
 
I didn’t want to be a sucker, but I rubbed my chin thinking, I’ve certainly wasted fifty bucks on more foolish things. What could go wrong? He couldn’t make it any worse. The fender needed to be replaced anyway. “What have I got to lose?” I said, he replied, “Nothing but the dent.” I said, “Okay, go for it, but if it’s not perfectly smooth, I’m not paying you anything, right?” That’s right.” He said, then hollered in Spanish to a man in the van. “Papa…”
 
His dad came out with a tool I have seen before. It has a big suction cup on one end and a stop on the other; there’s a long shaft with sliding weight in the middle. He attached the suction cup to my car, then pulled the weight back very fast several times, slamming it against the end stop. It worked like a hammer in reverse. He released the suction cup, positioning it differently and started pulling the weight again. He did this several times but the dent wasn’t coming out as he planned.  Because the two men spoke Spanish, I had no idea what they were saying, but could tell from their tones of voice and body language, they were having trouble.  The dent wasn’t coming out. A bent support on the inside of the fender was making their job more difficult.
 
Geraldo got a come-along from inside the van. He attached one end to the support on my car and the other end to the bumper on his van. He began cranking the tool. Papa was yelling at him to stop as the hook was pulling the vinyl bumper loose from his van. He removed the hook from the bumper and attached it to his trailer hitch. “Okay.” Papa said, giving Geraldo a thumbs up to continue.  The part he was pulling on my car was plastic and I knew it wasn’t going to come straight – I think he knew it too.
 
Geraldo removed the hook from my car and asked, “What do you think? Are you happy with it?” “Seriously?” I asked, “It looks worse now than before you touched it.” “Well I’m not done yet.” He justified, “Remember I told you we have new finishing products that work with heat? I still have to apply the finish.” The two men started talking in Spanish again, as if they were trying to figure out what to do from here. Geraldo pointed to a big gap between the fender and the vinyl bumper. He was rubbing his hand over the crude attempt to remove the dent, while instructing his dad to get something from inside the van.
 
Papa returned with a bottle of drinking water that was half gone. He quickly splashed some on my car, then rubbed his hand around to remove the dirt and grime that comes from the road during winter driving. He gave it another quick splash – a rinse cycle, if you will. Geraldo then started applying a product I recognized, while telling me, “This is going to finish the job. This special product will make the fender perfectly smooth – like it was brand new.” His dad dipped his fingers into the container, then helped by smearing the product over my fender with his hand. He was trying to fill the big gap with the green goop.
 
“Turtle Wax?” I asked, laughing. “Turtle Wax is your special product?” Geraldo said, “This isn’t regular Turtle Wax,” He quickly showed me the can, “It’s Turtle Wax with yeast. Do you know what yeast does?” “Yes, I do.” I answered, “I do a lot of baking.” “Good.” Said Geraldo, “Then you know yeast makes things rise when it gets hot.” I asked him if I could see the can and he handed it to me. I looked at the container, pointing out, “The label doesn’t say it has yeast in it.” He justified, “That’s because the company doesn’t want anyone to know the secret ingredient that makes this product work so well. To avoid addressing the look of disbelief on my face, Geraldo quickly instructed me, “Don’t wash the special wax off your car: leave it on as long as you can. Tomorrow, when the sun shines on the side of your car, it will heat the yeast and raise the rest of the dents from your fender.”
 
Still laughing, I said, “Yeast has to have sugar to activate it.” Trying to convince me the magic product would work, Geraldo assured me, “Turtle Wax does have sugar in it. That’s what makes it smell so good.” I asked him, “Do you know what snake oil is?” He said he did not.
 
I explained, “In the old days of the wild west, a snake oil salesman would come into town in a horse drawn, wagon. It was usually painted up pretty fancy. He would set up a stage to draw a crowd. When the people gathered, he began his sales pitch. He told the people his magic elixir would cure everything from hair loss, to gout. He promised it would cure arthritis and remove liver spots. He’d tell them, ‘My special potion will even heal you from rabies, and rattlesnake bites.  It will cure measles, the mumps, yellow fever, the plague and the common cold.’ He told them it would even chase demons out of a loved one who was possessed by the devil himself.”
 
Geraldo was listening patiently. I continued, “The salesman would guarantee his potion to work in thirty days or less, or he would gladly refund their money.” Geraldo asked, “Did his product work?” ‘No.” I answered, “Their products came to be known as snake oil, and they didn’t do anything.” Seeming concerned for the people, he asked me, “Did he refund their money?” “No.” I answered, the salesman always left town by the twentieth day.”
 
Geraldo thought about my story and asked, “You’re not happy with the work, are you?” I looked at him and said, “There’s no such thing as Turtle Wax with yeast.” He was still attempting to keep a straight face, when I said, “You should have added some baking powder, too.” That was too much. Geraldo started laughing with me and admitted, “I bake, too. I know about baking powder.” While Geraldo and I were laughing together, his dad seemed to be getting upset. He was asking his son something in Spanish. His demanding tone indicated he was not happy with me.
 
Geraldo was trying to get his dad to settle down. He placed his hand on his dad’s chest and gently guided him toward the van. I’m not sure what he was saying, but I clearly heard him say “policia,” three different times. I know what that means and was pretty sure he was telling his dad something like, “He’s on to our scam. Let’s just go before he calls the police.” His dad said something to me in Spanish as he walked back to the van. I didn’t understand him, but I’m sure it wasn’t anything good.
 
Geraldo grinned. With embarrassment and hope in his smile, he ,asked, “You’re not going to pay me, are you?” I smiled, “I’m not going to give you fifty dollars, but I will give you twenty for providing me with some great entertainment tonight.” Seeming ashamed, he asked, “Are you sure you want to pay me anything?” “I’m sure.” I answered as I extended my hand with a twenty-dollar bill toward him. He took the money saying, “Gracias.” I knew what that meant and could tell he was sincere. I gave him a warm smile and said, “You’re welcome.”
 
As Geraldo was walking to his van, he stopped, turned toward me and said, “I’m sorry if we messed up your fender.” “Don’t worry about it,” I said, “you didn’t hurt anything. It has to be replaced anyway. Besides, it gave us both a good laugh.” He waved goodbye and climbed into his van. I looked at the fender on my car, covered in green gunk, shook my head and laughed. “Turtle Wax with Yeast - snake oil”

It had been a long and very full trip and it was a long way from over. I drove my pickup back east to retrieve my car. I left it stranded when the engine went kapooie last December, in the small town of Moosic, Pennsylvania. I found a mechanic who would change out the motor for me, and I could pick the car up at a later date.
 
While I was in PA, to get my car, I was able to have dinner and spend a night with my daughter, Delaney and her husband Jared. The next day I drove two hours farther north, to Moosic, loaded my car onto a rented trailer and started for home. I stopped along the way to visit my aunt Sally and uncle John, in Lewisburg. We had a nice conversation while I baked a cherry pie for them. When the pie was out of the oven, they treated me to dinner at a Thai restaurant downtown. Afterwards, Sally offered me a bed to spend the night, but I insisted I needed to put some miles behind me before the night was done. I wanted to drive as far as Ohio before stopping for the night and that was still 200 miles away.
 
I was pulling a steep hill in the mountains of western Pennsylvania, when it suddenly felt like the trailer was swaying really hard. I let off the accelerator and looked in the review mirror. The trailer was steady, but the weird feeling was still there. It occurred to me, I had blown out a tire on the truck! Great! I turned on my flashers, then pulled over, stopping on the shoulder, to get out and assess the damages. The tire was shredded.
 
It was after 10:00 p.m., very dark, cold and windy. I haven’t changed a tire on this truck, and truthfully, never even looked for the jack and tools. To make matters worse, I was on a hill, with a heavy trailer behind the truck. For the jack to lift the truck, I would probably have to remove the trailer. I started weighing my options. I could try to change the tire myself, or call AAA for roadside assistance. A tow truck would have the proper tools, including wheel chocks to keep the trailer from rolling down the hill. Calling for help would be the smart thing to do.
 
I pulled out my AAA membership card, picked up my cell phone and…no signal. Are you kidding me? I started laughing. When a state trooper pulls us over for speeding, we ask why they aren’t out chasing robbers? When we have a problem on the road, we wonder if they are out chasing robbers when they should be here on the highway to help. “I sure would be happy to see a trooper right now.” I said to my dog, June.
 
When I called AAA, I was on hold for about fifteen minutes. There were a lot of weather-related calls that night, and I would just have to wait my turn. When the operator came on, they gathered my information, then put me on hold again while they made calls to find out which tow service was available.
 
I heard the operator come back on the line.  “Mr. Palen? Mr. Paaaalen? Are you there Mr. Palen” I snapped to, “Yes, I’m here.” I was embarrassed. I actually fell asleep while I was on hold. How did he know I was still on the line? Was I snoring? OMGosh! He told me a service ticket had been entered and I would be getting text messages to keep me apprised of the progress. A few minutes later I got a text saying the service ticket was opened. Then another saying, “Help is on the way.” A third text read, “McCandless Towing will arrive at 11:06 p.m.” When I saw amber lights flashing in my rearview mirror, I looked at the clock. It was indeed 11:06.
 
The driver looked over the situation, “I’m going to need your jack handle to lower the spare tire.” He said. I admitted I didn’t know where it was. “It’s under your back seat.” He said with confidence. I got the handle for him, then watched as he worked in his green fluorescent vest. I asked if he needed any help, he said, “Nope. This is what I get paid to do.”
 
Most cars going by moved over to the left lane, but several others did not. They didn’t even slow down, and one car blasted their horn as they went flying by. “What a jerk!” I said, “They’re supposed to move to the other lane.” The tow driver chuckled, “It happens all the time.” He said, and kept working. I started thinking about the different situations tow truck drivers find themselves in. Some are dangerous; some are the result of stupidity.
 
I recalled a time many, many years ago, when my brother Richard called me and asked, “What do I have to do if I hit a deer?” I answered with a question. “How bad did you mess up your truck?” He replied, “I didn’t say I hit a deer with my truck.” I questioned, “How bad did you mess up your van?” “I don’t think it did any damage to the van,” he said, “but the deer didn’t fair so well.” “Is it still alive?” I asked, he replied, “Yes, but her leg is badly broken and she’s bleeding.”
 
I told him that he needed to call the county sheriff’s department. They would send a deputy out to put the animal down and give him a deer tag, if he wanted to keep it. He explained, a deputy came out, but the deer had made its way up over the hill and was sitting in the tall grass along the fence line of a bean field. Richard went on, “I told him it was just over the top of the hill on the other side of the ditch, but he said he wasn’t going to walk up there to chase a deer.” Richard went on to tell me, “The deer needs to be put down so she isn’t suffering. I would go back out there but I don’t think my van will climb the drive into the field…but a four-wheel drive like yours would.” He suggested. I agreed to go help Richard find the deer.
 
By the time we got to the place where he hit the deer, it was getting dark fast. We drove up into the field and along the fence line where he said the deer was laying but we never found the deer. “Are you sure it was here?” I asked. Richard said, “I know it was here. I came up and saw it.” “And you’re sure it was a deer you saw and not a clump of dirt?” Richard rolled his eyes, “It was the deer.” He insisted.
 
It was now dark. The bean field had been cut, so if we drove around the field for a bit, maybe we would find the deer. We went back and forth making passes about twenty feet apart. Finally, in a grassy draw, a deer stood up in front of us. “Is that your deer?” I asked. “I don’t know.” Richard answered, “They all look alike.” The deer took off running with her hind leg flopping. I took off chasing her in the truck. She was running toward a wooded area. I thought we should stop her and put her out of her misery. I passed the animal and quickly turned the truck in front of her. She fell down, and I jumped out with my shot gun.” Just as I approached her, she got up and ran again. I jumped in the truck, and resumed my pursuit but the truck was acting funny.
 
Richard told me, “You have a flat tire.” “What?” I said in disbelief. He explained, “When you made that high-speed turn, your front right tire came off the rim.” Flat tire or not, I did what I had to do, I locked in the four-wheel drive and continued the chase. “This is great,” I said, “A three-wheeled truck chasing a three-legged deer, after dark, in a field we shouldn’t be in. We’re going to jail for sure.” I was trying to head the deer off before she got any nearer to the woods. She really needed to be put down, but she beat me to the tree line.
 
At the edge of the woods, I stopped the truck, grabbed my shotgun and walked in on the path she took. We were able to get the deer, and put her down. It was the humane thing to do. Not wanting it to go to waste, we put the deer in the back of the truck. We knew a family that could use the meat. I would call later for a tag. Right now, we had to deal with the truck and the flat tire. I got the jack out, positioning it under the truck on a small board to keep the jack from sinking into the ground.
 
Richard started lifting the truck while I went to get the spare tire.  Once he had lifted it high enough, I removed the flat tire. “You have to lift it a couple more inches for the good tire to go on.” I told him. “It’s up as high as it will go.” He insisted. “It can’t be.” I said, giving a look under the truck. “Crap! “The jack is sinking!” I said and hurried to get the bad tire back on the hub. Just as I was about to put the wheel back on, the truck fell off the jack to the ground. “This is not good.” I said. “There’s no way we were going to get out of this mess without a wrecker.”
 
The cell phone signal was week, but enough to make a call. “Deran, it’s Tom Palen. Are you busy?” He laughed, “What did you get yourself into this time?” “I’d rather not tell you on the phone, but I’m about a half mile off the road in a bean field.” I said. “Are the beans cut?” He asked, “Because I’m not driving into an uncut field.” He didn’t want to damage the crop if the beans were not harvested.” “The field is cut.” I assured him, adding “You better bring your four-wheel drive rig.” I gave him directions to where we would be. “I’ll be there is 25 or 30 minutes.” Deran said. I told Richard, “We need to walk to the highway to meet him.”
 
Richard and I started walking in the pitch-black night. The light flurries of snow had now turned into a steady snow and it was getting colder. It was a night where one could easily become disoriented and get lost. The temperature continued to drop while the wind was picking up. To make matters worse, neither of us were properly dressed for such weather.
 
Richard had on khaki pants, a dress shirt and a waist length brown leather jacket. I was wearing a wool suit and tie, and a long trench coat. I did have a hat that had ear flaps and a pair of thin dress gloves.
 
We walked side by side for a while, trudging across the field. Crossing a grass covered draw, both of us nearly jumped out of our skin when it seemed we disturbed a vicious animal! It was just a pheasant we flushed up between us. We were close enough to hear the whistle of her wings cutting the air as she lifted off and flew away. It sure scared the daylights out of us. Daylight. What a wonderful thought. It seemed to be getting darker as the snow came down heavier. Our saving grace was a streetlight on the road ahead that glowed in the night like a beacon, showing us the direction to go.
 
The wind continued to blow harder and we were getting colder.  I told Richard to walk directly in from of me, so that I could block the wind from him. I put my gloved hands up over his ears to try to keep him warmer. “Okay, that’s just too weird.” He said, so I gave him the gloves and put my hands in my pockets. He could hold his own ears if he wanted to keep them warm.
 
The longer we walked, the farther we seemed to be from the road.  Crossing another grass draw, we both stepped in a large puddle of water. The puddle was deep enough to fill our dress shoes with cold, muddy water.
 
Cold and now wet, we continued on. “Do you think Deran has already driven by?” Richard asked, “Could we have missed him?” “No, we would have seen his headlights go by.” I assured him.  Just then we could see headlights in the far distance on the highway to the south. That was a good sign. It meant we were getting closer to the road. Thinking it might be Deran, we ran the rest of the way to the pavement, coming out the same entrance to the field, from which we entered.  We started walking down the shoulder, headed south toward the lights. 
 
The headlights got closer and finally a car drove by. They never even slowed down. Richard said, “You know, if I was driving down a remote country road after dark, and saw two guys in dress clothes walking in a blizzard, I would stop to see if they needed help.” “Yep. Me too.” I said.
 
We continued walking south, keeping an eye out for Deran.  The road was quite a bit higher than the fields on either side. The wind seemed to be getting stronger, blowing the snow almost horizontally. We decided to go down the bank of the ditch where we would be sheltered from the wind. Exhausted, we laid down in the cold grass. Despite the nasty weather and being cold, there was a calmness in the night. We rested there and talked about irrelevant things just to break the silence and pass the time. 
 
“I think I hear a car coming.” Richard said.  He jumped up to check. Seeing it was another passenger car, he came back to the sheltered bank. “Did you give Deran good directions?” Richard asked. “Yes,” I said, assuring, “He’ll be here soon.”
 
We heard another vehicle coming. It was my turn to look. I ran up to the road. “It’s Deran.” I called out to Richard with relief. “How do you know?” He questioned. “I can see the amber marker lights on top of his cab.” Richard jumped up and joined me on the shoulder, standing beside me.
 
The deep treaded snow tires on his duals made a high-pitched whine on the pavement. We both waved our arms in the air as the vehicle approached. The whine deepened in tone as the vehicle slowed down. The truck pulled onto the shoulder, driving right up to us. The passenger window was lowering. Inside, Deran grinned, “You boys looking for a ride?” He asked. I climbed into the warm cab, Richard followed. Both of us began rubbing our hands in the warm air coming from the dash vents. Richard said, “Don’t get the wrong idea, Deran, but you look more beautiful right now than I’ve ever seen you look before.” We all laughed, “Yeah, well just stay on your side of the truck.” Deran replied. 
 
I pointed to the driveway that led into the field. “Up that way.” I said to Deran. He stopped at the end of the drive and pulled the lever to lock his transmission into four-wheel drive.  “Do you want to know what we’re doing way out here?” I asked Deran. “Nope.” He replied. “Why not?” I questioned. “Because if I get subpoenaed to testify against you in court, I can honestly say, ‘I don’t know what those two fools were doing out there in a snowstorm.’” We all shared a good laugh over that.
 
I had been worried that my truck might have to sit out in the field until spring, but Deran made quick work of it, lifting the front end. I grabbed the good tire, but he took it away from me saying, “I’m getting paid to do this. You stand back.”  “You’re going to charge me for this?” I asked in jest. “I thought we were friends.” Deran laughed. “Everyone thinks I’m their best friend when they’re stuck a half mile off the pavement, in a field where they shouldn’t be, during a snow storm.” We all laughed about that.
 
Deran picked up the bad rim and tire. “You’ll probably want to have this looked at before you try to use it again.” He said, laughing as he put the wheel in the bed of the truck next to the deer. “Tisk, tisk.” He said shaking his head. “It’s not what you think.” I said. “I don’t want to know.” Daren said.
 
“What do I owe you?” I asked. Deran said, “Oh, just give me twenty bucks.” He said, and I did. “Now get in your truck and get outta here. I’ll follow you to the road in case you guys manage to get stuck again.” I often think of that night, and many other times when Daren pulled me out of messes, I’d gotten myself into.
 
Back on the interstate in Pennsylvania, the tow truck driver had my good tire mounted. He lowered my truck to the ground and took his jack back to his tool box.  He came back up and put the bad wheel into the bed of my truck. “Do I need to pay you or sign anything?” I asked him. “Nope.” He replied, “AAA took care of it already.
 
As he was getting ready to leave, I said “Thank you, Deran.”  “How did you know my name?” He asked, looking puzzled. I was surprised myself and said, “I’m sorry, I was thinking about a friend of mine that runs a towing business in Iowa. Is your name Deran, too?” “Oh, no.” He replied, laughing, “I thought you said Derek. My name is Derek.” We shared a good laugh about that. 
 
Derek’s phone rang. When he answered it. I could hear the person on the other end asking, “How much longer will you be on this call?” Derek answered, “I’m leaving now.” The voice said, “Good. I need you to go to...” The voice tapered off as Derek waved, and walked to his wrecker with the phone against his ear.
 
As he pulled away, I thought about Derek, Deran and all of the men and women who operate tow trucks. The way they’re always putting themselves in harm’s way on the edge of speeding traffic to help us out. To each of them, I give thanks for your help in our times of need.

​Here’s a helpful tip for surviving the harsh winters of northern Minnesota and the upper mid-west, actually, the entire Midwest this year, look for the simple wonders of winter. They are there and they will keep until you find them because they’re frozen. Well, so long as you find them before the spring thaw. Here’s a few simple winter things I found recently, that entertained me.
 
The other day, at the crack of dawn, our dog, June, started barking like crazy at the front door. I hushed her, “Go back to sleep! Whatever it is outside that’s bothering you, is meant to be outside. It’s okay.” I assured her. A couple hours later when I went to shovel the snow, there were deer hoof prints coming up the steps and onto the front porch. I’ve never seen that before. There was no doubt in my mind this deer was coming to raid the bird feeder - until her plot was foiled by our trusty guard dog sounding off.
 
This morning when I went out to shovel the new snow off the front stoop, there were hoof prints again coming up the steps and onto the porch. This time the deer made her way across the porch where the bird feeder hangs. Her efforts proved fruitless as the chickadees don’t take long to empty the feeder each day when I refill it. The doe left hungry. The small birds do however spill quite a bit of sunflower seed on the ground below the feeder. In this environment, no source of food goes to waste.  The grouse that lives under the pine trees would claim this fallen bounty as her meal.
 
The hen made a neat little trail where she had come out from under cover, making her way across the top of the powdery snow, leaving a channel behind. The imprint was shaped perfectly by the bird as she plowed her breast through the snow, just like a boat pushes its bow through the water. In the bottom of the track there were marks left by her feet. It looked like she swam through the snow to reach her destination where she cleaned up all the spillage. There was no path going back to the pines though; I supposed she took flight on her return. Perhaps she was scared off by the guard dog inside.
 
When I let the fearless guard dog out to do her morning business, she ran down to the driveway. I wish she wouldn’t do that, as she leaves unsightly yellow circles in the driveway under the new snow. I have a place cleared for her to go in the yard, but apparently, she thought the snow in the uncleared driveway was less deep than the yard. Maybe she just wanted a change of scenery today.
 
A couple hours later, after my morning coffee and filling the bird feeder, I went out and started the snow blower to clear the drive. Our driveway is rock, and if the snow blower catches them, it can throw those rocks pretty fast and far with a fury. I have to be careful which way the snow chute is pointed to avoid windows, the house and cars. The rocks make quite a racket when going through the powerful machine.
 
Making my way down the driveway near the edge of the grass, I shot three rocks together, out with the snow. They landed up in the yard. I watched the rocks and thought I was going crazy as they continued to move sporadically up the hill in the yard! “Rocks can’t roll uphill like that. Why didn’t they sink into the snow?” I asked myself. As I continued to watch it occurred to me, those weren’t rocks - they were voles! A vole being a small mouse like animal with a stubby tail that burrows into the ground – or a redneck on the game show, Wheel of Fortune: “I’d like to buy a vole.” Okay, that was a really bad joke, let’s get back to the story.
 
The voles apparently weren’t hurt when they went through the auger, the chute, then airborne to their landing spot. Almost immediately they started to burrow back under the snow, but not before a raven swept down to the ground snatching one on his way by. It was really cool to see and as I said, no source of food goes to waste up here, especially in the winter.
 
I continued to make my way up and down the driveway. With each swath I turned the direction of the chute to pile the snow where I wanted it. At the end of one pass, when I turned the machine around, I noticed two new yellow circles. “June!” I hollered toward the house, as if she would hear me and know what I was scolding her for. I try to keep the snowblower set to a level where I can get the snow but avoid throwing rocks. That doesn’t always happen and I threw a few more…wait a minute! Those weren’t rocks, they were frozen… I again shouted toward the house, “June! You’re not funny! And don’t even try to blame the cat, because Edgar hasn’t been out here!”
 
Despite June’s unsightly deposits, I thought to myself, how lucky I am not having to clear this driveway with a shovel. The snowblower was making quick work of the project. Soon I was done and headed into the house to warm up. I was pretty pleased with my accomplishments for the day.  It wasn’t until after dark when I remembered an outdoor task I forgot to do – an important one too – checking to see how much fuel is in the LP gas tank. I would be leaving town in the morning, and having plenty of gas is critical.  The last time I checked, the tank was at thirty-five percent, which should be fine, but that was a couple weeks ago. With the recent frigid temperatures, I’m sure the furnace has been running more than usual. I needed to be sure I wasn’t going to run out of gas while I was gone. The last time I walked to the gas tank, the snow was up to my mid thighs, tonight I would put on show shoes to go check the level.
 
I went to the basement and brought up a pair of snowshoes. I put them on at the front door, where the entryway rug would keep the cleats from scratching the wood floors. With the netted contraptions securely fastened to my feet, I grabbed my coat, hat and gloves. I wanted to make sure I was dressed nice and warm before heading out into the dark night to make my trek across the big back yard. Speaking of the dark…where’s my flashlight?
 
You know the story; you just get a little kid all bundled with multiple layers of clothing, coats, scarves, mittens, hats and boots and then they announce, “I have to go to the bathroom.” That’s exactly how I felt as I looked all the way across the wood floors to the kitchen where the flashlight sat on the counter. I didn’t want to get undressed. “No problem,” I said to myself, “I’ll just get on my hands and knees and crawl across the oak floor.
 
I would have to hold my feet up high behind me so the long snow shoes wouldn’t touch or scratch the floors. Wearing a heavy down coat, a hat and gloves, crawling across the three throw rugs that laid in line across the wooden floor was very difficult. My jeans kept catching on the rugs, trying to drag me down. The knee bent at a 90° angle is perfect for crawling…unless you have a 30” contraption strapped to each foot. This was not an easy task.  As a matter a fact, when I fell from my hands and knees, flat on my belly to the floor, I admitted it was an impossible task.
 
I laid there pondering the predicament I had gotten myself into. In front of my face, were two heavy, gray shipping blankets that were waiting to be taken to the basement.  I was thinking, “I really don’t want to remove the snow shoes, but I don’t dare walk on the wood with cleats! It’s not worth risking damage to the floors. There was only about seven feet of bare wood flooring between the throw rugs and the ceramic tile kitchen floor. I could use the packing blankets, lay them over the oak floors and walk on them, protecting the floors and saving me the hassle of removing and replacing the snow shoes. That’s exactly what I did, easily recovering my flashlight from the counter, then returning to the front door. I was pretty smitten, with my genius thinking.
 
With the flashlight tucked into my pocket I stepped outside crossing the porch to the top of the seven steps. Great! How was I to go down the steps wearing snow shoes? I thought, life must be a challenge for Ronald Mc Donald and all the other clowns with their huge shoes. Again, genius stuck. I side stepped downward with my foot parallel to the front of each step. It was going slow, but well, Thinking I had this under control I tried to pick up the pace. On the last two steps I tripped and landed in the snow bank at the bottom of the steps. Trying to push myself up was a real challenge as my hand kept sinking into the snow.
 
I finally got back up on my feet, climbed over the mound of shoveled show, and made my way into the yard toward the LP tank. It was a beautiful walk through new uncharted territory. There were no tracks in the snow, not even from animals. With each step, the snow shoes pressed down through the six inches of powder snow on top, then the wide shoes became stable on the snow below. I kept thinking what it must have been like for early explorers and pioneers to travel through such conditions. It was probably a couple hundred feet to the tank; nothing compared to what people used to travel on snow shoes.
 
When I reached the tank, I was surprised how low it was to the ground. It wasn’t really any lower than it was in the summer, I was just standing on top of snow that deep. The tank sits below two pine trees. I keep the branches on these trees trimmed up, so I don’t have to duck when mowing around them. The tree branches also seemed really low tonight, but again, it was the snow I was standing on combined with the weight of snow accumulated on the branches. The heavy snow caused the branches to bend downward toward the ground. The branches were really with all that snow on them.
 
I walked under the branches and bent over, brushing the snow away to lift the lid that covers the valve and gas gauge. I took off my right mitten then reached into my pocket for the flashlight, but it was not there. I frantically searched all my pockets with no success in finding it. In my brief panic, I dropped my mitten and it filled with snow. Oh brother. I pulled out my cell phone; an old flip phone so it does not have a “flashlight app.”  Holding the phone close to the gauge it provided just barely enough light to read the numbers on the dial. 20% remained, as I suspected, I would need to order more fuel.
 
I closed the lid, shook as much snow out of my mitten as I could, put it back on then tried to turn around to head back to the house. When I lifted my foot, it felt like something grabbed it from below. Was it more voles? Were they still mad about the snowblower incident earlier in the day? I had a brief vision of a herd - hundreds of voles - taking a man down in his own back yard, carrying him off to their vole village and sacrificing the one who was responsible for their cousin being swept away by a raven.
 
Fortunately, it wasn’t angry voles that held my foot. When I went to lift my left foot, the back of my right snowshoe was on top of the back of my left snowshoe. Anyone who has walked in snowshoes has experienced this. It can easily cause you to lose your footing and fall down. I avoided the fall by grabbing the tree branch above to steady myself. It worked; I didn’t fall down!
 
Unfortunately, grabbing the branch and moving it, caused the snow to fall from the branch, onto the person below – that would be me. I had to gasp for air under cold, white tidal wave, like a swimmer coming up for a breath. Do you remember the scene from the movie Grumpy Old Men, when the snow fell from the roof, showering the IRS agent at John Gustafson’s front door. I knew exactly how the agent felt – and even more!
 
You see when I let go of the branch, it sprang upward, hitting the branch above it. That branch sent a second avalanche my way, then snapped upward hitting the branch above, which dumped its snow on me, then hit the branch above…they went upward the same way dominos fall down. I think I cleared the branches, all the way to the top. I had snow all over me, down the back of my shirt, in my shoes – everywhere! Somehow, I could image a herd of voles looking on from a distance and laughing their little fool heads off.
 
Once the snow settled, I tried to turn to start my way back to the house, but I couldn’t lift either foot. It seems the weight of recent waves of snow coming down on me buried my snowshoes and had me pinned in place.  I struggled; I tried to twist and turn each foot without success. I couldn’t lift either foot due to the additional weight of the snow. I thought I could pull my feet from my shoes and walk back to the house in my socks. When spring came, I could retrieve the snowshoes from the yard. There had to be a better solution.
 
I bent over and began digging in the snow to free snowshoes. Once it was cleared, I was able to easily return to the house with the snowshoes still on my feet. Back near the front porch I very cautiously maneuvered over the mound of shoveled snow where I had tumbled when coming down the steps. Once I was safely back on the shoveled walkway, I wisely bent over to loosen the straps on my winter footwear. Feeling there was no need to try climbing the step while wearing snowshoes, I removed them. While I was bent over, I picked up the flashlight that fell from my pocket when I crashed at the bottom of the steps.
 
I was going to put the flashlight back in my coat pocket, but my pockets were also full of snow, so I slipped it into my back pocket with my cell phone. I picked up my snowshoes, clapping them together to remove the excess snow, then started up the steps.
 
Inside the house, June greeted me at the front door. I took off my snow-covered hat. When I took off my coat snow fell from inside the garment. I slipped off my tennis shoes and shook the snow from inside them. There was more snow inside the back of my shirt. I stripped down to my boxers at the front door to avoid dragging snow through the whole house. I went to the bathroom and dried off with a towel before slipping into my warm pajamas.
 
In the kitchen, I made a cup of hot chocolate, then went to the living room where I pulled a rocking chair over to the fire. I sat in the chair and covered myself with a green, knit afghan. June came over to join me; sitting at my side. As I watched the fire, I slowly rocked the chair, sipped my cocoa and enjoyed the warmth. June spoke, “Dad?” “Yes, Bugs,” I replied. “You forgot to check the mail today.” I didn’t respond. June added, “I’ll go out with you to get the mail, Dad.” I pressed my toes to the floor, giving the chair another gently rock. I sipped my cocoa, wrapping both hands around the warm pottery mug. June said, “Dad, do you think those voles will try to come in the house? I’ll get them if they do.” I rubbed her head and replied, “Shh, June. Enjoy the fire, it’s one of winter’s greatest wonders.”

​It never ceases to amaze me, the things we will do in the name of convenience. Sometimes I wonder if we go too far? For example; our ancestors cooked over an open fire, which presumably, was outdoors. To make life easier, the woodstove was created. It served multiple purposes, two of which were cooking and heating the house. Wood fuel became a bother for cooking, so, someone invented the gas and electric range. With this modern appliance, there was no wood to cut or messy ashes to deal with, (unless you burned dinner really badly.)
 
Over time, the range was no longer fast enough for us, so someone invented the microwave oven. Very convenient…unless you let a bowl of oatmeal boil over, or re-heated uncovered leftover spaghetti. Have you ever seen a microwave oven after an egg exploded, or popcorn burned? In any case, it might have been faster to build a fire for cooking outdoors, than to clean the inside of the microwave.
 
Another great example of convenience is the television. In the old days, people would go to town for entertainment; maybe take in a show at the movie theater, if they could afford it. If not, just watching people on Main Street was entertaining enough. But we wanted more entertainment and we wanted it in our home so we didn’t have to go outside. Thus, the TV was invented.
 
It was a kid’s job to get up and change the channel or adjust the volume, whenever instructed to do so by Dad: the head of household, who was home from a hard day at work. But little kids grew into teenagers. As their interests changed, they were spending more time out with friends. Dad had to get up and change the channel himself. Oh, he might have tried asking his wife to change the channel, but as time went on, we demanded more conveniences, and soon it became necessary for Mom to work outside the home as well, to help pay for all of this convenience. At the end of a hard day at work, she was just as tired, if not more so, than he was. The invention of the remote control would keep peace amongst them.
 
The remote control was so handy with the TV, we started making remote controls for everything - and they’re great…when you can find them. With many remote controls, you also have to figure out how to use it and make sure you have the right remote control!
 
One day, I was trying to change the channel to find a show I wanted to watch, but every time I pushed a button, the ceiling fan came on or off; went faster or slower or reversed in direction. Obviously, I had the wrong remote. When I grabbed what I thought was the right one, it turned the lights on and off, yet another remote seemed to adjust the furnace setting, or inadvertently turn on the stereo. By the time I found the correct remote, my show was over! We have a remote for everything. Are they convenient? Sort of sometimes.
 
A remote controller is what we need to open and close the door on the garage, which was out behind the house at the back of the drive. When I was a boy, Dad or Mom would pull into the driveway and one of us kids would get out of the car to lift the garage door. But kids grow up to be teenagers and…
 
It became burdensome to get out of the car to open the overhead door, so we invented a contraption that would open and close the heavy door for us.  Still, it didn’t seem convenient walking though the elements of weather to get to our car, so we began to attach the garage to the house. The garage became a handy place to store extra stuff too, like bicycles, lawn mowers, Christmas decorations, a treadmill that no one uses anymore, an old TV that we replaced with a newer model – all kinds of stuff that we won’t get rid of because we might need it someday. The garage stall became so full of our “stuff” there wasn’t room for the car. Someone came up the idea of the two-car garage. Theoretically, for two cars, but truthfully, one stall was for a car and the other was for our stuff.
 
For many of us, our stuff grew, getting closer to the car’s space. One had to be quite flexible to squeeze out of the car and maneuver the narrow path between the vehicle and our stuff. As long as there was a path, there was room for more stuff and eventually it took over the second stall as well. I myself can attest, we have a two-car attached garage, both sides have automatic garage door openers. In truth, there hasn’t been room for a car in our garage since shortly after we moved here. Both sides are full of storage items and remodeling materials for the house. But I digress. Part of my next stage of remodeling will be making room in the garage to once again conveniently park our cars.
 
When I remodel the garage, I will put a light switch on the wall by the entry door and another by the door going into the house so we’ll never have to walk through a dark garage at night. When you can control the same light from two different places, it is called a “three-way” switch. (I’ve never understood why they didn’t call it a two-way switch, but again I digress.) It was designed for convenience, so that we wouldn’t have to walk in dark places to turn the light on or off.
 
I like three-way switches and I installed a lot of them when remodeling our house. I put them in the stairwell, one at both the top and bottom of the basement steps. There’s a three-way switch in the hallway, so we can turn the hall light on from the living room, or from the other end by the bedrooms. We can turn the driveway lights on from the basement garage, or from the front door when guest come and go. There’s a switch at both doorways coming into the dining room from the living room or the kitchen. There’s a light over our kitchen table, a corner booth, which can be turned on from either and of the table. The outdoor lights on the deck can be turned on from the three-seasons room, or the kitchen, since both have a door going outside.
 
Speaking of the kitchen: there are three ways to enter ours. From outside on the deck, from the living room, or from the dining room. I wanted to be able to turn on the kitchen light from any of the three points. Three different locations would require a four-way switch. (I don’t know why they didn’t call this a three-way switch…again, I digress) For the sake of convenience in our kitchen, I had to learn how to wire a four-way switch.
 
This knowledge came in handy when I wired the living room which has five entry points: The front door, the dining room, the kitchen, which is right next to the hallway, and the top of the steps from the basement.  To control the same light from four locations requires a… No, not a five-way switch - there’s no such thing - it requires a four-way switch. (Which finally makes sense to me, but doesn’t fit in with the rest of the electrical lingo program. Again, I digress.)
 
I wired this house for our convenience. Someday, when we sell the place, the new owner will either say, “This house is really well wired.” Or, “The guy who wired this house must have found a good deal on light switches.” My brother, who was around when I was doing the wiring, declared, “You went a bit OCD with the switches.” But, the point of this story is not how many switches I installed. It’s about things we do for convenience that sometimes aren’t so convenient - like having so many light switches.
 
You see, I can be a little OCD at times. One thing that drives me nuts is when the switches are in all different positions. For some reason, I like all the switches down when the light is off, and only one switch in the up position when the light is on. To make this happen, I often find myself running down the steps to turn the light off, then running up the steps in the dark, so that the switches match.
 
A team effort is helpful. If my wife is on the other end of the hallway, or at the top of the steps, I might ask her, “Hey, can you flip that switch for me?” If she turns the light off, I can turn it back on at my end, and then turn it off again when I get to the top of the steps.  Crazy – I know! But walking down a dark hallway is not uncommon for me, if it means the switch positions are coordinated, which will allow me to sleep better,
 
It’s a real thrill to find which of the three kitchen switches is “out of position.” With four switches in the living room? Well, that could be another story in itself because, it never ceases to amaze me, the things we will do in the name of convenience, that can end up being conveniently inconvenient.

People just love to talk about the weather - mostly to complain about it. It’s either too hot, or too cold; too rainy or we’re in a drought. It’s too humid or too dry; we have too much snow, or we don’t have enough. Even when the weather is perfect, we gripe: “It’s too nice outside and I’m stuck inside.” No matter the weather, we do love to complain!
 
The weather across the Midwest has been very cold lately, much colder than normal and it has people grumbling. I’ve heard threatening comments: “The first person I hear complaining about the heat this summer, is going to get it!”  I don’t know what “it” is that they’re going to get, but I am reasonably sure “it” isn’t good. I like the cold weather.
 
A couple nights ago, around 11:40 p.m., it was -29° outside when I decided I was going to take my two-mile, daily walk. Not outside of course, I’m not crazy. I would walk on the treadmill in the unheated three seasons room. Okay, maybe I am crazy.

I put on my long sleeve flannel shirt, a stocking hat and a pair of gloves. After setting the speed to four mph, I started walking. The brisk, cold air helps to clear my mind; allowing me to reflect on things that are important.
 
Since this room is not heated, it sometimes builds frost on the inside of the thermal-pane windows. That’s been the case during these frigid days. While I was walking, I noticed the frost and the patterns created. It mesmerized me, drawing me into deep contemplation.
 
As a whole, the frost looked like a bouquet or floral arrangement of sorts. The more I looked at the frost pattern, I was finding things like flowers, tall reeds, cattails, a palm tree, mountains, birds, feathers, faces, a ghost, a crab, a cross and more. It was like gazing at the clouds on a summer day and seeing images within them. I saw both reality and illusions.


It was a beautiful walk, albeit a little cold, I really enjoyed it. I’m telling you my friends, there is magic in these days of bitterly cold temperatures. Find and appreciate the beauty before it goes away.  
 
By 6:20 the next morning, the temperature had dropped to -35°. I needed to go outside for more firewood and to see if any of my cars would start. I put on a warm, hooded coat and a stocking cap as well. I grabbed my gloves, then my dog June, and I went outside.
 
When I opened the door and stepped outside, the frigid air hit me in the face. More so than cold, I found it refreshing; crisp with a crackling snap - like the first bite from an apple fresh off the tree is Washington state! With each breath the air chilled my lungs and the opening of my nostrils felt like they froze. I wasn’t going to be outside long without more protective clothing, so I got right to my tasks.
 
The snow was past crunching under my feet as I walked, it actually squeaked in a way I had never heard before, but this was the coldest air I had ever been in. I put the key in the ignition of my truck and turned it. Wow! The truck started right up. Next, I started the van and the car. They all sat idling in the frozen driveway, squawking, moaning, growling and making all sorts of new noises. Apparently, cars like to complain about the weather as well. I loved it all. The sounds, the feel; it all made me feel very alive. Somehow, the thrill of that morning made we want to experience yet colder conditions
 
I had often heard people tell stories of the temperatures on the north shore dropping down to -40°. It seemed the people weren’t complaining, but almost bragging about the cold. Their stories intrigued me and were part of the attraction that led me to eventually move here. I do love this cold weather season, partially because I have experienced the contrast.
 
In late August of last year, I was in Mesquite, Nevada. Melissa called to give me a heads up. “The high in Mesquite, today is expected to be 116° at 3:00 p.m., so if you can do your business and get out of town before then, that would be best.” She knows I am not a big fan of the hot weather, and I appreciated her tip.
 
In Mesquite, I helped a man named Dewey, set up his new Scamp. It was hot! 113°. That’s hotter than any temperature I have ever experienced. It was so hot, I would sweat just standing still in the shade. I took slow breaths as the air felt heavy in my lungs. When I was done helping Dewey, I needed to stop by the grocery store to get a few things for the trip home.
 
It was all my air conditioner could do to cool break the extreme heat in the cab of the truck on the short drive to Smith’s Grocery. I parked and stepped out of my truck. The scorching heat rising from the black asphalt parking lot nearly took my breath away, yet all the other people were walking about like the heat was no big deal. 
 
On my way inside, I caught up with a lady and asked her, “Excuse me, ma’am. Is this weather hot?”  “Not really,” She replied, “Why?” I explained, “I’m from northern Minnesota, and it seems really, really hot to me.” She giggled a bit, “It’s not too bad.” Somehow her easy composure made we want to experience even warmer conditions.
 
I’ve heard stories about Death Valley, Arizona; they say 125° is not uncommon there. It seemed the people weren’t complaining, but almost bragging about the heat! Their stories intrigued me. I’ve never been any place that hot. I had a desire to go to Death Valley, to experience such heat; I even started monitoring their forecast to see if I could catch such a hot day. Now granted, since I’m not a huge fan of the heat, I would probably just drive there, step out of the truck, maybe walk fifty feet or so, then get back in the airconditioned truck and say, “There. I now know what 125° feels like.”
 
I started thinking about what Dewey, told me back in Mesquite, when I was trying to show him how to light his water heater: “We don’t use water heaters here in the summer.” “Why not?” I asked, Dewey explained, “The cold water coming from the city water works has been sitting in big tanks out in the sun. It’s already hot.” I’d never considered that. In contrast, our northern climate sometimes requires us to thaw water pipes in the winter. The differences are vast and interesting.
 
As much as I enjoy the season of extreme cold in Minnesota, and the thrill I felt just to experience such extreme heat as that day in Nevada, I must admit, spring is always welcome and fall? Fall is just the best!
 
I consider myself blessed, that in the past five months, I have been able to feel both the hottest and coldest temperatures I’ve ever experienced. The hottest being 116° and the coldest -35°. That’s a 151° spread in temperatures. While that may seem like a big difference, if you divide that number by 2, it would seem I’m living life at an average temperature of 75.5° and that’s pretty nice by anyone’s standards.
 
Tom can be reached for comment at Facebook.com/tompalen.98
 
 
 



 

​I will openly admit, I am not the most technically savvy person in the world. As a matter of fact, I might even describe myself as somewhat technically challenged. Even with this flaw, I can be quite well organized without the aid of modern devices. The other day was a good example.
 
I needed to go to Superior, Wisconsin, to have my truck’s transmission serviced, then on to Duluth, to run other errands. With a pen and a scrap of paper, (the back side of some solicitation that came in the mail) I made a list of everything I needed to do in town. Arranging my tasks according to my route, would avoid any back-tracking, making the most efficient use of my time. The list was compiled and I was on my way. Mighty proud of myself, I asked, “Who needs apps?”
 
The first stop was the Hammond Street Liquor Store, just barely in Wisconsin, on the south end of the High Bridge that spans the twin ports harbor. I wanted a case of New Glarus Moon Man; a delicious brew only available in Wisconsin. The next stop was Dan’s Feed Bin, to get a fifty-pound sack of sunflower seed for the birds. Dan’s is such a cool place; it’s an old-fashioned feed store. You go inside, place your order and pay at the counter, then take a small piece of paper out to the dock where hired hands will gather and load your order into your vehicle. Old fashioned service for sure!
 
A half-mile away, I dropped the truck off at Superior Dodge. They told me the work would take about an hour and a half. I planned to walk down a couple blocks further to the antique and thrift shops and use this time to find a unique table or stand, upon which I would set the new television I was going to buy – item four on the list. With temperatures in the single digits and a fair amount of wind, the walk was chilly. I zipped up my coat, pulled my hat on snuggly, put on my gloves and started walking.
 
About ninety minutes had passed and I didn’t find anything that suited me, so I walked back to the dealership. They told me my truck wasn’t ready yet and to have a seat in the customer waiting area. Another thirty minutes later, the service manager came to see me. He had an uneasy look on his face. “We ran into a little snafu on your truck.” he said. I smiled and repeated, “A snafu? That is not the news I wanted to hear, but I guess it’s better coming from you than to hear that from a surgeon.” We shared a good laugh, then he explained, “One of the bolts on your transmission pan broke off. The mechanic is trying to drill it out now, but it’s going to be a bit longer than we anticipated.” There were all kinds of things I could have said, but I knew getting upset wasn’t going to correct the problem any faster. I smiled and replied, “Good. It will give me time to catch up on my emails.”
 
I opened my iPad. The messages were hard to read. That’s when it occurred to me, I forgot to put my contacts in today! No problem, I increased the text size, and was able to read them just fine. When I finished my email, I started looking at Facebook to kill time. I wondered how much longer they would be with my truck? I had several more errands to run.
 
About an hour later, the service manager was heading my way again. I glanced at the clock; four p.m., the mechanics are ready to go home and I could tell by his expression, it wasn’t good news. He sat in the chair next to me; that’s never a good sign. “Here it comes.” I thought to myself, “Be cool. Stay calm.” He sighed and said, “He’s having trouble getting the broken bolt out. Your truck isn’t going to be done today.” Oh boy! Here we go!
 
I took a deep breath, then firmly told him, “I live 65 miles from here, and my wife is not going to be happy if I call her to come get me.” “No problem,” he said, “I’m going to fix you up with wheels to get home.” Immediately, I had visions of a rusty 1993 Dodge Intrepid with a bad muffler and windows that didn’t roll up all the way. I was quite surprised and pleased when he told me he was sending me home in a Jeep Grand Cherokee. He gave me the keys and asked, “Are you familiar with the keyless ignition?” I had a good idea how it worked, but the uncertain look on my face caused him to begin explaining.
 
“As long as the key fob is close to the car, like in your pocket, just press the brake pedal and push the start button and you’re set to go.” he said, “Okay.” I answered, trying to remember what he told me. “Also, you don’t have to use the keyless entry. As long as the fob is in your pocket, just put your hand on the driver’s door handle and it will unlock. Pull the handle twice and it will unlock all the doors.” I was trying to take this all in, when he handed me the fob, saying, “I think you’ll like this car; it’s right outside the back door.” “I’m sure it will be an experience.” I said, as I thanked him and walked toward the back.
 
As he said, just outside the door was a beautiful, dark grey, Jeep Grand Cherokee. “This can’t be a loaner car, it looks like new.” I said, while looking for the “unlock” button on the fob, to see if this Jeep would chirp. I remembered he said to just pull the handle and it would open, so I tried it, and the door opened. “Hmph,” I thought to myself, “I’ll bet somebody left this car unlocked.” I sat in the driver seat, pressed the brake pedal and pushed the start button. The motor fired right up. “Hot dang! This is it!” I said, while looking around admiring the beautiful interior. After fastening my seat belt and adjusting the mirrors, I was on my way to Duluth to look at televisions.
 
I noticed, leaving the dealership, both the leather seat and steering wheel were quite comfortable for such a cold day. It didn’t take me long to realize the seats and wheel were heated. Not far down Tower Avenue, they were becoming really heated. I looked, but could not find a button next to the seat to turn off the heaters. Not wearing my contacts was certainly not helping. My backside was now getting hot – uncomfortably hot.
 
I pulled into a gas station and stopped the car so I could focus and look more carefully. I still didn’t see any switches. I opened the door, almost knocking down a man that was passing between me and the car next to me. While I had his attention, I asked him, “Sir, would you happen to know how to turn off the heated seats in this car?” He laughed at me, then leaned inside, over me, to take a look. It was rather awkward; I tried to suck in my chest and pull back deeper into my seat to avoid touching him. Where the radio is in my car, this Jeep has a big screen with all sorts of stuff on it, but without my contacts, I couldn’t tell what any of that stuff was! The man quickly gave up. “I have no idea. This is a lot fancier than my ’06 Chevy pickup. Maybe you should have asked your salesman before you bought a car you couldn’t figure out.” Not appreciating his attitude, nor wishing to explain, I just smiled and said, “Thank you for looking.”
 
I stood up and looked around, not knowing what I was going to do. I noticed the car parked next to me was also a Jeep Grand Cherokee and about the same model year. A young man, probably in his late twenties, was walking toward the other Jeep. “Excuse me, sir…” I said, then after briefly explaining my situation, I asked, “Would you happen to know how to turn off the heated seats?” He chuckled, walked over my way, leaned into the car for just a second, pressed a button or something, then came out and said, “There you go. They’re off.” I thanked him, got back in the driver’s seat, and headed to Best Buy in Duluth – quite comfortably too, I might add.
 
When I got to Best Buy, I was immediately confused by the number of TV’s available. We bought our last TV new, more than ten years ago, and man, have they changed since then. I guess they’re calling them “Smart TV’s” now, which worried me because I was just starting to figure out the remote control on the old one, and now this new one is “smart?” Lord help me! Fortunately, I found myself dealing with a very knowledgeable and patient salesman. He helped me find the unit that suited my needs and demonstrated how user-friendly the remote control was. He made the purchase process quite easy.
 
After loading the new television into the Jeep, I made a couple of real quick stops at stores that were nearby, then started for home. I was starting to worry if this new car was going to make it all the way home. Every time I pulled up to red light and stopped, the engine died. But the weirdest thing, when I took my foot off the brake, the engine restarted again, by itself. I swear, I was hearing that creepy music from Jaws that alerts you something really bad was about to happen. I was committed to getting home at this point, and said a little prayer: “Dear Lord, please help this clunker get me home safely!”
 
About fifteen minutes into the trip home my tushy was hotter than a Texas asphalt driveway in August. I don’t know what that guy did to turn off the heated seats, but I apparently did something to turn them back on! Wowsers! I was still over an hour from home and too embarrassed to stop and ask for help again. I decided to just tough it out and keep going. To make the situation a bit more tolerable, I drove down the highway in six-degree weather with the windows open.
 
It wasn’t long before I bumped something on the steering wheel and the car started talking to me. “There are no phones currently connected.” said the Jeep. “Of course, there are no phones connected,” I responded, “I didn’t connect any. Did you?” The Jeep didn’t answer my question, but instead gave me more directions. “Please say a command. You can say the number that you would like me to call starting with the area code; for example, say, ‘call, 800-555-1212’” I was confused. “I don’t want to call anyone.” I insisted. The Jeep kept talking, “Or, you could say, ‘Call John Smith, or Call John Smith at home.” “Who the heck is John Smith?” I questioned. The Jeep asked, “Would you like me to call John Smith.” “No!” I hollered, I don’t know John Smith and I certainly don’t want to call him!”
 
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one confused, the Jeep said, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Would you like to make a call?” Argh! “No, I don’t want to make a call,” I was frustrated, “I want you to be quiet!” Between the car that would not stop talking, the wind rushing in the windows and my bum being near a temperature that could result in spontaneous combustion at any moment, I was nearing my wit’s end. Then the Jeep said something to the effect, “If this is an emergency, say ‘call 911’ and I can get help on the way.” I immediately shut up.
`
Fearing any use of the numbers 9-1-1, or any response at all might cause the Jeep to have authorities dispatched my way, I kept quiet. No police officer would believe I owned, or even had permission to drive this vehicle, which I couldn’t figure out. I would go to jail sure as anything for stealing a car. I bit my lip and started pushing buttons on the steering wheel like a mad man. If accidentally touching something on the wheel is what started this insane conversation, certainly I could inadvertently hit a button to stop it as well.  While pushing various buttons, I silently prayed, “Dear Lord help me.” Well, as usual, God heard and answered my plea. He sent me a messenger.
 
All of the sudden, a preacher’s voice came blaring through the radio. He was hollering and shouting about hell and damnation; fire and brimstone; talking about the bad things men do on earth, then began reciting the ten commandments. I swear he got louder when he declared, “Thou shalt not steal.” I began weeping and cried for mercy, “I swear I didn’t steal it! The man told me I could drive this car home.”
 
The preacher was talking about demons and evil spirits. I began recalling how the car would shut itself off and started again on its own, and I started thinking, this vehicle is possessed! “We may need an exorcism here, Pastor!” I said. The preacher kept preaching about the fires of hell. The seat kept heating up, my hands were getting hotter and sweating on the steering wheel and I, frankly, was getting concerned! I started digging in my pockets and looking for a basket to make a sizeable contribution. I pushed more buttons, but never could get him to stop, so I heard him out the rest of the way home.
 
When I finally turned on the road to my house, I rolled the windows up, lest my neighbors should hear this commotion and all come running over for the 9 pm revival meeting. In the driveway, I pushed the button to stop the engine, but the preacher kept going. “Enough!” I said to the radio, “If you haven’t got me saved by now, you’re not going to!” As soon as I opened the door, he quit talking. Whew.
 
Though the car and the minister stopped running, the headlights stayed on, for which I was grateful, as they lighted my path to carry in the new TV. From the house, I looked out the window and waited until the lights on the Jeep shut off. I chuckled to myself, thinking, I never even turned those silly lights on – they came on, on their own. I was happy about that, too, because I am sure I never would have figured out how to turn them on.
 
I went to the bathroom sink where I put in my contacts. Ah, that’s much better, I said to myself as I pulled from my shirt pocket, my list for the day and reviewed it. “Beer? Check. Birdseed? Got it. Truck to the shop? It’s still there. TV stand? Another day. New TV? Done. New socks? Got a six-pack. Dog food? June is happy.”
 
Maybe I’m not very tech savvy, Perhaps I am a bit technically challenged, but I smiled as I looked at my old-fashioned paper list. “Ha! This is all the technology I need.”
I started a new list for the next time I have to go into town. The first thing on the list is, “Put in your contacts!” The second item was “Go get your truck back.”
 
Tom can be reached for comment at Facebook.com/tompalen.98