Mother’s Day is this weekend and Mom has been on my mind a lot lately. Although Mom passed away twenty-five years ago, not a day goes by that I don’t think of and often talk to her. Many people whose mothers have passed share this same sentiment. Mom was a great lady; the mother of sixteen children: eight boys and eight girls. I’ve written many stories about Mom, and I’m sure I’ll write many more. But this Mother’s Day, I pay tribute to another mom, Daisy Mae Formby.
I suppose she’s around 40 years old now. Daisy Mae is the mother of seven: one son died shortly after birth, and she nearly lost a daughter after abandoning her at just hours old. Daisy’s offspring were all adopted, or in foster care at just 8 weeks old, or less. In her younger days, Daisy was a bit of a wild child, so to speak. She spent a lot of time roaming away from her home – which was a good home, but Daisy opted to stray anyway, spending most of her time at a neighbor’s home. Before you make any judgements about Daisy, I should tell you Daisy Mae is a four-and-a-half-year-old, short-hair border collie – about 40 in human years. Her story:
Timmy Sr., and Timmy Jr., raise cows in Pearl River County, Mississippi. One day while doing chores, tending the livestock, Timmy found a little puppy in the field with the cows. The pup appeared to have been abandoned, so they took her in and gave her a home, naming her Dolly.
Being a short-haired border collie, Dolly should have been thrilled with her new home; a farm with lots of cows and calves to herd. But instead, Dolly became a roamer, spending most of her time down the road at Dave, and Belinda Formby’s house – frequently spending the night. Dave and Belinda wanted to keep the dog, since it was at their house all the time anyway; Timmy and Timmy agreed.
One day, Dave called the dog Daisy. Timmy asked, “Did you change her name?” Apparently, Dave thought the two Timmy’s were calling the dog Daisy, but her name was Dolly. I’m sure they all had a good laugh about that. Anyway, the dog now belongs to Dave and Belinda, and her name is Daisy Mae.
Not long after adopting Daisy, she was seen crawling under the she-shed in the backyard several times. Belinda was curious what was under the structure that had Daisy Mae’s attention? Could it be an opossum, a squirrel, or a raccoon? Pray tell, it wasn’t a skunk! Belinda investigated.
It turned out, Daisy Mae had seven newborn puppies under the she-shed! Apparently, before her adoption, Daisy Mae wasn’t the only one spending nights at the Formby homestead. Daisy Mae was being courted by Boots, a sire who lived down the road with CW Steward.
Boots was a handsome blue heeler; a bachelor and a patriot! He looked simply dashing when wearing his Old Glory Blue kerchief with bright white stars and trimmed in red. How could Daisy Mae resist his charm? Nature is an amazing thing, how it came to be these two would meet. Unfortunately, nature can also seem very cruel.
A few hours after birth, Daisy removed one of the pups from the litter, leaving him in the driveway. Belinda was advised to take the newborn to the Pearl River County SPCA Shelter.
The shelter has volunteers who would tend to, and care for the pup. A lady named Amber took the male puppy, trying to help him. Sadly, the pup died within a few hours. How is it that Daisy Mae, the mother, knew? The following day, Daisy rejected a second puppy the same way. Again, Belinda took the abandoned puppy to Amber, this time with a much happier ending.
Amber bottle fed and cared for the puppy until it was well and strong. She and several others thought the puppy looked like a little panda, so Amber affectionately named the pup Poe, after the Kung Fu Panda. Amber provided Poe with a foster home for a few months, but with two children, three other dogs, and two cats, it would be necessary to find a forever home for Poe.
Eventually, Poe was relocated to another shelter, where she was adopted. Meanwhile, back at the Formby ranch, Dave and Belinda had a lot of puppies that needed to find homes.
Most of the sibling pups remained in the deep south, not too far from Picayune, Mississippi. Tipsy lives in Carriere, MS, with Belinda’s niece Jenny. Josie is in Hot Coffee, MS., with Belinda’s sister, Kathy.
Two of the puppies now live in Louisiana. Bosco, (the only surviving male) was adopted by Belinda’s son, Hayden, in Prairieville. Mia Blue now resides in Chalmette, LA, with Jodi.
The last pup named Diva, moved about as far north possible from Mississippi; Minnesota – quite a difference in climate for Diva, but she adjusted very well. Today, Melissa and I call this special little girl Nova Mae.
When we adopted a dog online, from an animal shelter that was 1,400 miles away, I never dreamed we would ever know Nova Mae’s mother, let alone the sire, or the whereabouts of all her siblings, except one. That is not luck or a coincidence – that is a true blessing, helped to fruition by Tasha, at the PRC-SPCA shelter.
Melissa chose the name Nova Mae, before we drove to Mississippi. We had no idea Nova’s mother also had the middle name Mae.  When we picked up Nova from the Pearl River County SPCA, we wanted to bathe her. I called Belinda to ask where we could find a pet wash. “Bring her to my house,” she said. “You can bathe her in the laundry room sink.” After her bath Nova Mae and Daisy Mae had plenty of time to romp around the yard together. Even though they had only been separated for a couple of weeks, it was a nice reunion between mother and daughter.
Nova Mae clearly remembered her mother and attempted to nurse a couple of times. But Daisy Mae quickly shooed her away, and re-engaged in play with Nova, chasing balls and sticks. I talked to Belinda today and asked if any of the other pups returned to visit Daisy Mae.
Belinda told me “Bosco visits pretty regularly,” she said. “Hayden is coming this weekend for Mother’s Day. Hayden will be bringing Bosco, who gets to spend the day with his mum, too.”  I wish we could be there with Nova, too.
I called Tasha from the shelter. “Wouldn’t it be cool if we could locate Poe, and get all the pups together with Daisy Mae and Boots for a family reunion?” That would be quite the Mother’s Day for Daisy Mae. Tasha said it would be very difficult to locate Poe, because she was transported to another shelter, but she would look into it. It’s just a crazy thought of mine.
On behalf of Poe, Bosco, Tipsy, Mia Blue, Josie, Nova Mae, and their sweet brother in heaven, Happy Mother’s Day, Daisy Mae. You’re a great mom! Thank you, all the wonderful puppies!

I like nickels and I have a lot of them. I don’t know why, I just do, but I like real nickels. Of course, even real nickels are not really made of nickel. Today’s nickel is about 75% copper. Nickels have been made from various metals over the years. Some nickels were, and still are, made of wood!
A wooden nickel was the same size as a nickel, but, as the name implies, they were made from wood, not metal. Therefore, a wooden nickel had no value as currency. The old idiom, don’t take any wooden nickels, simply means, don’t be fooled by something that isn’t really what it appears to be. But why not?  I’d take all the wooden nickels I could get. I love nickels.  
Most wooden nickels were made as promotional tokens to be redeemed in various retail stores. Others were made to commemorate certain historical, or special events. For example, in 1979 a wooden nickel was allegedly distributed to celebrate the 10th anniversary of Apollo 11.
Apollo 11 was the mission that carried astronauts Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin, Michael Collins, and of course, Neil Armstrong, to the moon. Armstrong reported the lunar module had successfully landed on the moon’s surface and coined the popular phrase: "The Eagle has landed." Being the first man to walk on the moon, Armstong made the famous statement, “That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." There were some very cool things that came from the Apollo 11 mission; no wonder they made a commemorative wooden nickel for the anniversary. Some would say the wooden nickel was very appropriate for the occasion because not everyone believes that Armstrong’s first moonwalk ever happened. Now that would be a big wooden nickel, if it proved to be true.
Some folks claim the whole video of the first moon walk was nothing more than a Hollywood production, a spoof on the public. Conspiracy theorists say NASA orchestrated the hoax to claim winning the space race. Other say it was a government plot diverting attention from the war in Vietnam. Whether the moon walk happened or not, there was indeed a wooden nickel made. As a matter of fact, I read an online article saying that an Apollo 11, 10th Anniversary wooden nickel was sold for $600. Well, that would certainly discredit the idea that a wooden nickel has no real value. I wanted to know more about these nickels, so I checked eBay.
I never found an Apollo 11, 10th Anniversary wooden nickel listed, but I found several other Apollo 11 wooden coins starting at $2.50. Maybe I should buy them all and sell them to the guy who thinks the coin is worth $600. The Apollo wooden nickel is not the only one that caused skepticism in my mind.
The same article claimed, “The Buffalo Wood Nickel of 1926, which imitates the metal-based Buffalo nickel, was auctioned for $322,000.” Holy smokes! I have a lot of nickels at home, maybe I should look through my stash for such a coin. Or is this claim just another wooden nickel? Although I have many nickels, none of them are wooden. I’m not sure when or where I acquired my fondness for nickels, but it has been around longer than any of my three daughters.
“I’ll give you a nickel if you…” – fill in the blank. I don’t believe I’m the one who coined the phrase, (pun intended) nor do I know its origins, but my daughters grew up hearing me say this. “Sydney, I’ll give you a nickel if you hand me my hammer,” Or, “Delaney, I’ll give you a nickel if you bring me a glass of water,” Or, “Annie, I’ll give you a nickel if you bring me the Scoth tape.” I used this line quite often to coax them into doing me a favor, and I still say it today. But my daughters have long since caught on to me.
If one of my kids should hear me say to another person, “I’ll give you a nickel if you….” They quickly jump in to warn that person, “Get the nickel in advance because he won’t pay!” I used to deny their allegations, but as I grew older, I finally came to admit they were correct. I don’t give nickels to anyone. But, that’s not to say I cheat them out of their fee.
Even if a person asks for their well-earned nickel, I won’t give them a nickel. I’ll give them five pennies, or a dime (if they have change.) I’ll even give them a quarter, or a dollar, but they are not getting a nickel from me. No siree. My nickels are going home into a jar on my dresser.  This obsession with nickels has intensified worse over the years.
When paying my bill with cash at a restaurant, or a store, I found myself manipulating the change to get more nickels, even if I had the correct change. For example, say my bill was $18.24, I would give the cashier paper bills, and 29¢ to get a nickel back. But that doesn’t always work.
The other day, my bill at McDonald’s was $11.06. I gave the kid a twenty, a single dollar bill, a dime and one penny. (I had plenty of nickels, I could have given him a nickel and a penny, but this way I would get another nickel back.) The kid handed me a ten-dollar bill, and five pennies. “Excuse me,” I said as he offered my change. “Can I have a nickel instead of all those pennies?”
“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I’m out of nickels in my drawer.” He must have noticed all the nickels in my hand when I poked through my change because he had to nerve to say, “I’d buy some nickels from you if you want to get rid of them.”
I smiled. “You’re not getting any of my nickels, kid.” It might have sounded childish on my part, but I didn’t care. Nobody gets a nickel from me. I took my Happy Meal and went to my seat.
When gas prices were skyrocketing a few years ago, I coined an original phrase: “That’ll be 35¢, I’m saving up for a tank of gas.” This did not replace my nickel bribes I use both lines. Everything is 35¢ or I’m not doin’ it!
When we have a guest over for dinner, at the end of the meal I will tell them, “That’ll be 35¢. I’m saving up for a tank of gas.” When a friend needed a light switch change, I told her, “That’ll be 35¢, ma’am. I’m saving up for a tank of gas.” One day, the wind blew the neighbor’s trash can down the street. I carried it back to his yard, “That’ll be 35¢, Gene. I’m saving up for a tank of gas.” 
“How much does it cost to fill your gas tank,” my wife asked.
“Usually around $70. Why?”
She quickly did the math in her head. “You’ll have to do 200 jobs to get one tank of gas,” she said.
“Wow, that’s a lot,” I said. “I might have to raise my price to 40¢.” But I’ve never believed in gouging the little guy in difficult economic times.
One snowy Sunday morning, I gave two ladies a ride to church. “That’ll be 35¢, a piece,” I said to them. “I’m saving up for a tank of gas.” After mass, the three of us went to breakfast and Bonnie paid for our meals. Her example of generosity and kindness got me. I was humbled and began feeling very generous and giving myself. I didn’t even charge them for the ride back home!
Silver Bay’s forecast was calling for heavy snow while Aunt Di was going to be out of town. “I’ll snow blow your drive after the big snow, and then I’ll clear the drifts before you return,” I told her, and then added, “That’ll be 35¢, Ma’am. EACH. I’m saving up for a tank of gas.”
“Put it on my bill,” Aunt Di retorted. We shared a good laugh about that. Sometimes this line would backfire on me.
One time when Di was already going to Duluth, I asked her to stop at the store and bring me a block of Dubliner Cheese. Di came to our house that night for dinner. “You owe me $5.95 for the cheese,” she said. “Plus 35¢ for delivery!” Can you believe the nerve of that woman! We had a good laugh about that.
Truth be known, just as I’ve never given anyone the nickel I’d promised, I’ve never collected 35¢ for any good deed. Until last week.
I was having morning coffee in Ottumwa with my friends David and Dorothy. Dorothy was a very loyal listener of our morning show back when I was still in the radio business. She brought me a cup of coffee, served in a radio station cup. “You gave me this cup a whole lot of years ago,” she said. “And I still have it.”
“That cup wasn’t free,” I declared. “That’ll be 35¢, Dorothy. I’m saving up for a tank of gas.” We shared a good laugh about that, until I noticed seven nickels lying on the table. I scooped them up and dropped them into my pocket. “And I thank you kindly for your payment, ma’am.”
We were having a good laugh about that. Then Dorothy said to David, “Tom and his darn nickels. If I got the nickel for every time he promised me a nickel to do something, we’d be rich, David!” It was a good morning with friends and good coffee, but it was also time to get to work. As I stood up, I asked Dorothy if she wanted her 35¢ back. “You're darn right I do, mister! You’re not charging me for a cup you gave me as a prize.” I reached in my pocket and gave Dorothy a quarter, instead of her original nickels. Nobody gets a nickel from me; not even if it’s a nickel I swiped from them.
Despite my attempt to heist her nickels, Dorothy asked if I wanted to join her and David for dinner that evening.
The subject of nickels came up again after we ate. “I swear, sometimes my mind is slipping,” I said. “Did I return your 35¢ this morning?”
“You gave me a quarter,” Dorothy said. “You still owe me two nickels.”
I apologized. “I certainly did not mean to short-change a good friend, by two nickels,” I said while reaching into my pocket. I pulled out a hand full of change, poked through the nickels with my index finger, and then handed Dorothy a dime.

I drove my van to the job site, with my trusty canine Nova Mae in the passenger seat. She sat upright as if to assure I was going the right way. “You’re a good navigator,” I said while reaching over to give her a rub on the head. Nova licked her lips to acknowledge my praise, and then continued vigilantly taking in all that was going on outside. The mood felt like the first spring day in a small town.
Two men leaned on the hood of a truck enjoying casual conversation at the gas pumps. A group of kids were playing soccer at the school playground while others were shooting hoops. A teenage boy and girl sat on the swings, making googley eyes with each other; I remember those days. Many people were walking; some alone, and some in pairs or groups of three. Nova paid extra attention to those walking dogs.
I was supposed to be taping drywall for my brother Dan, but the weather in Ottumwa was way too nice to be working inside, especially in the first week of January. I opted to take Nova Mae for a little walk before I started working. I wore a light-weight black jacket and put on a stocking cap; I didn’t want to be fooled by a nice-looking day, only to discover it was colder than I anticipated. Finally, I fastened the retractable leash to Nova’s collar, and we set out.
It was forty-seven degrees outside and the wind was calm. The blue sky had just enough scattered clouds to make it quite picturesque. The back of my dark clothing absorbed heat from the sunshine. I wanted to maintain a steady brisk pace to get some good cardio exercise, but that is nearly impossible while walking a dog.
Nova Mae was like a boat anchor on the end of her leash. She had to stop and sniff every fire hydrant, tree trunk, bush, decorative rock, fence post, utility pole, sign post; any spot another dog had marked, or even thought about marking. In an Ottumwa, Iowa residential neighborhood, that’s a lot of stops!
Without any breeze, and the additional energy used to drag a 57-pound resistant dog, I didn’t walk far before overheating. I removed my stocking cap, tucking it into my back pocket and then took off my jacket. I opened a couple of buttons to loosen my collar, allowing some excess heat to escape.
Soon after adjusting my garments, Nova began turning small, fast circles in someone’s front yard. Finally, she was doing her business. Perhaps we could now maintain the pace I wanted, but not before cleaning up after my dog.
One of the most disgusting things in the world (and possibly my greatest pet peeve) is people walking their dog and not cleaning up after them. RUDE! If you own a dog and it holds a business meeting in someone’s yard, on a boulevard, or any place other than your lawn, it is your moral and legal responsibility to pick up after your pet! And ‘not having anything’ with you, is no excuse. When walking a pet people know that their dog will most likely need to stop, that’s why we walk them. People should have been prepared. No excuses. Period! Rant over.
Because I own a dog, I always have a dooty bag in my pocket; it’s a rare occasion when I don’t have one, and possibly a spare to give to someone who ‘forgot’ theirs. The bags are so flat no one can tell you’re even carrying one. As a matter of fact, I have often found them in my washing machine when removing my clean clothes. (Okay, the rant is really over this time.)
I couldn’t find the bag in my back pocket, so I removed my stocking cap to dig deeper; still nothing. I checked my other back and both front pockets. I looked around the ground in case I had dropped it. I was horrified to discover I had nothing to clean up after my dog. “Oh my gosh,” I feared. “Have I become one of ‘those’ people?” Finally, desperately searching the pockets of my jacket and found a plastic Walmart shopping bag. Whew, crisis averted. Unfortunately, public trash receptacles are not generally found in residential neighborhoods, so I carried the goodie bag with me.
When Nova and I returned to the van, we wanted to keep walking. I left my jacket and cap in the van, and reloaded my pockets with two new bags. I put the Walmart dooty bag under my wiper blade to keep it from blowing away until I could dispose of it properly. Nova and I then continued our walk.
As we walked, a UPS delivery truck passed us. The driver stopped at one house, hopped from his side door, and left a package on the front porch. A few doors down, he stopped again, and then a third time about a block ahead of us. At the stop sign, the brown truck turned right and stopped once more. People must have been taking advantage of after-Christmas sales online. I watched the driver. He would set down his package, ring the bell, or knocking on the door, snap a photo of the package, and then quickly returning to his truck and take off down the street. I laughed.
“I used to do that with my friends,” I told Nova. “We called the game Ding-Dong-Dash. We’d ring the bell, and then take off running, or hide in the bushes. When they came to the door, there was no one there! Sometimes we’d do it two or three times at the same house, but we never wasted time taking pictures; we dashed!” I laughed as fond memories we rekindled.
“One time we played this trick on my neighbor. He was a grouchy man who often yelled from his front porch at kids playing in the street, ‘Stay out of my yard!’ We never even went into his yard because he was mean and we were all afraid of him! Anyway, one time, on a dare, my friend John and I, rang his bell and dashed, three times in a row. We should have left well enough alone, but we went back a fourth time.
“This time, Old Man Olson was waiting with a wooden yard stick, around the corner under his car port. He caught us before we even turned around from the door. Olson chased us away, swinging his stick at us, and vowing there would be trouble if we ever returned! Although we escaped unscathed he knew who we were and he told our parents what we did.
Old Man Olson warned our moms: ‘keep your darn kids out of my yard. Next time I’ll call the police and those boys will end up in a juvenile detention center, where they belong.’ Man, my mom was mad about that. I got chewed out pretty good, and took a few swats from a wooden spoon. But my friend John’s mom just said, ‘The old geezer deserved it.’” Nova and I shared a good laugh about that, and kept walking until we turned right at the stop sign.
I noticed the house on the corner where the UPS truck stopped. The driver left a sizeable box by the front door; it looked like a box that a TV would come in. “That’s a package just waiting to be stolen,” I told Nova. “Package theft is out of control all over the country, even in small towns.”
I recalled a Fed-Ex driver at my house telling me that he takes pictures of every package, to prove it was delivered. I think most delivery companies, and the post office are doing that now because the thefts are so rampant. I’m sure it was costing delivery companies a lot of money when people reported orders never being received. It’s a big problem and I don’t have a solution.
I doubt that consumers are going to accept getting a note on the door, ‘We attempted to deliver your package while you were away,’ and instructing them to come to the office to claim the property. Since most people are working during the day, they can’t be home during regular delivery hours. It’s a big, and serious problem, but some people are finding creative ways to deal with the issue.
I read a story about a guy who ordered a television. When it arrived, he took the new TV into his house. He packaged his old broken television in the same shipping container, neatly sealed the top, and set it back on his front porch. Sure enough, thieves came along and stole the package. The man captured a great video from his doorbell camera. He posted the video on social media, saying, “The thieves got what they deserved and I didn’t have to pay $25 to dispose the old television. I didn’t even have to carry it to the curb,” he wrote. “They offered free front door pick up.” I laughed when I saw his post. Unfortunately, thieves who are brazen enough to steal a package in broad day light, have no shame, no fear of the law, and can be vengeful.
I’ve read other stories where thieves returned to a house where they thought they were stealing something valuable, but the homeowner turned the tables on them. The thieves would smash the used or worthless item, leaving a mess for the homeowner. Of course, the same security cam that caught the thief stealing a package, will capture the return. Unfortunately, the problem has become very widespread with little the police can do about it. As Nova and I continued walking, I thought of one solution that would help. Shop locally.
When you buy from a local shop, you’re helping your local economy. And, if there is no package on your front step, the thieves will have nothing to steal. But I also understand that times have changed, and that’s not always possible. Nova Mae and I finally returned to the van after our walk, where I checked my steps monitor.
“Wow. We walked over three-and-a-half miles! So much for a ‘little walk.’” Considering the time, I thought I should run to Walmart and get a couple of things I needed, before getting messy finishing drywall.
As we drove west on Highway 34, the Walmart bag on under my windshield wiper was flapping in the wind. “I guess I forgot to throw that in the trash can at the job site,” I said. “I’ll drop it in the trash at Walmart.” I told Nova, “Hey, the bag will go back to where it came from!” Nova Mae and I shared a good laugh about that irony. I found a parking space close to the front doors.
Just as I pulled into my space, the car parked in front of me backed out, so I pulled straight through to their vacated spot. “Yeah, Baby! Rock Star parking,” I boasted. I prefer not having to back out of a space when it’s avoidable in case someone is walking behind me in a blind spot.
When I reached the front doors of the building, I remembered to stop at the trash can. Unfortunately, while trying to recall what all I needed from Walmart, I forgot the bag on my windshield, and I couldn’t remember if I locked my doors.
I turned back toward the van, pressing the lock button on the key fob. The parking lights flashed, and the horn honked, so the doors were locked. I could see the bag was clearly secure under the wiper blade arm, and there was a trash can near the cart coral. “It’s not going anywhere,” I concluded. “I’ll toss it after I get done shopping.” When I went in the store I heard a dog barking. It was probably Nova reminding me that I forgot the dog in the car.
I was walking back to the van, carrying two small bags, reminding myself to get rid of the Walmart bag under my wiper. But when I returned to my van, the bag was gone! I recalled Nova barking earlier. She doesn’t usually do that unless someone gets too close to the van; her space.
I suppose some opportunistic punk saw a Walmart bag on a windshield in the Walmart parking lot and thought they were finding something special, and in my opinion, they did!
“This package theft business is getting way out of control,” I told Nova. “Lord, how I would love to see their face when they open that bag of ill-gotten booty, or should I say, Ill-gotten dooty!” Nova and I laughed so hard I could barely speak. “And the best part of all,” I said while slapping my knee and trying to catch my breath, “We won’t be here if they try to return the stolen package!”

When hiring a carpenter, or contractor, you need to determine their qualifications; how much experience do they have; that’s important. Over the years, I’ve learned to ask if theirs was good, or bad experience; that’s more important.
I once had two workers replacing the roof on a rental house of mine. Both men were about five years older than me. Jesse was a drywall finisher by trade, and one of the best I’d ever met.
The first time I met Jesse, I asked how long he’d been finishing drywall. “I don’t know,” Jesse replied. “I didn’t want to work at the hog plant, so I worked summers with my uncle finishing drywall when I was in high school.” He thought for a moment, “I suppose twenty years or so, but some days it seems like 100 years.” We shared a good laugh about that. A few years later, Jesse asked if he could give me a quote to replace a roof on a rental property of mine.
“I thought you were a drywall man,” I said. Jesse explained that he was teaching his partner, Paul, to finish drywall, and Paul was teaching Jesse how to lay shingles. I agreed to consider Jesse’s bid, and meet Paul.
“How long have you been roofing,” I asked Paul.
“About 35 years,” Paul replied. His answer sent up red flags for me because I already knew his age.
I questioned him, “so, you were laying shingles when you were five or six years old?” I could tell my inquiry offended Paul. I didn’t outright call him a liar, but clearly insinuated he was full of bologna.
Paul went on to boast his vast experiences as a roofer, telling me how good he was, and then concluded, “…so don’t tell me how to roof!”
“I’m not telling you how to roof,” I replied, “just verifying how long you’ve been in the business.” From that moment on there was no love lost between Paul and me. Because of the bad chemistry between us I should not have hired the pair, but I liked Jesse and I knew his work ethic. I wanted to help Jesse out, so I hired them anyway.
Paul showed up wearing cowboy boots on the morning they started the roof. “Did you bring other shoes,” I asked. He said that he did not, and inquired why I was asking. “I’ve never seen anyone work on a roof, while wearing cowboy boots. I would think the leather soles would be slippery up there.”
Paul snarled, “Don’t tell me how to roof.”
Paul and Jesse stripped the entire roof. Late in the afternoon, Wormhoudt Lumber arrived with a straight truck full of materials. The driver said, “We’ll need to unload the truck by hand,” pointing upward. “There’s a low powerline overhead the forklift won’t clear.” Paul argued the lift would clear the lines and offered to operate the fork truck. “I’m not willing to risk it, and you’re not allowed to run the lift,” the driver said as he handed Paul an empty pallet from the truck. “Set this over there to stack the shingles; we’ll unload them first.” But Paul said he wanted the decking first, and then the shingles.
“I’m no roofer,” I said, “but wouldn’t it be better to unload the shingles first, and then the decking.” Paul wanted to know my reasoning. “Because the decking will go up first and you’ll have to maneuver every sheet of OSB around the pile of shingles to get on the roof.”
“You’re right,” Paul said, then leaned toward me. “You’re not a roofer, so don’t tell me how to do my job!” Jesse and the driver both rolled their eyes, as they began unloading the truck Paul’s way. With the materials now on the job site, they would start early the next morning.
The next morning, I again questioned Paul’s choice of footwear. “I’ve been roofing, in cowboy boots, for 35 years, and never had a problem, so don’t tell me how to roof.” I’m sure Paul was becoming just as tired of me as I was of him. Still, I couldn’t resist a smart aleck comeback.
“Did they make cowboy boots for five-year-old’s back then?” Jesse and I laughed, Paul snarled as he picked up the first sheet of OSB and started toward the ladder. Paul stumbled and dropped the 4X8’ sheet of decking as he ran into the stack of shingles behind him. I just shook my head.  
I watched as the two carried several more sheets of decking up the ladder and onto the roof, each time awkwardly moving around the pallet of shingles. Finally, Jesse moved the ladder to a different part of the roof. Paul questioned why. “I’m tired of banging my knees on the stupid shingles. It hurts,” Jesse said. “We should have unloaded the shingles first.” I kept quiet.
I did question Paul if they were mounting the OSB with the wrong side up. “Don’t tell me how to lay a roof,” he said. By the end of the day, they had all the decking laid.
I called Popeye, at Wormhoudt Lumber. I told him they laid the OSB smooth side up. Popeye laughed, “What did you do, hire a plumber to put a roof on your house?” We had a good laugh about that. Popeye said it didn’t really matter which side was up. “It isn’t going to hurt the roof; as long as they don’t fall off. The rough side gives them a lot better traction.”
The next morning, Jesse and Paul installed the drip guard, and then unrolled and fastened the felt on the front half of the roof. The roof had two levels; the front of the house was two stories with a single story across the back of the house. Both levels were a steep pitch and Paul was wearing his usual cowboy boots. As he started up the ladder carrying two bundles of shingles, I said, “I’d feel better if you carried those one at a time.”
Paul looked over his shoulder, “And I’d feel better if you’d stopping trying to tell me how to roof a house.” Jesse followed Paul up the ladder with one bundle of shingles.
Paul picked up two more bundles of shingles. He looked at me saying, “I don’t want to hear it,” and started climbing the ladder. As he neared the roof’s peak in his cowboy boots with slick leather soles, he slipped.
Paul fell forward, dropping both bundles. The bundles of shingles teetered on the peak. “Oh shoot,” he screamed as he started falling down the roof, unable to regain his footing. He desperately tried to grip the roof with his hands or feet, but the smooth soles of his cowboy boots, would not grip the smooth surface. My jaw dropped as I watched helplessly from the yard. There was nothing I could do.
I thought the chimney would stop him from falling to the lower roof, but he was veering to the left. Maybe Paul would catch the ladder to the left of the chimney, on the lower roof, to stop his fall. But he nearly got back on his feet, then stumbled and fell to the right, tumbling onto the lower roof top. Paul continued to roll down the steep pitch, and then finally, over the roof’s edge. Fortunately, the edge of the roof is only about seven feet above the ground, and there was a three-foot-tall stack of shingles below.
Just as Paul landed flat on his back on top of the shingles, the two bundles near the peak dislodged, and started sliding down the slope. I prayed they would get caught on the chimney. The first bundle lightly snagged the edge of the brick chimney, which stopped it. But then the second bundle crashed into it, knocking it loose. Like pucks on a shuffleboard, both bundles were in motion again. They jumped to the lower roof and were now headed toward Paul.
The first bundle slid off the roof barely clearing Paul. It hit the edge of the bundle pile, and then slammed flat onto his chest. It sounded like a locomotive releasing steam as the weight forced the air from Paul’s lungs. The second bundle didn’t have as much momentum; the corner of the bundle landed on the first bundle, right over the center of Paul’s chest. There was no doubt, the first bundle landing flat, kept the pointed corner of the second bundle from crushing Paul’s chest, and probably killing him. Everything was happening so fast, and yet seemed to be in slow motion. The situation was surreal.
Somehow, I was running down the yard toward Paul. Jesse appeared out of nowhere; I didn’t even see him come off the roof. Paul was motionless, making no effort to move the bundles, and I was worried. Jesse and I each lifted a bundle from Paul’s chest. I called his name. “Paul? Paul?” His eyes were open and moving, but he didn’t answer. He looked terrified! Suddenly, Paul took several desperately deep breaths, gasping for air.
“Paul,” Jesse said. “Paul, are you okay, man?” I said I was going to call an ambulance. Finally, Paul spoke.
“No,” Paul snapped, still gasping for air. “No am…no am…no ambu…lance. No.” I repeated that I should call an ambulance. “No,” Paul yelled. “I…I’m okay.”
“Paul, you could have broken ribs, or internal injuries,” I said, but he insisted there would be no ambulance. He was still lying on the shingles, and asked for help standing up. “I don’t want to move you in case you’re hurt,” I said.
Jesse extended a hand to Paul. Then said to me, “Look man, he said he doesn’t want an ambulance. Leave him alone.” I was thinking there could be a liability for me.
By now twenty minutes had passed and Paul was up and walking around. “Okay, no ambulance,” I said. “At least let me take you to the ER and have them check you out.”
“Give it a rest,” Paul snapped. “You’re not going to tell me how to roof, and you’re sure as heck not going to tell me what to do.” Then he picked up a bundle of shingles, turning to the ladder. I was becoming agitated with Paul, and pulled the bundle from his shoulder.
“Good enough,” I said. “I’m not going to tell you what to do, or how to roof. But I am going to tell you how to dress, and you are not going back on my roof until you get rid of the cowboy boots. You need rubber soled shoes.” Paul left for the day, and Jesse continued laying shingles.
Paul came to work the following morning with brand new rubber soled work boots. I watched Jesse and Paul finish the roof. There was no doubt in my mind, Jesse was the better roofer; Paul was just a front man who blew a lot of smoke.
A couple of years after they finished my roof, I ran into Jesse at a convenience store. We chatted for a bit and I asked Jesse if he wanted to give me a price on another roof. “No way, man,” he said. “I’m not doing roofing anymore. I asked him why, telling him was good at it.
“Do you remember when Paul fell off your roof,” Jesse asked. How could I forget. “Well, that scared the crap out of me. I thought he was dead, Tom.” I perfectly understood what Jesse was saying. “When we finished your roof, Paul returned the boots to Walmart; he said they didn’t fit right.
“Well, we did a couple more smaller roofs after that. Then we started another steep roof like yours, and Paul was wearing his cowboy boots again. Anyway, he slipped on the roof and dropped a full sheet of OSB. The decking came sliding right at me and knocked me down like a bowling ball. I fell on top of the OSB and was sliding down the roof like a saucer sled going down that hill at Wildwood Park. I thought I was a goner, until the OSB hit a vent pipe. I grabbed the vent and the OSB went over the edge. It scared me to death. Tom, I ain’t never fell off a roof while finishing walls. I ain’t been on a roof since then.”
I asked Jesse, “Why was Paul was so adamant about not having an ambulance come that day? He could have been seriously injured.”
“He probably should have been dead,” Jesse said. “But you ever seen an ambulance go anywhere without a cop showing up? Paul didn’t like cops too much.” Jesse continued, “Paul didn’t have no thirty years roofing, but he talked a good line and could get roofing jobs. Most of Paul’s experience was doing stuff that kept him running from the cops.”
I asked Jesse, if he was still working with Paul. “Nope, I ain’t seen him in over a year. Last I heard he was back in prison.”
“Wow. So, Paul’s was not good experience,” I said.

Melissa and I were on our way back to Minnesota after visiting her parents in South Carolina, for Thanksgiving. Ten hours on the road was enough for the day; we were tired and stopped for the night at the rest area near Henryville, Indiana. I had recently built a bigger bed in the back of our van and purchased a new, more comfortable mattress. Man, we slept great!
Although I love walking with Nova Mae in the morning, I did not relish the thought of climbing out from under the covers of our new, warm, comfy bed. “Nova is asking you to get up,” my wife said, nudging me with her elbow. “Come on, Tom. Get up. She needs to go potty.”
I got out of bed, put on my jeans, a flannel shirt, my North Face, and stocking cap. The temperature on the dash board indicated it was 27 degrees outside. “You need a heavier coat,” Melissa suggested. Unfortunately, I was fooled by northern Minnesota’s very mild fall weather with daytime highs in the mid-forties when we headed south. I failed to consider it may not be so nice upon our return in late November.
I fastened the leash to Nova’s collar. “This is the only coat I brought,” I confessed “Come on baby girl, let’s go,” I said to Nova while quickly closing the van door before a lecture on preparedness could begin.
At first, it wasn’t too bad outside, of course the wind was currently at my back. The auto parking circled the rest area building. I figured I would walk about six laps around the perimeter of the auto parking area. The first lap went well, although it was cold walking into the wind. Nova tugged toward the van, “We’re doing six laps Nova,” I said. She gladly kept going.
Nova enjoys these walks and frequently stops to sniff the smells in the grass. I find myself often saying, “Leave it, Nova,” while giving a little pull on the leash. Usually she will let it go, but sometimes she is more insistent to sniff about. Giving a firmer tug on the leash, I said, “Come on, Nova. This is our second lap – you’ve already sniffed all those spots and it’s too cold for messing around. Let’s go!” I didn’t have any gloves with me and my hands were really starting to get cold
The wind blew hard in my face causing my eyes to water. As we rounded the corner toward the van, Nova paused to see which way I would go. “We’ve only done two laps,” I said. “We have four more to go.” Tears were streaming down my cold cheeks, causing them to sting a bit even with the wind at my back. Still, we pressed on starting lap number three.
Less than half way into lap three, my hands were really cold. I was trying to pull them up inside the sleeves of my fleece jacket, but it was too awkward, especially holding Nova’s retractable leash. “This is it, Nova. This will be our last lap; I’m going back to the van. Just then Nova started walking faster, almost running.
“You wanna run, baby? I’ll run with you,” I said. The faster I ran, the sooner I would get back into the warm van. I was doing pretty well keeping up with Nova, although she wasn’t running nearly as fast as she’s capable.
We rounded the last corner. I was pouring it on; giving it everything I had in the final sprint to the finish line – the warm van. We were on the final stretch and that’s when it happened. I saw it coming, but couldn’t do anything to stop in inevitable.
A darn squirrel ran into the road ahead of Nova. It was as if he wanted to join the race to the van. “Nova, LEAVE IT,” I yelled as I tried to slow down. But it was too late, my words fell on deaf ears. Naturally, since I was running too, Nova Mae assumed I wanted to chase the squirrel with her. She gave a strong lunge forward, pulling hard on the leash. I felt my torso getting ahead of my feet. I should have let go of the leash, but I didn’t. Instead, everything was getting faster; I knew I was going down. To make matters worse, I was running downhill.
Despite my high forward speed, the world seemed to start moving in slow motion. My brain was well-aware of the situation, and I had very detailed thoughts. “Run faster,” I said aloud, thinking if my feet could just catch up to my chest, I would be able to bring myself upright, but I was no match for the speedy canine. Instead, I saw the concrete getting closer. As my body was closing in on a forty-five degrees angle to the Earth, I remember noticing the pavement’s coarse finish and thinking, “If I don’t save myself fast, that’s going to shred the flesh on my palms.”
If I could get my left hand on top of the hard green plastic casing of the retractable leash, I could slide on it and save one hand. But Nova lunged forward again, jerking the leash out of my hand. I started thinking, “Don’t hit your head, Tom. Do not let your head hit the pavement.” I honestly thought how good it would be to be wearing a football helmet at this point.
My feet were still trying to run as I clung to a glimmer of hope for recovery. But just then I felt my foot catch an uneven seam in the pavement. There was nothing more for me to do, except prepare for impact.
With my brain still functioning in slow motion, I began using my pilot skills. “Lower the landing gear,” I said as I reached my hands forward. At this point, I was pretty sure I looked like a baseball player preparing to slide into home plate. I could feel my flesh being ground away as my palms made contact with the pavement. “Man, I wish I was wearing gloves,” I said.
Next my knees landed on the concrete. “There goes a perfectly good pair of jeans,” I thought. Then, I felt my feet hit the ground behind me but it was weird. I felt like I was sliding on the tops of my feet. It seemed like I slid for a long way, finally coming to a rest.
I laid motionless on the cement. “Am I alive,” I asked myself. “I don’t think I hit my head,” I said. “But did my face hit the street.” I felt around my face and then looked at my finger. “Hmm, no blood. That’s a good sign.” I could have laid there even longer, but suddenly thought, “What if there’s a car coming? I need to get up now.”
Just as I was trying to get up Nova returned to lick my face. “Are you alright, Dad? That was a nasty fall. What happened?”
Still lying face down on the ground, I looked up into Nova’s eyes, and slowly said, “Get. Away. From. Me.” Nova stayed by my side anyway. As angry as I was with her in that moment, I was still glad she stayed with me. I stood up to begin the physical inspection.
First, I felt around my face and head. I looked at my fingers, again finding no blood.  I examined my palms, expecting them to look like ground hamburger, but they really weren’t too bad. They weren’t scraped; the wounds were more like punctures, and they weren’t bleeding either. I turned my hands over, “How did I land on my palms, but managed to scrape the top knuckles on hand, and top of the knuckle on my right thumb?” Perhaps after the initial contact I lifted my hands, shifting my weight to my chest and knees.
Next, I checked the front of my North Face jacket; it had a couple of scuffs, but no tears. My jeans were not ripped or shredded as I thought they would be, and my knees did not hurt at all. “I guess my denim jeans saved my knees,” I said. Then I looked at my shoes. I scraped the canvas on top of my shoes and ground down the rubber edge on the tips. Strange. I considered all the injuries I could have sustained, and yet, nothing really hurt, or was stinging. I felt I was saved by guardian angels.
I leaned down and picked up Nova Mae’s leash and we continued walking back to the van. “Did you see that squirrel that jumped in front of me, Dad? He did even look where he was going,” Nova said. “I almost had him, Dad, but he ran up that tree next to the van.” Nova kept talking, but my mind was elsewhere. It was strange that I wasn’t hurting. I started wondering if I actually fell or just imagined it. I was really cold now and laying on the ground didn’t help! Nova and I continued toward the van.
Once inside the van I told Melissa what happened. She had a barrage of questions “What? Why were you running? Are you okay? Are you bleeding? Did you hit your head? Is Nova okay?”   
“Is Nova okay?” That question threw me for a loop, after all, it was Nova who put me on the ground, not the other way around. “Yeah, Nova is fine,” I answered sarcastically. “And the squirrel got away, so he is doing okay, too. I have no doubt, Nova would have had him except she was dragging a 190-pound man on a leash behind her.”
Although I didn’t feel any pain right after I fell, my hand started to throb as I warmed up. Maybe being so cold had slowed my metabolism, and sense of feeling. Melissa got the first aid kit. My palms started to bleed a little. My wife handed me a wipe, “You need to clean those cuts.” My palms really stung as I wiped the wounds clean.  The packets of antiseptic wipes reminded me of those little towelette we used to get when we ordered Kentucky Fried Chicken.
We had not had breakfast yet and I was hungry on top of being cold. “Boy, KFC sounds really good right now,” I said.
“What? Are you sure you didn’t hit your head,” my wife looked deep into my eyes. She said she was just checking my pupils, but I think she was flirting with me. Next, she dressed my wounds with triple-antibiotic ointment and band aids. All the band aids made my hands look much worse than they really were. After treating my hands, and warming up more, my knee started to burn.
I rolled up my pant leg. There was quite a red patch just above, but adjacent to my knee cap. “How did I scrape my leg without my knee touching the ground first?” This whole fall did not make sense. Melissa wanted to look at my knee for ‘medical reasons,’ but I think she just wanted to check out my legs. “There’s no time for flirting. It’s not bleeding and doesn’t need a band aid,” I said while unrolling my pant leg.  “Besides, we still have ten hours of driving to get home. We need to get moving.”
As we drove north toward home, my fingers started to ache and my arms were feeling the effects of the fall. My neck started getting stiff, too, probably from holding my head up so that it wouldn’t hit the ground. I wanted to stop and rub some Aspercreme on my sore muscles, but my ego was getting the best of me and I didn’t want to admit I was sore.
Then I started wondering, “Why do I have Aspercreme with me anyway?” Hmm. “Maybe I can’t take a fall like I did when I was a teenager.” That bothered me a bit; am I getting older and didn’t realize it? “Naw,” I said to myself. “If I fell like that when I was fifteen, I still would have skinned my hands and knees. I’m doing just fine.”
We made a few stops on the way home, and I had time to get out and walk around. I was feeling pretty good again, although my hands still hurt.
Finally, around 9 p.m., we pulled into Superior, Wisconsin. Melissa had a photo order to pick up at Walgreens on Tower Avenue. It was cold outside, and spitting snow. I parked on the far side of the parking lot by the grass so that Nova Mae could have a little break, too. The snow was starting to accumulate in the grass, but not on the pavement yet. “Can we go for another run, Dad,” Nova asked.
“No,” I snapped with a scowl. Meanwhile, I kept an eye out for squirrels. “Come on, Nova. Go potty and get back in the van. I want to get home before the roads get bad.” I put Nova back in the van, and then went into the store to get Melissa’s order.
I was in the store for a while so I sent Melissa a text explaining: “They’re busy, and the lady had trouble finding your order. I have it now, I’ll be out in a minute.”
Melissa replied with just two words and a smiley face: “Don’t run.” Smart aleck.
Just outside Walgreen’s front doors, I waved at Melissa in the van. She waved back, so I knew she was looking. I took off running toward the van; hopping and skipping my way down the sidewalk while waving her pack of photos in the air, as if to say, “Look at me! Look at me running in the snow!” In front of the van, I jumped in the air and did a few spins. Then I walked to her side of the van and handed her the photos through her window. “Did you see me running, Honey?”
Melissa rolled her eyes. “You’re a dork,” she said laughing as she rolled up her window. She took the envelope of photos and started looking through them.
As I was walking back to my side of the van, I slipped and almost fell in the wet, slippery, snowy grass! But I caught myself on the hood of the van before going down and stayed on my feet. I quickly looked at my wife in the van. Fortunately, she was buried in her photos and didn’t see what almost happened. “Ain’t nobody gonna tell me not to run. I ain’t old yet...,” I muttered as I climbed into the van.
In final hour driving home, my back started to ache. I wondered if I had pulled a muscle while jumping and spinning in the air, or when I slipped in the grass? I could sure use some of that Aspercreme, but she would definitely notice it’s distinct aromas.

​In August of 2023, I traveled to Texas to visit my sister Patti and brother-in-law Bill. This was a different type of trip. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and yet I knew exactly what to expect. The feeling was bittersweet. I wanted to see Patti and Bill, but also knew this would be the last time I would see Bill.
Bill was in the transitioning stage under Hospice care, his cancer was winning the battle, and soon he would take to his place in heaven. I was going to Texas to help my sister anyway I could in these final days of Bill’s time on earth.
When I arrived at their house, Patti told me several things I could do to help. Two particular directions stuck with me: “Don’t slam the microwave oven door,” Patti said. “It causes Bill to jump and wake up. And if you need something, please don’t ask me where it is, just dig. You can find it on your own.”
My sister Patti and I have a lot in common, and we have plenty of differences. We can debate and argue about things like what day of the week it is. On this trip I would go out of my way not to argue about anything with my sister; I would just do what I could to help her.
Patti’s very organized, I am not. It was my habit to ask for things like ‘Patti, where do you keep your…’ and she would always be able to tell me exactly where to find what I was looking for. Understandably, her mind was on Bill. When I would ask for something, she would answer, “dig.” If I told her I looked and couldn’t find something she would answer, “keep digging.” And so, I did, eventually finding what I was seeking. I helped where I could around the house, and especially with caring for Bill.  
August 11, 2023, the Lord took Bill home. He passed at 4:34 in the morning. Even though Patti and I both knew it was coming, there was still a shock and disbelief - it was hard. I anticipated some difficult days of conflicting emotions; days of sadness and joy, solace, peace, and turmoil. Bill was no longer suffering, and for that we were grateful, yet still, a part of us was not ready to let go.
I wanted to plant a tree in Bill’s honor, but my sister wasn’t on board with that idea. (Yet.)
I stayed with Patti until the end of August to help her with projects around the house, also just to be there for her. I returned to Texas in October for Bill’s celebration of life. Bill had served in the Navy and had a military service.
There is something about the guns firing a salute, and the hollow sounds of the bugle playing Taps in the distance, that cuts to the very core of ones being. As soldiers folded the flag, and presented it to Patti, I felt her loneliness. The reality set in again, Bill is no longer with us. Farewell Bill.
The next time I went to visit Patti was in March of 2024. Each time I visited, Patti would have a “list” of things for me to do. I looked over the list, and locked on to what I considered the most important task, to mount a flag pole in the front yard. “I ordered a flagpole,” Patti said, “but I’m not sure it’s what I want. I want an American flag that is regal.”
Each night Patti would take her dog Bronson for a ride on the golf cart. I would ride along while Patti showed me flags that she liked around the neighborhood. “You’re not going to be happy with the flagpole you have,” I told Patti. “It’s too scrawny.” When we got back to her house I packaged the pole for return.
Over the next few days, we looked at numerous flagpoles. Finally, we ordered a heavier one that came with a small gold ball for the top. The ball looked kind of cheesy to me, but it can be hard to tell from a picture online what you’re getting, so we ordered a different top for the pole. I also ordered a better solar lighting system so that we would have some options. The heavier flagpole came with a 2.5’X4’ flag, but it could handle a larger flag than other poles, so I ordered a 4’X6’ flag.
Patti would ask me almost daily, “When are you going to mount the flagpole?” I was taking my time, contemplating the project.
Finally, one day I placed a large flower pot in the front yard. “What’s the pot doing in the front yard,” Patti questioned. I explained it was where the flagpole should go. After a bit of discussion, we moved the pot this way, then that way, then the other way, and finally put the pot pretty much where it was to begin with. I went to the garage and loaded the wheelbarrow with a shovel, posthole digger and a few other tools. I chuckled as I pushed the shovel into the ground, “Dig!”  
The installation directions said to dig a hole about twelve inches around and fifteen inches deep. After digging the hole, I didn’t feel it was good enough. I considered this flag and pole a memorial, or tribute to Bill for his service in the Navy, and I wanted it to withstand hurricane forced winds given the proximity to the Gulf of Mexico.
The soil was pretty sandy (less stable) and part of my plan to have a regal look was to use a larger flag, which would create a higher wind load on the pole. I imagined I heard Patti saying, “Dig,” and so I picked up the shovel. Soon the hole was what I wanted, 22” wide and 24” deep. It was time to mount the pole, but I wasn’t quite ready.
I went into the house and asked Patti for a memorial folder from Bill’s celebration of life. Patti wanted to keep the few programs she had left. She was also concerned about me leaving enough time to finish the project. Without a program, I took a pen and paper and wrote a note:
Someday, someone is going to take this flagpole down, but before you take it down, I want you to know for whom this pole was mounted. Bill Marshall, my brother-in-law was born September 3, 1950.
Bill was a veteran, a Lieutenant in the U.S. Navy, flying surveillance aircraft. He was married to my sister Patti for almost 40 years. They have two sons, Robb (Lynzey) and Ren (Lauren), and two granddaughters, Kathryn, and Ember. Bill was a Continental Airline Pilot for 30 years.
Bill was a good Christian, husband, father, grandfather, neighbor, and friend. He was a patriot who loved his country. He passed away August 11, 2023. This flagpole was erected March 18, 2024. The flag has been proudly flown in his memory since then.
When you take the flag down for the last time, please say a prayer for Bill, and all veterans who have served our country.  
I signed the note and put it inside three Ziplock bags to keep it dry. I scratched out a small indentation in the side of the hole, (just dig, right?) placed the baggie, and then positioned a piece of clay tile over the note before filling the hole with concrete.
It is my hope that someday down the road, when the concrete is removed from the earth, the time capsule will remain for someone to find and they too will know about Bill, for whom the flagpole was mounted.
To Lieutenant Bill Marshall, and all who served and protected this great nation, thank you, you are not forgotten. Happy Veteran’s Day.

​I don’t remember who started it. I suppose it might have been me, although I’m not usually one to instigate trouble. Regardless of who started it, it’s been going on for years, and it’s still going on.
The first time I remember it happening, my wife had done something that annoyed me. I’m sure it was nothing big, but it was something because I felt a need to react. I went to the bedroom. Our cat at that time, Salem, was sleeping on Melissa’s flannel pajama pants, which were neatly folded at the foot of the bed. I moved Salem, unfolded the pajamas, tied a knot in the right pant leg near the foot opening, then re-folded them. I put them back where I found them and put Salem on top to resume his nap.
Later that night, I was folding laundry in the bedroom. Melissa came in to get ready for bed. She slid her left leg into her pajamas, then her right. Her foot obviously wouldn’t go through. “What the…” Confused, she immediately looked at me with suspicion.
“What’s wrong?” I asked innocently.
With an accusing tone, she said “Someone tied a knot in my pajamas leg!” 
“Really? A knot? In your pajama pants? Who would do such a thing? Maybe it happened in the washing machine.” She wasn’t buying it. “I saw Salem laying on them earlier. Maybe he did it. He’s quite a prankster, you know.”
Melissa scowled as she untied the knot, put on her jammies, and climbed into bed. I put the rest of my clothes away, turned off the light, and got in bed myself. “Goodnight, honey.” I said sweetly, suppressing my laughter, trying not to make a sound.”
“Stop laughing, you’re shaking the bed,” she said.  A few mornings later, I found a knot in one of my favorite socks…and it’s been going back and forth ever since.
Once a garment has been sabotaged, you have to wait a few nights, preferably more, before retaliating. If you respond too soon, they will be expecting it, thus nullifying the element of surprise. Patience is key here. Revenge is sweet, but it must be properly aged like a good wine.
Melissa eventually conceded defeat or was just tired of the game. She hadn’t returned fire for months or even a year. Then, a few weeks ago, she was in bed reading on a Sunday night. I was hurrying to finish up a couple things. It was late, and I wanted to get to bed; I had an early dentist appointment the next morning. I brushed my teeth and went to the bedroom to put on my pajamas. That’s when something went awry.
I slipped my right leg into the flannel pants and was already lifting my left leg – but my right leg wasn’t through yet - it was like something grabbed my foot. With my other leg already in motion, gravity took over. My upper body started making its way to the floor. Instinctively, both my hands clenched tightly to the elastic waistband on my pajamas as if that was going to save me. With my feet tangled in the cloth, I stumbled a couple steps forward, bent over, bouncing off the side of the mattress. I let loose of my britches just in time to grab a handful of the bedspread, saving myself from crashing to the floor. I landed on my knees in a nearly perfect position to say my evening prayers.
I caught Melissa peeking over the top of her book, watching this spectacle with delight. She quickly turned her eyes back to the pages, appearing aloof to my situation. I quietly thought, very funny Melissa, but I wasn’t about to give her any satisfaction by saying that out loud. She pretended to be engrossed in her book, trying to stifle her laughter.
I pulled myself to my feet, standing next to the bed. My pajama pants were on the floor, and my legs were still tangled. I retrieved them, untied the knot, and then put them back on. I hesitated while I inspected the other pant leg, just to be sure.
I turned off the light and crawled into bed. Melissa closed her book, set it on the nightstand, and then turned off the lamp. “Goodnight, honey.” She said sweetly, suppressing her laughter, trying not to make a sound.
“Stop laughing; you’re shaking the bed,” I told her. I laid awake thinking; plotting. Perhaps I would chain and padlock her car to a tree in the morning. She would have to call me while I had a mouth numbed by Novocain; I would try to tell her where the key was hidden. I drifted off to sleep remembering, don’t rush things. Let the revenge simmer…it will be all the sweeter…zzzzzz…
Several days passed. On Friday morning, after Melissa left for work, I was making the bed.  Her old, worn, brown hoodie sweatshirt was lying on the bed. I folded it, noticing the hole in the armpit. I had an idea to surprise her. I went to my sock drawer and pulled out my needle and thread. I started stitching on the brown fabric, but all I had was white thread. It was very noticeable and looked terrible.
I called Aunt Di. “Would you happen to have any dark brown thread? All I have is white. I could come by in about an hour for coffee and do my sewing while we visit.”
“I do, and I would love to,” Di told me, “but I won’t have time for coffee today. I need to finish a couple things and go to my quilt club at one-o-clock.”
Di is a member of the Faith Lutheran Church Quilt Club. They meet every Friday afternoon in Silver Bay, Minnesota.  They make beautiful quilts to sell during the local Bay Days celebration, raising money to purchase material for the club. They also give high school seniors, foster kids, and the Salvation Army quilts. They provide free quilts to vets at the Veteran’s Retirement Home. My Uncle John occasionally joined them for coffee and told me they were a nice group of ladies.
“I could meet you at your quilt club, do my sewing, and join you for coffee there,” I suggested.
Di said she would like that very much. “I think the girls would get a kick out of meeting you.”
When I arrived, the ladies had just finished a quilt. They folded and hung it on the wall racks with the other completed quilts. They laid out another large piece of fabric, taping it down to the surface, then a layer of fiber filling, and finally, the quilt top. It had orange and black Halloween theme patches and fall colors all sewn together. It was really neat.
“I went ahead and threaded it for you,” Di said, handing me a needle with a tail of brown thread. Then, she climbed a two-foot step ladder and crawled across the tabletop toward the material.
“Didn’t your mom teach you not to climb on the furniture?” I chuckled.
Di explained, “Karen usually does this, but she couldn’t be here today. I get to do it since I’m the next youngest person (78 years old).” I asked what she was doing, “We use push-pins to hold the layers together where we’re going to tie it with yarn. We can’t reach the middle of the quilt from the floor, so we climb on the table to do it.”
Being taller than the ladies of the quilt club, I reached the middle of the quilt and put my finger on a spot. “You mean like here?” I chuckled.
I was face-to-face with Di. On her hands and knees, she glared over the top of her glasses. “Don’t you have something to do?”
The ladies continued to work; I told them an original joke I made up. Nobody laughed. “I don’t like that one.” Di said, “Tell them the one you told me the other day.” I did, but again, nobody laughed. When I mumbled something about this being a tough crowd today, Di asked, “Shouldn’t you be sewing your shirt?” The ladies all laughed about that.
I sat on a stool, turned the brown hoodie sweatshirt inside out, and lined up the two edges I wanted to stitch together. I pushed the needle through the fabric, pulling it out the other side. I gave it a light tug, then started another stitch. Di observed from the table. “I thought you were fastening on a button. If I knew you were sewing a seam, I would have put a little knot at the ends of the thread.
“It’s no problem. This is working just fine.” I said and kept stitching. Then I asked, “Do you have more of this brown thread?” Di told me where the thread was. I pulled a long piece and threaded it through the eye of the needle. I pulled the two ends together, tied a little knot, and resumed my work.
When Di came to the quilt table, she came over to inspect my work. “Your stitches are nice and evenly spaced, but they could stand to be a little tighter together.”
“I don’t want them too tight.” I said, explaining, “I’ll probably have to pull them out tonight.”
Confused by my comment, she leaned in for a closer look. Di wrinkled her face, “What are you doing?”
“I’m sewing the face shut on Melissa’s favorite hoodie,” I announced proudly. A couple more ladies came over to see. One asked why I would do such a thing. I explained our tradition and how it had died out the last year. “Melissa restarted it by tying a knot in my pajama leg on Monday. I’m just upping the ante a bit.” I went on to explain, “I sewed it shut at home with white thread. The seam really showed, so I tore out the stitches and called Di to see if she had some brown thread.”
Di quickly defended herself, “I thought he was sewing on a button!”
“I never said what I was doing. I simply asked if you had any brown thread and that I would meet you at the quilt club.” I replied.
“Don’t you involve our quilt club in your nefarious deeds!” Shelby said, drawing a good laugh from the other girls.
After pulling the last stitch through, I cut the thread and turned the shirt right-side-out to show them my work. Most agreed that I did an excellent job. They all laughed when one of them said, “It’s a shame to waste good stitching on such foolishness.” I wondered, why can’t I get them to laugh like that?
I asked Di if I could have some more thread. “I think you’ve done enough sewing for today,” she said.
“I was going to repair the hole under the arm while I’m here.” Di looked at me with skepticism. I held the sleeve up, showing the hole. “Seriously, I was going to fix this.” Di was reluctant but pulled off another stretch of brown string and threaded the needle for me. I finished mending the hole. The ladies, ready for their break, began migrating toward the table for coffee and snacks.
I hadn’t formerly met all the gals in the quilt club, so I introduced myself. Arlene said, “I’ve heard all about you.” Bev said, “Di told us about you.” Hmph. I wondered, told you, or warned you?
I told the ladies a story: “Melissa was a photographer for the newspaper. She bought a new pair of black dress slacks for a big photo assignment, but the legs were too long. I hemmed and pressed them for her. My ability to sew very well might have been why she married me.” I said.
Bev commented, “Well, it certainly wasn’t for your sense of humor.” The ladies and I all laughed about that.
After we had ice cream bars, I folded the sweatshirt and said I needed to get home. The girls said I could come back anytime, then returned to the quilting table.
At home, I set her hoodie at the end of the bed, then went about my business. A few hours later, Melissa walked into the kitchen wearing her old worn, brown hoodie. I had to fight off any smirk or sign of emotion. She finally started laughing. “You goof! I thought I was drunk and must have put my shirt on backward. I felt the front for the pocket, then figured out what you did.” We shared a good laugh about that.
“Did you notice I fixed the hole under the arm?”
She lifted her arm to look. “Hey! You did!” She said with excitement, “Thank you, honey.” Then she gave me a hug.
We had a fire in the woodstove that evening and watched a movie. The house was pretty warm at bedtime, so I slept in my boxer shorts. At about four in the morning, I woke up feeling chilly. I was going to put my pajama pants on in the dark so as not to wake my wife, but I felt something odd – almost like a package a new T-shirt would come in…or maybe a new pair of pajama pants. Did my wife surprise me with new jammie pants tucked inside my old pair? I carried my PJ’s to the bathroom.
I turned on the light, excited to find the present my wife left for me. “What?” Someone used black duct tape to seal off not just one but both legs of my pajamas! “Boy! That woman just never gives up.” I said as I pulled the tape from the flannel. I was going to ball the tape up and throw it away, but I had a better idea. “There’s no sense in letting this duct tape go to waste.”
I lifted the lid and seat on the toilet and used the black sticky tape to securely fasten the seat to the bottom side of the lid, then closed them together. I snickered, “Let’s see who’s laughing when someone sits on an ice-cold porcelain rim in the morning.”
I returned to bed, trying hard not to laugh or make any noise. “Stop laughing, you’re shaking the bed.” Said the sleeping person next to me.
As I lay there, I thought to myself, I will have to come up with some new material before returning to the Quilt Club.
…to be continued…

​Melissa and I celebrated our anniversary in Scotland this year. It reminded me of a story from a decade ago. 
Melissa and I had planned a full day, so we decided to go to the earlier Mass at 8a.m.  After church, we went to Second Street Cafe, for breakfast.  
Pulling into the parking lot between Bailey's Office Supply and Hotel Ottumwa, we took the last space available; a diagonal space between two sedans.
Melissa has always been methodical in her protocol for disembarking the vehicle...I mean to say she's slow to exit.  I recalled advice I got from her friend, Nicole Johnson, years ago when Melissa and I first started dating: "Don't even open your door, until Melissa has one foot out of the car!" Although Nicole could have advised me to wait until Melissa has two feet out, I've learned to adjust.
I got out of the car too early. While waiting for her outside, I crouched down behind my car.  When Melissa finally came around the end of the car, I jumped up, lunging toward her waving my hands in the air like a monster, "Raaarrrhhh!!!"  I screamed.
"You're such a dork,” she said.
"Maybe," I conceded, "but you jumped."  We had a good laugh over that, then went inside to eat.
We talked about our wonderful day, the day before - it was our anniversary. Melissa and I celebrated the day in Van Buren County.   
We had lunch at the Bonaparte Retreat, in the old grist mill on the edge of the Des Moines River.  After lunch, we stopped by Rhea Huddleston's house. our friend was moving her antique shop and Addie May Fudge business to a new building.  It was fun to catch up with Rhea, and see the progress they had made restoring their classic Victorian country home.
On the way home, we visited a few shops in Bentonsport, and the flea market vendors where Melissa found an antique cast iron owl lantern.  She really liked it, but I was firm as we would be moving to a new state soon. ”We don't need any more stuff to move to Minnesota, especially a cast iron trinket.” But, having fallen in love with the owl, Melissa had already settled on a name.
After I put Oliver the Owl, along with a few pumpkins and gourds in the car, we went on to Keosauqua.  The small southeast Iowa town still holds many fond memories from my youth. It still seems  weird not having the metal curly slide in the town’s park, and the old iron trestle bridge spanning the Des Moines River has since been replaced with a boring modern concrete bridge.
Although the fall colors had not come in yet, it was fun to drive around the Villages of Van Buren County again.  Still, Melissa and I agreed, the northwoods of Minnesota with peaking fall colors, was where we wished we could have celebrated our anniversary.
Our conversation turned to where we were six years ago, prior to that morning.  We were having breakfast at the Northern Rail Traincar Inn, a really neat place.  
The rooms are built in old railroad boxcars sitting on sections of real train tracks.  Imagine an old-fashioned train depot with the roof that covers about half of each railcar to protect train passengers from the elements of weather.  This is what the Inn looks like.  When you walk down the corridor, you feel like you're on the platform of a train station, with cars on both sides.
When planning our wedding, we had called the manager of the inn. “We’d like to rent all 17 rooms for our family, on our wedding weekend.” At first Mary Alice was understandably skeptical, wondering if we would fill all the rooms. “Yes,” I assured her. We’ll rent all your rooms and the rest of my family will stay at the motel in Two Harbors.” (I come from a very large family.) In the end, they accommodated us nicely with all of their rooms.
Because ours was a destination wedding, we opted for a family reunion/party at the inn, rather than a traditional rehearsal dinner for just the wedding party. Cindy, the Rail Car Inn host, provided us with a bonfire.  Tents were set up to serve food and beverages.   We had the whole place to ourselves and it was an amazing night.   When the rains came, we moved the party indoors to the lobby, but Melissa and I seized the opportunity to have a special dance in the pouring rain.
After our wedding reception the following evening, at Glensheen Mansion in Duluth, the festivities continued at the Northern Railcar Inn.  
The morning after our wedding, our family gathered sporadically in the breakfast area.  Many of the family opted to venture out, visiting places like Split Rock Lighthouse, Gooseberry Falls, The Cross River Falls, or just drive the northwoods country roads taking in the amazing fall foliage.
As we continued to reminisce about that very special time in the northwoods, we agreed that was where we really wanted to be for our next anniversary - the perfect place. Then we made plans to travel north the following week before the colorful leaves fell in the autumn winds.
The more we talked, as I looked across the table at my bride, the more I realized, I was already in the perfect place for our anniversary.  I was with the most beautiful, amazing woman - my wife, my partner and my best friend.
From Minnesota to Iowa, Scotland to Nova Scotia, Ontario to the Carolinas, Melissa and I have celebrated our anniversaries in some very special places. But the most special place yet, is wherever we are. Any place is just fine...as long as we are there together.

​I've heard it, and I'm sure you have, too. If you and I have both heard it, then most likely everyone knows it, and if everyone knows it, it must be true: You can fix almost anything with duct tape.
Duct tape has saved many situations. I've repaired broken boxes and broken windows. I have wrapped duct tape around a blown-out shoe. I attempted to seal the breach in my britches until I could get to Toni's Alterations on Market Street for an emergency repair. I've even known people to hem their pants with duct tape. Although I have not done it, I've seen people attempt to stop a plumbing leak with duct tape. (Everyone knows that black electrical tape works better on water leaks.)
I've used duct tape to fix my glasses when I didn't have white medical tape. Some paper towels and duct tape are just what the doctor ordered, or a sliced finger on a worksite. (Again, black electrical tape works better; it's more flexible on the finger, but I didn't have any.)
Duct tape has been the primary fabric in many Halloween costumes. Although it doesn't bend well at the elbow, wrist, knee, or waist, duct tape has wrapped many mummies. (I wonder how they go to the bathroom.) Communities have held races where boats had to be made of cardboard, or milk jugs that had to be fastened with duct tape. Its list of uses goes on and on.
I wonder how many pieces of furniture, in offices and at home, were held together with duct tape when the fabric gave out? Duct tape has been a big part of the upholstery industry since its invention. And how many boat, motorcycle, or snowmobile seats are duct taped at the seams? I've seen people who wouldn't have windows in their car or even a front seat to sit on if it wasn't for duct tape. Duct tape can fix anything.
A guy often parked his car on Main Street in Ottumwa. If I remember correctly, the car always looked good to me; it was a blue Chevelle about a '67 model. The car had very distinct stripes on the side, like a rainbow of different colors in the shape of a Z from the back to the front of the vehicle. It always reminded me of the band ZZ Top's car. I wondered if the guy who drove the Chevelle was a 'Sharp Dressed Man?' I digress. One day, I got close to the car.
It appeared to have rust holes that were covered with duct tape. Then, the whole car looked painted in blue latex house paint, probably with a roller! The stripes were made with colored duct tape! The guys did a great job; from across the street, it looked great. Another significant achievement for duct tape.
Duct tape is quite possibly the greatest invention since aspirin and sliced bread, so of course, it was invented by a woman, Vesta Stoudt. Vesta was from Illinois, but I've seen a museum when passing through Avon, Ohio – the duct tape capital of the world.
For all its attributes, duct tape cannot fix everything. For everything else, there are Snickers bars.
"Packed with roasted peanuts, nougat, caramel, and milk chocolate, Snickers Candy handles your hunger so you can handle things that don't relate to hunger at all." In fairness, I did not write that line; I found it on a Snickers website, but I could have easily written it. I love Snickers.
I figure a SNICKERS bar is like duct tape for the soul. Let me give you an example: I was shopping at the Aldi grocery store in Duluth. The young lady running the register looked like she was having a rough day. So, I picked up a SNICKERS bar at the checkout lane. After she rang up my groceries, I handed her the candy bar and said, "This is for you." She looked at me, somewhat puzzled, then asked me why? "You've been working hard, and I figured you deserve a treat on your break."
"Are you for real," she asked. I assured her I was.
"Here," I said, handing her my receipt. "You can have this to show your boss the Snickers was paid for." Then I smiled, "I just want you to know that your good work is both noticed and appreciated. Thank you." That's when the girl came flying around from the back side of the register.
"I just gotta give you a hug, mister," she said, embracing me. "No one ever came through my line and thanked me for doing my job – let alone bought me a Snickers! I love Snickers!" The younger cashier, who was a few inches taller than me, continued to squeeze the stuffin' outta me. Now, you can put the stuffing back in and patch the hole with duct tape, but to get the stuffing out – you're going to need a Snickers bar. A similar situation happened just the other day at Target in Hermantown.
Given the choice, I will take a live cashier over a self-check-out lane every time. That's what I did at Target.
I was the fourth person in line, but the cashier, Isabelle, was moving along, getting people checked out and on their way. The customer Isabelle was helping was meticulous in loading and rearranging her bags into her cart and then moving toward the front door.
As she finished with one customer, Isabelle greeted the next, "Did you find everything okay? Will you need any plastic bags today?" Isabelle rang up a couple of items and went to put them in a bag when she noticed the previous customer had set one of her bags back on the counter and left without it. The cashier called out, "Ma'am, you forgot one of your bags."
The previous customer was a little older gal, but she moved as swiftly as I did and was near the door. Isabelle held up the bag, calling again, "Ma'am…" but the woman did not hear her. Isabelle grabbed the merchandise bag with cat-like reflexes and sprinted to the front doors.
The automatic doors were already open for the lady when Isabelle caught up to her. The older lady looked puzzled and checked her cart. Then she smiled, accepted the bag, and went on her way. Isabelle rushed back to her register. I'm sure she felt good about what she'd just done – I would have.
"I'm sorry about that," the cashier said to the waiting customer. But the customer seemed perturbed as if inconvenienced that she had to wait a moment. The expression one has after doing a good deed immediately left Isabelle's face. The next customer said nothing about the situation, so I picked up a Snickers bar.
Isabelle greeted me, "Did you find everything okay? Will you need any plastic bags today?" She rang up each of my items and then reached for the Snickers bar.
I held the candy bar, "Can you ring this up separately, please?" After I paid my bill, Isabelle rang up the Snickers bar and handed it to me with the receipt. I handed the Snickers bar back to Isabelle.
She took the candy bar, asking, "Did you want that in a bag, sir?"           
"No," I said. "The Snickers bar is for you for doing such an outstanding job." Isabelle looked confused. Maybe she thought I was poking fun at her, but I was not. "It didn't bother me in the least bit to wait for sixty seconds while you ran that bag to the front door for that other customer."
My comment caught her off guard. "Are you serious," she asked, looking at the Snickers.
"Absolutely. I'm glad you did," I said. "A lot of people would have just tucked the bag under the counter 'in case' the lady came back, but not Isabelle." I smiled, "You went the extra distance, running the bag to the front door. The way that lady's face lit up, I could tell you made her day, and that made my day, too. So the Snickers is for you."
Isabelle gasped, holding the Snickers bar in her hands over her mouth. She tried to say something, but nothing came out. I think she was getting teary-eyed, and I was too.
Here, this kid was just doing her job; when something happened, she made a difference, making her feel good. Then her spirits got knocked down, and then no one noticed. With a simple Snickers bar, Isabelle's emotions shot right back to the top – where she deserves to be. Needless to say, I left Target feeling pretty swell.
I do the Snickers bar thing at checkout counters quite frequently, and this was a good experience, but I have an even better story.
You've heard stories where someone went to a garage sale, bought a picture frame for a couple bucks, then went home and found a million-dollar painting behind the ugly picture in the front of the frame. That kind of happened to me but in a different way. I almost tossed something that turned out to be very valuable.
When we don't have immediate use for something, we tend to quickly deem it to be worthless and throw it in the trash. At least I do; it avoids clutter by doing so. Still, I hate throwing something away that might be used later. Especially something brand new. That was the dilemma I faced one day. Bear with me as I explain how this happened.
When we remodeled our home several years ago, we put tile on the kitchen walls behind the counter. The additional ¼ inch thickness of the tile meant the ¾ inch bolts that come with an outlet would not be long enough. I would have to buy new one-inch bolts, and so I did.
When installing the outlets, I couldn't bring myself to throw away the original bolts. Gosh, they're brand new, I thought to myself. So, I put them all in a small True Value paper bag...another item I kept since I was sure I would have use for it later.
That particular day, I was cooking for the assisted living home in Silver Bay. On my break, I went home to look at the work I had completed in our kitchen. There sat that bag of bolts on the counter. I began debating with myself, and I was answering!
"Just throw them away; you're never going to use them," I said. "I might someday," I replied. "They are worthless." I reasoned. "But what if I need one down the road?" I questioned. "You'll lose them before you use them; throw them away," I said, "Besides, they're eight cents. You can afford to buy one if you ever have a need. Avoid the clutter and toss them." I justified. "Okay, I will." I decided and walked the little bag to the trash can.
As I lifted the lid, a light bulb appeared over my head. I had a brilliant idea. I slammed the plastic lid, took the bag, ran to my car, then drove into town.
I went into Julie's Hardware with the small bag of bolts. Making my way to the back of the store, I figured I would find Julie working in her office. I picked up a specific item along the way.
Standing in her doorway, I asked, "Are you in charge of negotiating deals today?"
She answered with a curious and understandably skeptical look, "I don't know. What did you need?
That's exactly what I wanted her to ask. I had rehearsed my sales pitch while driving to the store. I planned to move fast, making her an offer she couldn't refuse.
"I have this bag of 6/32 bolts – ¾ inch long. They came with the outlets I bought for my kitchen, but since I installed ceramic tile, I needed longer bolts. I already bought the new bolts from you, but I don't want these bolts to go to waste." I took a big breath, then rushed back into my spiel.
"There are thirty-five bolts in this bag. You sell this identical bolt for eight cents a piece, making this bag of bolts worth two dollars and eighty cents retail."
I was talking fast, so she couldn't say no...yet. I held up the item I picked up along the way. "On your shelf, you have these snack bags of bite-size Snicker's bars, regularly priced at $1.79, currently on sale for just 79 cents. I am prepared to trade you this bag of bolts for one bag of Snicker's Bite-size candy bars." I finally stopped talking, awaiting her response.
Still puzzled, Julie looked at me, then reached into the bag, pulling out a bolt to inspect it. "They're all brand new, ma'am; never had a screwdriver on them," I assured her, then went for the textbook style close. "I'm sure you can see this is a very attractive offer financially. What do you say? Do we have a deal?"
After briefly examining the bolts, Julie looked at me and said, "Why not? Let's call it a deal." I thanked her, left her with the bag of bolts, took my bag of Snickers, and headed toward the front of the store.
Passing the sale shelf, I picked up two more bags of bite-size Snickers. For just 79 cents each, I couldn't resist. At the front counter, I told the cashier I needed to pay her for two bags of candy. "What about the third bag?" Jesse asked.
"Oh, I traded Julie a bag of bolts for that bag of Snickers. It was a good deal for both of us." I explained, adding, "You can call and ask her if you want."
"That's okay, I believe you," Jesse replied. I paid her for my candy and left.
On the way to my car, I was snickering to myself. (pun intended) I was going to throw those bolts away. Instead, I used them to net a bag of delicious bite-size candy bars - not just candy bars - Snickers bars! I patted myself on the back for a job well done.
I drove back to the assisted living home. Two residents were sitting with guests, enjoying the nice weather. I approached them, opened the package, and extended it toward them, asking, "Snicker's bar?"
"Oh wow, Snickers!" Said the first, reaching into the bag. "I'll have one." Said another. "Yes, please." Said the third. "No, thank you." Said the fourth, explaining, "I can't have peanuts." BAM! Three big smiles, just that easy.
Inside, I offered a Snickers to the boss, co-workers, and residents. Most of them gladly accepted - resulting in lots of smiles. When just one tasty morsel was left in the bag, I asked the staff nurse if a particular resident could have one. "Sure." She said, "If she wants one, there isn't any reason she can't have one."
I offered the last piece of candy to the lady. "What is it?" She wanted to know.
"A little Snicker's bar," I answered.
"A Snicker's bar? For me," She asked in a chipper voice.
"Yep. It's for you," I said.
She smiled as she took the last piece from the bag. "Thank you!" She said, "I like Snickers." Her beautiful smile blossomed from ear to ear when she put the candy in her mouth. It was very touching.
I don't know if you've ever had the pleasure of seeing a 101-year-old woman smile that big, especially over something so simple, but let me tell you...it was a million-dollar smile if I've ever seen one.
Come to think of it, everyone who took a piece of that candy returned a million-dollar smile.
About sixteen pieces of candy were in my bag of bite-sized Snicker bars. That means my little bag of bolts was not worthless...in fact, it was worth about $16 million. I certainly got the better end of that deal, and you won't get that kind of smilage from a roll of duct tape.
By the way, Vesta Stoudt, a woman, invented duct tape. Although I don't know who created the Snickers Bar, it must have been a man. There's a book called Women Are from Venus and Men Are from Mars; Snickers Bars come from Mars, and I think Snickers has done more for humanity than duct tape.

Living in a small town sometimes necessitates going to a larger city for products and services needed. In my case, the larger town is Duluth, Minnesota, about 60 miles south of Silver Bay; usually 140 miles round trip. With high fuel prices and the cost of operating a car these days, it's important to make trips to the city count.
On many of my recent trips to Duluth, I have failed to accomplish all the tasks I had planned. A few trips have been futile; some were my fault, and others were for reasons beyond my control. I was ready and due for a Duluth trip to go as planned and accomplish every task on my list for the day. In baseball terms, I was due for a grand slam!
Just the other day, I had to travel to Iowa. My daughter Sydney called to ask if I could pick up Evelyn after school and stay with her until she got home from work. "Sure," I said. "I can do that."
Getting Evelyn from school would mean leaving my house a little early and on time! Early is not my specialty, and I still had to pack for my trip to Iowa. For once in my life, I did not procrastinate; I loaded the van with a couple of hours to spare. "If I leave now, maybe I could donate blood today," I said. I also needed a haircut and an oil change, but there wouldn't be enough time for all of that.
I pulled out of the driveway and called Memorial Blood Center – unfortunately, they had no open appointments. I was still very early and decided I could get a haircut and an oil change for the van; both were desperately needed.
The Valvoline oil change shop is usually fast, but still, a bit pricey. I had a $25 off coupon, making them about the same price as the regular tire shop where I usually go. Pulling into the Valvoline Center, I saw only one car ahead of me. Awesome! I was in and out with plenty of time to get Ev from school.
After getting Ev, we had over two hours to spend before Sydney got home from work. "Instead of going straight home, I'm going to drive by the blood center to see if I can get a walk-in appointment," I told my granddaughter.
"What does that mean," Evelyn asked. "What do they do?" I thought momentarily, how do I explain this to a seven-year-old without being too graphic and scaring her.
"Well, they poke my finger to get just a drop of blood to test and make sure I'm healthy." I explained. "And then, as long as I am healthy enough, they take one unit, just a small plastic bag of blood."
"Why do they want your blood," Ev quizzed.
"If someone is sick or has an accident and needs blood, a doctor will give them my blood so they can heal and get better. It's a really good way for me to help other people, and it's easy."
Evelyn was very curious about this, "But how do they get your blood, Papa?"
I simplified my answer, "They put a small needle into my arm. It has a tube that goes into the bag. When the little bag is full, they take the needle out, and give me a pretty bandage on my arm, and I'm done. It’s that easy."
"Does it hurt," Ev wanted to know.
"Not at all," I said. "You can come in and watch if you want."
Evelyn wrinkled her nose, "No thanks, Papa. I'll just wait in the car."
I replied. "It takes too long to wait in the car, but they have a nice lobby with chairs and couches. They have tables, too, if you have homework."
While we drove to the blood center, Evelyn shouted, "Banana, banana!" Then she explained, "Whenever you see a yellow car, you're supposed to say 'banana, banana,' Papa." We shared a good laugh about that; I learn new things from this kid whenever I see her. (I honestly did not see a yellow car, but it wouldn't be the first time Evelyn spoofed me!)
Ev waited in the car while I ran into the building to see if they could take a walk-in donor. "Absolutely," the lady said.
I brought Evelyn inside to the waiting area. "Do you want to bring your backpack," I asked. "I'll be about forty-five minutes to an hour," Ev assured me she would be fine without it. I showed her the refreshment table. "You can grab a snack and something to drink while you're waiting." Ev was excited about that.
After my short interview, I went to the lobby to check on Ev; she was fine but hadn't gathered any snacks yet. "I'm okay," she said.
While in the chair donating, I checked to see how long the wait was for a haircut at Great Clips. "Ninety-five minutes?" By then, I would be done donating blood and be at my daughter's house, and Sydney would be home from work. So, I signed in online for a haircut after donating blood.
I'm sure donating blood goes much faster for the donor than one waiting in the lobby. When the blood draw was complete, the phlebotomist asked, "What color bandage would you like today, Mr. Palen?"
"It doesn't matter," I replied. "Whatever you have is fine." Usually, I chose a bright, loud color so people would know I gave blood, hopefully encouraging them to do the same. The phlebotomist wrapped my arm with bright yellow tape, and I smiled.
I walked out to the lobby where Evelyn was waiting. Pointing to my yellow bandage, I said, "Banana, banana!" Evelyn and I shared a good laugh about that. I turned to the receptionist, "Did she clean you out of snacks," I jested.
"Nope, she just had a bag of chips and a Gatorade," the lady said. I told Ev she could have another snack if she wanted one. She opted for a small package with two Oreo cookies. I suggested that Evelyn grab one more package of Oreos for Addison, who would also be home from school soon.
In the car, Evelyn ate her Oreos. "Did you save the other package for Addie," I asked.
Ev blushed. "I saved one Oreo for Addie." I laughed and told Ev to go ahead and eat the last Oreo; we'd get Addie a different snack after school. (Carb queen!)
Back at the house, Addie got home, and soon after, Sydney arrived; she was earlier than anticipated, so I headed out for my haircut. Just as I got into the van, I received a text from Great Clips: "Come on in; we're almost ready for you." Perfect, they were also ahead of schedule.
With a fresh haircut and clean oil, I headed south on I-35 for Iowa. I wasn't in any hurry, so I set the cruise at 70 mph and reflected on the day. Everything went smoothly, and I felt really good about donating blood – I always do.
I did an inventory of what I set out to do in Duluth and compared it to what was accomplished: "Get Evelyn from school; check. Donate blood; check. Get the van's oil changed; check. Get a desperately needed haircut; check." I was pleased, "Hey, I got everything on the list done! Four items on the list – four tasks accomplished. I haven't been able to get everything on the Duluth list done lately.
Then I smiled even bigger. "One trip to Duluth, with one job, to get Ev from school. But the bases were loaded with three more things to do. I swung hard and put it right out of the park; four points were scored. BAM! That's the grand slam I've been waiting for in Duluth!"
It was a great drive to Iowa and I had a tailwind all the way.