I stopped at the McDonald’s in Las Vegas, Nevada to grab a bite to eat and get a large ice tea for the road. I wasn’t far from the Nellis Air Force Base.

Three young people came in, two guys, one gal, in military camouflage fatigues. They got in line behind me.

I checked the thermometer in the van before I came inside: it was 73° and beautiful. I commented to them what a nice day it was, but I am aware they also go out to train in those uniforms with long sleeves, long pants, hot boots and more (not to mention the weight of full gear) when it’s over 100°.

I told them I appreciate what they do and I wanted to get their lunch. They all three insisted that wasn’t necessary, but I told them, “It’s too late. I already told the cashier I was getting your lunch.” One of them explained they were getting lunch for seven people. I still insisted on treating them.

We shared a little conversation. They asked my name and I gave them my card. While I waited for my order to come, I went to get my ice tea. One of the guys tried to swipe his card to pay, but I got there and swiped mine first. (I was quite impressed with my cat-like reflexes and speed.)

Anyway, they thanked me, one saying it was nice that I was “paying it forward.” I thought about that: anytime we support the men and women who serve our country, we ARE paying it forward in a big way! Paying it forward isn’t always with money. There are lots of ways to support our troops that don’t cost anything.

I went to a table and sat down. As the three were leaving, they stopped by my table. Each one shook my hand and thanked me again - in return, I thanked them. Their service to our country is greater - far greater than my small gesture to them.

As they were each shaking my hand, I honestly felt safer, knowing these three wonderful young people are there to protect our country.

May God bless, and protect them - always. 

I don’t remember who started it. I suppose it might have been me, although I’m not usually one to instigate trouble. Regardless 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 to 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 off 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 on, 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 like a good wine, it must be properly aged.
 
Melissa eventually conceded defeat; or just tired of the game. She hadn’t returned fire for months and months; maybe even a year. Then, a few weeks ago, on a Sunday night, she was in bed reading. 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 clinched tightly to the elastic waist band 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; 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 with my legs still tangled. I retrieved them, untied the knot, then started to 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, setting it on the nightstand, 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 in the morning, I would chain and padlock her car to a tree. She would have to call me and with 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 laying 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 quilts to high school seniors for graduation and provide free quilts to vets at the Veteran’s Retirement Home. My Uncle John used to join them for coffee on occasion and told me they were a real 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 table top 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. Since I’m the next youngest person, (at 78 years of age) I get to do it.” 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 to 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 thread.
 
“It’s no problem. This is working just fine.” I said and kept stitching. Then I asked, “Do you have any 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 o 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 a pretty nice 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 [TP1] 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 backwards. 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 thought I would just sleep in my boxer shorts. 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 pajamas 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 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 went back to bed, trying hard not laugh or make any noise. “Stop laughing, you’re shaking the bed.” Said the sleeping person next to me.
 
As I laid there, I thought to myself, I’m going to have to come up with some new material before going back to the Quilt Club.
 
…to be continued…

 [TP1]Elissa 

I had a couple outside projects to finish before winter. The leaves were already turning deep red, bright orange and brilliant gold. I would rather have gone for a drive taking in the beauty of Lake Superior’s north shore, but those fall colors mean winter isn’t far off. I utilized the nice weather to install new galvanized wells around the basement windows.
 
I had done about as much as I could for the day. Melissa would be home from work in an hour, so I gathered my tools. I’d take a quick shower then start dinner. 
 
Inside the back door, our black cat was on the counter with his paws curled in, tucked under his chest. “Edgar Allan, get down from there
.” He closed his eyes, ignoring me. I gave him a nudge, “Get off the counter, Edgar.” He jumped down and ran to the dining room. I slipped off my shoes by the back door, then walked to the living room where June was sprawled out on the couch.
 
“Get off the couch.” I said. She did, then curled up on the rug by the front door. I gave her a rub on the head. "You're the best dog in the world." I told her, then went to turn on the water for my shower.
 
While I was waiting for the hot water, I went back to the living room to get my coffee cup. The best dog in the world was back on the couch. "Off." I told her again. She climbed down, returning to the front door. I love that dog and her innocent ways of acting like she didn’t know she wasn’t to be on the furniture.
 
Carrying my cup to the kitchen, I found Edgar back on the counter. “Edgar Allan! Get down.” He closed his eyes, acting as if he didn’t hear me. I clapped my hands, “Now, Edgar!”  He jumped from the counter, high-tailing it to the dining room, meowing all the way to give me a piece of his mind. I love his subtle ways of letting us know who really runs this house!
 
I poured the last of the coffee into my mug. The phone rang; it was my cousin calling. I went out on the deck where we chatted for about thirty-minutes, then I went back into the kitchen. “Edgar, get off the counter and stay off!” He jumped on the floor and sat on the throw rug. I set my cup in the sink, then walked to the other room.
 
Guess where June was.  I gave her a stern look and pointed my rigid arm toward the front door. Without me saying a word, she slithered off the couch, returning to the rug. I went back to the kitchen, expecting Edgar to be on the counter, but he was laying on the rug by the back door, taking long licks from the middle of his front leg, down to his foot. He ran his paw across his head and face, repeating this several times.
 
I ruffled the fur on his head. “Good boy Edgar, taking a bath. You look so clean and pretty.”
 
Edgar pulled away, “Hey! Don’t touch my clean head with your dirty paws. Now I have to wash it again.” He continued his bath.
 
In the living room, June was licking her paws. I gave her scratch on the ears. “Good girl, washing your feet so you’re nice and clean.”
 
I stood up and smiled. “The dog and the cat are both grooming themselves; it must be bath time!” I started to laugh then said aloud, “Oh crap. The shower.” I ran to the bathroom, June followed close behind.
 
I pushed my hand around the end of the curtain and under the water. “Ice cold. Darn it!”
 
June looked at me, “Are you getting in? It is bath time, ya know.”
 
Edgar, now standing behind her, was snickering, “Yeah, Dad. It’s bath time. Get in there.”
 
Humph. Maybe I’ll just wash up and go start dinner.

I baked three pies, one Granny Smith apple, one strawberry-rhubarb and a cherry pie with a lattice top. I gave the pies to the Lake County Humane Society for their silent auction at their annual fundraiser. I posted photos on several social media outlets to help promote the event. The pies generated a lot of interest, which led to some really fun and entertaining comments and conversations. I enjoyed that.
 
My brother told me the strawberry-rhubarb pie was a waste of time. “No one is going to bid on that thing. Rhubarb is awful; it’s a weed, not food!” he declared. Obviously, he doesn’t like rhubarb.
 
A lady complimented my lattice top on the cherry pie, asking if I was a Master Pastry Chef. I was flattered, but laughed out loud. No, not a pastry chef. Just a guy who found a bag of flour on sale one day and said, “I think I’ll take this home to make some wheat paste,” then later found out I could do other things with flour. Several people commented on the cherry pie.  Another lady asked “Where did you learn to make a lattice top like that?” Her question caused me think.
 
Mom taught me to cook and bake, but she never taught me much about pie crust. Over the years, many people have shared secrets and given me tips on baking, but I don’t recall anyone ever teaching me anything about pie tops. I myself started to ponder, “Just where did I learn to make a lattice top?”
 
I thought back to my days of higher education; kindergarten! (“Higher” because I learned more in kindergarten than some of my other years.) 
 
I suppose it was late April. Mrs. Murphy was teaching us to make May Baskets from construction paper. We made a simple cone shape and fastened the edge with Elmer’s Paste, then decorated the basket. Elmer’s was made by Borden and came in a white container with blue and orange print. There was an applicator wand fastened to the inside of the lid. The wand poked down through the paste even when the jar was full. Elmer’s paste smelled good and it didn’t taste too bad either – but that’s another story. 
 
After pasting a colorful strip of construction paper over the top to make a handle, we could fill our little basket with real flowers, or make flowers from construction paper. I stuffed mine full with early spring grass and dandelions from our yard.
 
On May first, I was supposed to hang the basket on the door knob, knock and run, leaving a cheerful surprise for the unsuspecting recipient. Unfortunately, my little hands didn’t make much noise on the door and we didn’t have a bell on the back door. The grass and yellow flowers proved to be too much weight for the basket and the handle came off on one side. I went inside and handed the arrangement to my mom; she loved it, broken handle and all.
 
In first grade we moved on to more complex, advanced basket making. Mrs. Sales taught us to cut strips from various colors of construction paper. We would lay out the first strips flat on our desktops, then weave different colors through them. Over, under, over under, over, under. The next strip went under, over, under, over, under, over… You had to do it just right, or you’d end up with a mess and a basket that hand no strength.
 
When the bottom was done, Mrs. Sales showed us how to use a ruler to bend the edges upward, then weave more colored strips through the vertical pieces. We folded them to follow right around the corners until the ends of the strip met. After pasting the two ends together, we’d repeated the process with a new strip, thus building the sides of the basket. All I had to do was paste a strip over the top to make a handle and voila! I had just made an Easter basket.
 
Comparing my basket to the one Mrs. Sales made, I was disappointed. I copied her lead all the way through the process, even using the same color strips; pink, green and yellow. But her basket was much better than mine; her weaving was much tighter and there weren’t fingerprints of paste all over hers like there was on mine. My work was sloppy.
 
I remember looking in the bottom of my basket. There were gaps between all the strips, making small square holes. Sand and dirt, small rocks and other things of importance to a first-grade boy, could easily fall through my basket. I remember thinking, maybe I should cut a piece of paper and lay it in the bottom to cover the holes.
 
All these years later, thinking about the floor of that basket, it looked like – well – it looked like a lattice top on a pie. The mystery is solved. It was Mrs. Sales, my first-grade teacher, via my beginner’s art skills, who taught me the concept of making a lattice top for a pie.
 
I smiled, fondly recalling those first-grade memories as I read through the comments on social media about my baking and the cherry pie with the lattice top.
 
The day after the fundraiser, it was good to hear the pies drew a lot of attention. Of the three, the cherry pie raised the most money, but the strawberry-rhubarb pie created the most interest. (That shows how much my brother knows about pies.) It was most gratifying for me, knowing that a little over twenty bucks worth of ingredients and a few hours of my time turned into more than one hundred dollars for the Lake County Humane Society in Two Harbors, Minnesota.
 
I think next year I’ll get crazy and put a lattice top on a strawberry-rhubarb pie! Woot-woot! That’ll create quite a stir. Bidders will go wild and the puppies and kittens will eat really well!
 
Author’s note: you don’t have to wait for a fundraiser. Your local animal shelter will be happy to accept a donation anytime – even today.
​

​After living there for many years and trying corn from other states, I’ve concluded the best sweet corn in the world comes from Iowa. Returning from our camping trip in Ankeny, we brought home extra corn to share with friends and neighbors.
 
When I took a few ears across the road, Bonnie asked me to come inside, “I have something for you and Melissa, too.” She brought a baking dish of something that sure looked good, to the table. “It’s a blueberry dessert I made,” she said, while cutting two pieces, each about three inches square. She placed them on a paper plate, “I’m not going to cover this. The plastic wrap will stick to the whipped topping.” I told her it was okay I was going straight home.
 
Smelling the fresh blueberries, I said, “I hope this makes it home.” Then added, “I don’t think we need to tell Melissa about this dessert, just in case it doesn’t.” We shared a good laugh about that. I thanked her for the dessert; Bonnie and her husband, Kenny, thanked me for the corn. I was barely off their steps when I caught another whiff of those berries. I smiled thinking I sure got the better end of this deal.
 
About halfway on the short walk home, the two pieces shifted a little. Sliding them back into position, I got some whipped topping on me. Obviously, I couldn’t go home with dessert on my finger; it would look as if I had sneaked a sample. Mmm.  The square had a small dent where I pushed it, so I evened out the edge. “Oops, I accidentally got some more on my finger. My bad.” Mmm.
 
At home in the kitchen, I took a fork and cut a small corner from Melissa’s piece and tasted it.  “Oh my. That is good.” I said, then tried another small bite. I took a third bite to Melissa, who was sitting at her computer. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.” I said, then waved the fork under her nose.
 
“Blueberries!” She said with excitement, then opened her eyes and ate the bite. “That’s really good! Where did you get it?” She sprang up from her chair and followed me to the kitchen. Her eyes lit up when she saw two big pieces on the plate – one missing a few small bites. Taking the fork, she tried another bite, as if to give a second opinion. “Mmm. That is so good.” She pointed the fork at the piece we had been sampling and declared, “That’s your piece.” We shared a good laugh about that.
“Bonnie gave it to me when I took them the sweet corn.” I explained.
 
Melissa took another nibble, “Honey, we got the better end of that deal. Go ask them if they need some more corn.”
 
“This is for dessert tonight.” I said, snatching the plate from her and setting it in the refrigerator.
 
With the dessert safely tucked away, I drove to the Finland Co-op to get a couple things I needed for dinner. When I got back, Melissa confessed, “I have to tell you, I already ate my piece of the blueberry treat.” I laughed. Somehow, I knew that was going to happen. I decided to have my dessert before dinner, too.  I took the plate from the fridge and looked at the small piece that remained, about half the size it was when I brought it home.
 
“I thought Bonnie cut the pieces bigger than this.” I said, giving Melissa the stink eye.
 
“Oh,” she smiled, “Your piece had that bite out of the corner, so I evened it up for you.”  Hmph. I ate the rest before anything else could happen to it.
 
Sunday morning after mass there was a pancake breakfast in the church hall. Kenny is one of the cooks for the Knights of Columbus. They don’t always have them, but on this day, they had both regular and blueberry pancakes – I had the blueberries and sat with our neighbors to eat. I learned it was Kenny’s birthday, which gave me an idea.  
 
When I got home, I made a pie. After it cooled, I took it to the neighbor’s house. “I made this peach pie and I wanted Kenny to have the first slice for his birthday.” I told them. Bonnie got a plate from the cupboard. I cut into the pie; it was still warm. The aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg escaped from the flaky crust. I gave them two big slices, then walked down the road to visit another neighbor.
 
Gene was in the driveway working with his tractor and a trailer full of gravel. He said, “Peach pie is my favorite.”
 
I reminded him, “Gene, you told me every kind of pie is your favorite.”  
 
“Well, it is.” He said, “But peach is my favorite, favorite.” We shared a good laugh about that. I carried the pie up to the house where Lois took a plate from the cupboard.  I gave them two big slices, then walked home.
 
Melissa and I enjoy sharing pie with friends and neighbors. It gives us a good feeling inside and it keeps us (me) from eating the whole thing! After dinner we each had a slice of pie, leaving the last two pieces for the next day.
 
I suppose it was around seven p.m., when I walked to the kitchen. Melissa quickly turned away. “Ah ha!” I said, “And just what are you eating?”
 
“Nothing.” She replied, acting suspiciously innocent, but I knew what it was and she knew that I knew that she knew it. She justified, “It was just a tiny bite.”
 
When she left the kitchen, I removed the foil from the pie pan. Her bite left a small divot in the side of one of the slices. “Look at that.” I said, shaking my head. I took a knife and fork from the silverware drawer, “I’ll have to even up that edge...” Mmm.
 

​We were on a mission to find a different pickup truck to pull our Scamp fifth wheel. We wanted a particular brand and model year truck, so it took a bit of looking. After a search spanning from southern Texas to northern Minnesota, we finally found one in the small town of Defiance, in northern Iowa. It wasn’t far from Omaha. The man we bought the truck from told us the highway we were on was the one Bob Seger sang about in the song, Turn the Page.
 
The first line of that song is: “On a long and lonesome highway east of Omaha, you can hear the engine moanin’ out his one note song…” I love the part where Bob sings about stopping at a café. It was in the early seventies – the hippie era. The locals would look at him; a stranger with long hair, then ask one another, “Is that a woman or a man?” I can relate to parts of that song – especially about being on the road.
 
The following week, I would take the truck to the Scamp factory to have a hitch installed. It’s a bit of a drive, but that's no problem. I like to drive and it's always a pleasure to visit the people at Scamp.
 
Rather than leaving at 4:30 in the morning, I hitched our 16' Scamp to the truck, then headed out around eight pm. I would arrive in Backus, Minnesota between 11:30 and midnight. Perfect! I would sleep in the Scamp, then already be in town to drop off the truck at eight-o-clock the next morning.
 
Arriving in Backus, I pulled into the local restaurant parking lot. There are always semi-trucks parked there, so I just nuzzled right in with them. I climbed into bed in the camper, fell asleep and slept like a baby all night.
 
If you've never been to Backus, Minnesota, it's worth the drive. It's a small town of just a few hundred friendly people. Some would say there's nothing to do in Backus...but then, some people can go to the Mall of America only to find themselves bored, with nothing to do. Personally, I like small towns.
 
About 5:30 in the morning, the little town begins to wake up. A semi started his engine, warmed up, then drove away. I laid in bed with the covers pulled up, counting as he shifted through the gears. I got to seven before he was far enough down the road that I could no longer hear him. I went back to sleep.
 
Just before 7a.m., I rolled out of my bed that was so cozy and comfortable I was reluctant to get up at all. After washing up and brushing my teeth, I challenged the cowlicks in my hair. I wetted my hands with water, then tried to smooth my hair, without success. The cowlick was strutting like a rooster on my head. I did the best I could trying to fix my hair, then went into the restaurant for breakfast.
 
The waitress greeted me with a smile and a very pleasant voice, "Good morning!" Each time she looked at me, she smiled even bigger. It was obvious she found me irresistibly handsome. I thought she was flirting with me. If she asked me out on a date, I would have to break her heart, wave my wedding ring finger and say, "Sorry, ma'am! I am spoken for!" Well, that's what I thought at first. Then it occurred to me, the rooster on my head was causing her smiles. Stupid cowlick!
 
I ordered the breakfast special: a ham and cheese omelet with a side of homemade wheat toast and a cup of coffee. The waitress walked by with a plate of sausage gravy and biscuits for another customer. I began second guessing my choice.
 
I thought about changing my order and I did. "Ma’am, could I add a half order of biscuits and gravy to go with my omelet?" I asked? "Sure thing." She said, as she kept walking in stride, looking back over her shoulder and smiling at me again.
 
Breakfast came and I ate...and ate...and ate. Partway into the biscuits and gravy, she stopped by the table, filled my coffee cup and asked, "Did you get enough to eat?"
 
I answered, "You should have stopped me at the omelet!"
 
"I'm not your mom." She replied, laughing, “If I was, I would have told you to fix your hair before leaving the house.” We shared a good laugh about that. I left her a nice tip since she humored me.
 
I arrived at the factory at eight-o-clock sharp. They got me right in, installed the hitch perfectly and had me out the door in far less time than I expected. Since I had extra time, I asked them to install a new kitchen faucet in the trailer. Perhaps with a new faucet, I could better wet down my head and control the cowlick in the future.
 
While they installed the new fixture, I stopped into the office. I wanted to toss my name in the hat to possibly deliver Scamps in the future. "Anywhere around the country would be fine with me." I told the man. He seemed distracted but still smiled as he said, “We have plenty of drivers right now.” He was smiling and yet giving me an odd look at the same time. Maybe I just caught him at a bad time. I gave him my contact information, then headed out the door.
 
Back in the driver's seat, I started the engine. I looked up to adjust my rearview mirror - although I don’t know why. The only thing I could see in the mirror was the front of my camper…and the hair standing straight up on my head. Good Lord! It looked like a plume on the headdress of a Las Vegas showgirl. No wonder he was distracted. I licked my fingers and tried to smooth it down with my hand as I drove off the lot, turning north on Highway 371.
 
I only got about seven miles up the road when I came into the next town and I saw the sign for Viddles and Joe. I don't know why, but this place always reminds me of my friend, Joe. Hackensack, Minnesota claims to be home of the Sasquatch. Most of the stores in town sell some sort of Sasquatch memorabilia and there are numerous life-size, metal cutouts of Sasquatches around the town. Joe is a fan of Sassy. I think he would like it here.
 
The café has good food - especially their pie. I thought about stopping but it was only 10:00 - way too early for lunch. I turned into their parking lot anyway. I could have coffee and write for a while.
 
Inside, I sat at the horseshoe-shaped counter, where I ordered a slice of blueberry pie and a cup of coffee. The waitress sported a big smile as she tried to talk me into ice cream. Pie a la mode sounded tempting, but I refrained. "Just the pie, please." She smiled again, then went to get the pie. I opened my iPad and started writing.  She returned and smiled as she set the pie plate in front of me, asking if I needed anything else.  I smiled back. “No. Just the pie, thank you.” She kept smiling as she walked away.
 
With each bite of the pie my tastebuds danced with delight. Each dance step was overshadowed by another thought: I should have stopped at the omelet. Whew! I was stuffed! I closed my tablet. It was time to get going.
 
When I paid my tab, the waitress gave me a big grin and wished me a nice day. I returned her salutations and was ready to go, but before leaving I stopped in the restroom to wash my hands. I looked in the mirror and saw my cowlick still standing up. “Oh my gosh! It’s still there. No wonder the waitress was smiling.” I cupped my hand, filling it with water, then leaned over the sink, dousing my hair in an attempt to tame the wild beast on my head. After repeating the process several times, I dried my hair with a paper towel. I managed to get the unruly hair to go from vertical, to laying downward but still sticking out from my head at a forty-five-degree angle. It looked like a wing window on a camper.
 
Unable to get my hair to cooperate, I walked through the restaurant as if it was supposed to be that way. I felt like everyone was looking at my goofy hair. I complained to myself, “I’ll bet no one laughs at a Sasquatch if he wakes up with bad hair.”
 
I thought about Bob Seger’s song again; how back in the early seventies he would walk into a small-town café as a stranger with his long hair and the locals would ask one another, “Is that a woman or a man?” I chuckled thinking, if anyone asked me what was up with my hair, I would look at them and say, “It’s a cowlick!” Then I remembered, Bob sang in his song, “… and you always seem outnumbered, you don’t dare make a stand…” I didn’t need to say anything, the people were all friendly, I was just a little self-conscious about my hair.
 
I got in my truck and pulled onto Highway 371, headed north. After pushing a couple buttons on the stereo in my truck, the lonely sounds of a solo saxophone came wailing through the speakers. Bob and I sang together: “On a long and lonesome highway east of Omaha, you can hear the engine moanin’ out his one note song…”

I stopped at Walmart in Fishkill, New York, to get a bottle of Windex. In the cleaning supplies aisle, a lady was carefully looking over a toilet cleaning
brush - her husband was patiently standing by.
 
I suggested, “If you want to know if that thing will work well, you’ll need to put it in his hand to see how it fits.” We all shared a good laugh over that. I walked down the aisle and back, looking for the glass cleaner, but never found it. I asked them, “Do you happen to know where the Windex is? I should think it would be in this aisle with cleaning supplies.”
 
The three of us walked the aisle together, looking, but didn’t find it. We were nearing the end when the lady pointed at the shelves, “It’s right there.”  
 
“Where? I don’t see it.” I said.
 
“It’s on the other side of the shelf; in the next row.” She answered.
 
Confused, I shook my head, “This is why men never have the house cleaned when we’re supposed to. Someone always puts the cleaning stuff where we can’t see it.” We shared another laugh about that.
 
I have no idea how she saw that Windex, I still couldn’t, but I took her word and went to the next aisle. Sure enough, it was where she pointed. I picked up a bottle and headed to check out. At the end of the aisle, I ran into them again. “Did you find it?” She queried.
 
“I did.” I said, “It was right where you said it would be.” As we stood there, I pointed to a full pallet - a big display of Windex right at the end of the aisle where we first started talking. “It’s a good thing those weren’t snakes, they would have bit us!” I declared.
 
She chuckled. “Yes sir, they would’ve. They’d of bit us good.”  We shared another good laugh, then went our separate ways.
 
Heading toward the checkout lanes, I saw a man kneeling on the floor, facing the shelves, holding a bottle of Western salad dressing. His wife was standing next to him with her hands on the grocery cart, “Is it really worth two dollars more than any other brand?”
 
I couldn’t help it – I had to throw in my two-cents worth. “Ma’am, any salad dressing that brings a man to his knees in the grocery store – that’s really, really good stuff. Probably well worth a couple extra bucks, maybe more.”
 
She gave me a cold, blank stare. Just when I thought I was about to be told to mind my own business, she cracked a smile, then burst out laughing. “Okay,” she told her husband, “Put it in the cart.”
 
He got up grinning, “Thanks man.” He said, holding the bottle of dressing my way, “Have you had this before?”
 
Not wanting to tell him western dressing is probably my least favorite, I replied, “I can’t say as I have.” He told me I should try it sometime, then thanked me again for helping to convince his wife to get the better dressing. “Just doing what I can to help people find happiness.” I said, then went about my way.
 
I felt pretty good for drawing a bit of laughter from the two different couples, brightening their day just a little.
 
Near the registers there was another display of Windex. I thought it must be a really good buy for the store to have multiple displays of the same product.  I considered getting a second bottle, but then thought, nah. A bottle of Windex lasts for a really long time - as do the good feelings you get when you share a little happiness - even with people you may not know.

​Coming home from the west coast, I stopped at the Dena Mora Lookout Pass rest area just inside Montana on I-90. What a beautiful area to wake up to in the morning. I took long, deep breaths of the cool, fresh mountain air, then hooked June’s leash to her collar. We would go for a walk but first I needed to drop some trash in the can just down the way.
 
There was a little boy on the sidewalk, holding a bagel in his left hand. He was mighty curious, but cautious about June. He finally asked, “Mister, can I pet your dog?” June was excited about the potential of a new friend, or, maybe it was the bagel. She lunged toward the little boy, startling him and causing him to jump back a few steps.  Equally curious about him, June strained against her collar, pushing toward him and again the little boy backed up. His dad was standing close by.
 
“You can pet her,” I told him, “but you better let your dad hold your bagel. I’m afraid she’s going to try to take it from you.” The dad took the bagel but the little boy, still skeptical, stepped away. Taking shelter behind his dad, the boy kept peeking around dad’s leg, showing interest in my dog. “Maybe you can pet her another time,” I said, “I’m going to take her for a walk right now.”
 
June and I usually walk down the shoulder to the end of the exit from the rest area, then back to the entrance. Near the end where we were going to turn around, we found an old road that went back into the woods. Naturally, we followed the road.
 
A short dirt trail took us from the asphalt down along the stream at the base of the mountain. We enjoyed the shallow water that babbled and splashed over the rocks. June stepped into the stream’s edge for a drink. There were wildflowers of all sorts and colors. Pinecones and other neat treasures were scattered about the ground below the tall pine trees. The road led to the backside of the rest area. June and I would cut through to get back to the car.
 
The dad and his little boy were in the picnic area, under a shelter. They were now joined by mom, a sister and two more brothers. I smiled and waved as we cut through. Still intrigued by her, the boy dropped his bagel in the grass to come follow June. One of his brothers and the little girl joined in line, trailing behind. They were all very curious about this dog, but caution kept them several feet away.
 
I wanted them to be comfortable enough to pet her.  I knew a way to break the ice and put them at ease. I went to the car and got a tennis ball.
 
Excited over the ball, June bounced and hopped backwards on her hind legs all the way to where the kids were. They laughed at her silly moves. I took her leash off and told the kids, “Watch this.”  I threw the ball a good distance.  June ran full speed to retrieve the ball, bringing it back to me. Then I threw the ball high in the air. June positioned herself under the ball, then jumped up to catch it. I faked as if I was going to throw the ball deep again. June ran down the grassy area in anticipation, then turned toward me. I launched the ball to her and again she jumped up, making a spectacular catch in the air, just like a major league baseball player in the outfield. The kids were all impressed by her skill.
 
I showed them how to position their feet in a V-shape, explaining June would drop the ball between their feet for them to throw it.  I warned them the ball would be slimy with dog slobber. They didn’t care.  The first little boy made a V with his shoes. June dropped the ball between his feet and he threw it for her. June gladly retrieved it.
 
Justin, the dad, told me their names were Gavin, Ruby and Samuel – back at the picnic table, looking on, were his wife Amanda and oldest son Jack. The three kids each put their heels together making V-shapes with their feet. Each time June came back with the ball, she would decide who to give it to next. It was entertaining for all and I was amazed how June would rotate turns evenly among the kids.
 
On one return with the ball, June stopped, sniffed something in the grass, then started eating it. It’s was Gavin’s bagel.
 
June hadn’t had breakfast yet. She was hungry and getting tired, but she won’t quit when the ball is out. I told the kids she needed a break and took her back to the car.  I gave her some water and let her rest while I fixed a bowl of cereal for myself, then set June’s bowl of food on the ground. Breakfast alfresco.
 
Gavin was coming closer to see if June was ready to play again. He was eating a fresh strawberry, holding it by the little green leaves. Each of the kids were eating fresh fruit. “Can June come play ball again?” He asked.
 
I answered him, “She just ate breakfast, Gavin. We better let her rest.” Munching on his strawberry, Gavin stood watching us – I suppose to see if I would change my mind.
 
I watched Justin and his family as they packed their coolers in the back of their car. The car was really full. It reminded me of when I was little and we would travel. We didn’t eat out in restaurants. Mom packed food for the trip. We stopped at wayside parks to eat our meals. Modern rest areas didn’t exist yet.
 
A row of short wooden posts with rounded tops and painted white, lined the edge of the gravel parking area. A rope or cable would be strung through them to keep people from driving on the grass. If you were lucky, the wayside park might have a swing set, a slide or an old merry-go-round with wooden seats and a bar to hold on to.  The kind that creaked and clanked as they went around.
 
The slide always had a shiny metal surface. You had to lift your legs to keep from touching the hot metal surface. At the bottom was a worn pit where kids landed. If it had rained recently, the divot would be filled with muddy water. If you were wearing shorts, riding down on your rump, leaning on your back kept your legs from sticking to the slide and slowing you down. One had to be sure to get enough speed coming down that slide to clear the little swamp. There would be trouble for the one who landed in the puddle and inevitably someone would. Mom would snap, “Stay off that slide. We don’t have enough clean clothes for you kids to be getting muddy!” We would move on to the next attraction.
 
Along with my brothers and sisters, we would take turns pushing the merry-go-round in circles. Some kids sat the way they were supposed to, facing the center. The more daring kids would stand on the horizontal hand bar, holding on to the vertical pipe that connected the seats to the top center pole. I liked to sit backwards, facing outward. When the ride got moving fast enough, I would push off and go tumbling and laughing into the grass. There was always a lot of laughter and complaining, because someone took someone else’s seat.
 
Eventually someone would start crying over a lost seat or a bad landing in the grass. That would draw Dad’s attention. “You kids get down from that bar. That’s not how it’s meant to be ridden. If you can’t use it right, then just stay off it.” 
 
Mom would break the tension, “Lunch is ready. Come eat.” Sometimes we would have sandwiches, sometimes she had cold fried chicken. She almost always had a big yellow Tupperware bowl filled with potato salad. Mom made the best potato salad! She always brought apples that came from our apple trees. If we had dessert, it would be cookies Mom made at home – or generic chocolate and vanilla crème filled sandwich cookies. (If dad found them on sale at K-mart.)
 
After a picnic and some playtime, we would clean up the area making sure no trash was left behind.  We would also pick up any other litter or debris. “Leave it better than you found it.” Dad always said.
 
Sometimes, the wayside park would have an outhouse. If not, there was always a bush. If you had to do more than tinkle, a service station with bathrooms outside around the corner of the building would be the next stop. You could get the restroom key from the attendant.  We all piled back into the old Chevrolet Greenbriar van, to head back down the road.
 
It was fun to watch Justin and his family and reminisce about those olden days with my own family. Those seemed like better days. Of course, I have come to appreciate the bathrooms with indoor plumbing in the modern rest areas, too.
 
One of the nicest rest areas in Minnesota is just a mile from our house at Tettegouche State Park.  The next time our grandkids come to visit us on the North Shore, I think I’ll pack a lunch, with fried chicken and homemade potato salad but I’ll take them a little further up the road. Maybe we can find an old-fashioned wayside park with a merry-go-round. 

I filled June’s container with delicious Iams Mini-Chunks dog food and set it by my bag at the front door. Next, I paced my grocery tote. I took the half loaf of bread, but taking the only box of Cheerios from the cabinet would have been rude. Besides, I was going to stop at a store along my way to Seattle, Washington. I put the lid on my tote, loaded the car and we were on our way.
 
We pulled into the Walmart on Highway 34 in Detroit Lakes, Minnesota. I pushed my empty cart to the cereal aisle. A fairly short lady was standing to one side with a heavily loaded grocery cart. Her four children were scattered about looking at things on the shelves. I waited politely. When she noticed me, the lady spoke in Spanish, calling her children, then in English, she said to me, “I’m sorry.”
 
“No need to be sorry. They weren’t in my way.” I said. Nodding toward her basket, I added, “I was waiting to get your attention to see if you wanted to race that thing.” She blushed and said she did not. She grunted a little as she started to push the heavy cart to go about her way.
 
I stood in front of the selection of Cheerios – totally dumbfounded. “When did they come out with these? Frosted Cheerios, because we’re not getting enough sugar in our diets?” I was having a hard time finding just plain Cheerios.
 
I remember when they first came out with Honey Nut Cheerios, but now they have all these new flavors: Blueberry, Peach, Maple and Chocolate Cheerios. I picked up a box of Apple Cinnamon Cheerios. “They already have these – they’re called Apple Jacks.” I said to no one, while picking up another box, “Fruity Cheerios? They already have these too. They’re called Fruit Loops.” Putting the boxes back on the shelf, I shook my head, grumbling, “There are too many kinds of cereal. Can’t I just get some plain old Cheerios?”
 
I finally found them - $3.98 for a medium size box. I questioned, “Why is cereal so expensive?” Then, I noticed the Toasted Oat Rings nearby, that were $1.29. I picked up a box of each. Comparing them, I started to reason aloud. “They’re in the same size box, the packaging is the same basic yellow background and the picture looks the same. They must be just as good. They’re probably even made by General Mills and just packaged in a different box.”
 
Contemplating what to do, I imagined I would soon hear over the loud speaker, “Security, we’ve got a crazy man talking to himself, complaining about cereal selection and pricing. He’s scaring off women and small children. Code three to aisle nine.” I put the box of cheap cereal in my cart and made a run for it.
 
Rounding the corner into the aisle by the tuna fish, I met the same lady with the big cart. I taunted her, “You sure you don’t want to race?” She shook her head no, called her children to come close and moved on. I grabbed some pink salmon and headed for the crackers to put the fish on. Guess who was in the aisle with chips and crackers? Yep, the same lady. “Are you SURE you don’t want to race?” I asked her again.
 
She gave me a real serious look and said, “I might beat you!” She cracked a smile then, started laughing, which caused me and her four kids to also laugh. She grunted again as she put the heavy cart into motion.
 
I grabbed a small package of Keebler Club Crackers, not a very healthy choice, but oh, so good. I pushed my cart through the grocery section to pick up a couple more items, then looked at several other things on the general merchandise side of the store. I decided I didn’t need them and headed for the checkout lanes.
 
As usual, the lanes were backed up. I wasn’t going to use the self-checkout because I had bananas and I always mess up when I have to “look up” an item. While I waited in line, I looked at all the junk they place close to the register – impulse buys people will make while checking out. I wasn’t going to fall for their marketing strategy.  Of course, the candy is there and the Snickers bars were calling my name, but I was strong and resisted. I felt something bump my hand and instinctively pulled my hand closer to my side. Then, something tugged my hand. That got my attention!
 
I looked down and a little boy, maybe four or five years old at best, was standing next to me. In a very soft voice, he said something to me, but I couldn’t understand him. I assumed he wanted me to reach some candy from the top shelf. He repeated himself but I still didn’t hear what he said. I leaned down toward him and he repeated it again. “Mama said to tell you she won.” I had no idea what that was supposed to mean until I stood up, confused.
 
Two carts ahead of me was the lady with the very full cart. She stood behind the cart while her daughters kept unloading groceries, placing them on the conveyor belt as fast as the checker could scan them. With a huge smile, she held both hands up, with fists clinched, shaking them in the air like someone who’s name just got called to “Come on down! You’re the next contestant on the Price is Right.”  She laughed and declared, “I won!” Indeed, she did.
 
I shared in her victorious joy, returning a smile and giving her two thumbs-up. When the cashier told her the total of her groceries was $248 and some odd change, I silently gave thanks that we weren’t racing for grocery bills.
 
The next morning, I fed June, then opened the box of Toasted Oat Rings. I poured some milk over them and took my first bite. They were crispy but there was no flavor at all.  I picked the box up and looked again. They were Toasted Oat Rings and they looked like Cheerios, but they didn’t taste like them. They didn’t taste like anything.
 
I asked June if she wanted to trade her mini-chunks for a bowl of delicious Cheerios? “No thanks, Dad.” She said, “Those aren’t real Cheerios and I can tell by the look on your face, they aren’t very good. Besides, they’re probably already soggy.” She was right.
 
I ate another spoonful of the soggy oat rings. Completely tasteless, I pitched the paper bowl with the rest of the mushy oat rings in the trash can. I should have spent the $3.98 and got the good stuff. Real Cheerios.

​When we first married, Melissa was the photo editor at the Daily News and living in Winona, Minnesota. I was still managing my radio stations in Iowa. I would leave our house in Winona around 2:00 a.m. on Monday morning, to drive to work for the week, in Ottumwa.
 
Our two oldest daughters, Sydney and Delaney, were attending the University of Northern Iowa in Cedar Falls. They shared a house in Waterloo, Iowa, which was right on my way from Winona to Ottumwa. During my Monday drive, I would stop by the convenience store to get a half dozen donuts and a gallon of milk and leave them on their front porch on my way through. I never bothered to wake them because I went through town around four in the morning.  It was a special time in life. I hold fond memories of those stops and the “I love you, Dad” texts that would follow.
 
Last Friday, on my way home from Florida, I needed to stop in Rochester, Minnesota, to take care of some business that would take several hours. Then I needed to get to Duluth before 8:00 p.m. to return a rental trailer. My route would have me driving within a few miles of our daughter Sydney’s house. I was on a really tight schedule and contemplating whether to stop or keep going. It was around 8:00 a.m., Sydney had the day off work for Sister’s Week.  I figured they would still be in bed, so I decided to keep driving.
 
Our three daughters get together once a year for “Sister’s Week,” and Delaney was back from Pennsylvania. Annie, our youngest, was gone that morning doing things to prepare her classroom for the coming school year.  It would be Sydney and Delaney together again in Waterloo. I decided I would go get donuts and stop by their house, just like when they were in college.
 
I rang the doorbell, but nobody answered, so I rang it again and then knocked. Delaney came to the door and let me in. “Stop ringing the doorbell, you’re going to wake the girls.” She whispered with concern. I could see into the bedroom where there were two lumps under the covers. With a milk jug in my left hand and a box of goodies in my right, I gave Delaney a hug and told her good morning!
 
As soon as I spoke, Addison, our oldest granddaughter, heard my voice and sprung up from under the covers. “Papa!” She said in a sleepy, but excited voice. Shaking the other lump under the covers, “Evelyn. It’s Papa. He’s here!” Addison jumped from the bed and came running to the living room, with Evelyn right on her heels. I handed Delaney the milk and knelt down on one knee to embrace the sleepy child in my left arm. Addison threw her arms around my neck and squeezed me tightly. I returned the hug.  Evelyn came running along behind with her arms wide open to join in the group hug. “Papa!” she said.
 
When it occurred to Ev, she was hugging Addison and not me, she scooted around to my right. I gave her a big hug, pulling her in close as well, the box of donuts was still in my hand. With four little arms wrapped around my neck like an octopus, it was a very heartwarming greeting. Lots of hugs and kisses were shared and I got a little misty-eyed, feeling such pure love from these two.
 
We went to the kitchen, poured a few glasses of milk, then opened the donuts. Evelyn was all over the cake donut with babos (blueberries) while Addison went right for the long john with chocolate frosting and colorful sprinkles. We shared some wonderful conversation.
 
Evelyn had finally learned to say Aunt Delaney’s name, but was a little too bashful to say it for me. I pointed to Sydney and asked, “Who is that?”
 
“Mommy.” Evelyn replied. Then I pointed at her sister, asking the same question. “Addison.” I pointed to myself, “Papa.”
 
I pointed to Delaney asking, “Who is that?”
 
“Denaney.” She answered, then raised her shoulders, bashfully putting her finger inside her bottom lip. I gave her kudos and another hug.
 
I asked Addison what she was going to do today, “I’m going to get a pony.” She stated with authority.
 
“A real one?” I queried,
 
“Yep. A real pony. I’m going to get one today.” She confirmed.
 
“Do your mom and dad know about this?”
 
Addison smiled. “Not yet, but they will.” We shared a good laugh about that, as I wondered where they were going to keep the new pony – Addison was very determined.
 
We went outside to throw a few balls for June. I was on a tight schedule and needed to get going. We said our farewells, then June and I got in the car and started down the street. I gave two toots on the horn and waved my arm out the window. As we drove away, I could see them in my rearview mirror, standing in the front yard, waving back. 
 
Annie would join them again in a few hours, but for now it was Sydney and her little sister, Delaney; Addison and her little sister, Evelyn – together for Sister’s Week.
 
As I turned onto Highway 63, heading north to Rochester, I thought how glad I was to have taken time to stop by.
 
My business in Rochester took longer than expected, so June and I hustled along and cut our breaks short.  As it turned out, we made it back to Duluth, arriving at the trailer rental store at 7:50 pm. Everything was going my way.
 
Even if it would’ve meant making another trip back to Duluth and another day’s rental on the trailer, it would have been well worth it. I wouldn’t want to have missed out on that morning and the special greeting - one I’ll remember for the rest of my life, that came unexpectedly during Sister’s Week.