​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.

​Over the years, I have owned several different canoes. I bought my first when I was in my early twenties. It was a used, red Coleman-brand canoe with two paddles, I got it for a mere $40. Used Coleman canoes usually sold for over $100. I was so excited when I bought my canoe on that beautiful spring day that I failed to notice the red duct tape on the lower right side near the floor. As a matter of fact, I didn't notice the duct tape until my feet were getting wet on our maiden voyage. What a bummer!
I took the canoe home, removed the red duct tape, and revealed a two-inch gaping hole. I guess that didn't bother me so much, as I did not notice the same hole inside the canoe. (Red tape on a tan interior.) I cleaned the side of the canoe with lacquer thinner and covered it again with regular grey duct tape. (I was clean out of red.) But I was smarter than the snake oil salesman who sold me the watercraft; he applied his duct tape vertically.
First, I applied duct tape vertically over the hole. Then, a second layer horizontally to streamline as the boat passed through the water. Pretty clever. The tape worked well for about thirty minutes in the water, and then my first mate (my dog Harry) said, "Dad, I'm getting wet." Time for a new plan, and I had an idea.
I loaded the canoe into the back of my car: A 1970 Chevy Impala Kingswood Estate station wagon with real (fake) wood siding. With the seats down, the canoe would go in the back with only about six or seven feet hanging over the tailgate. I secured the canoe by tying it to the luggage rack on the car and fastened a red flag to the bow. I drove the canoe to Wapello County Tire to see my friend Gary Coberly.
I told Gary about the duct tape repair and that it didn't work. "Duct tape will never hold water," Gary said.
"Yes, I know that now," I replied. "So, what if your tire guy put a rubber tire patch over the whole?"
"I don't think it will hold," Gary answered.
"I considered that," I continued. "But what if we put a patch on the inside first and then another on the outside?"
Gary was understandably skeptical. "I guess you can try it, but I don't think it will work."   
The tire guy agreed with Gary. "I don't think it will work," Todd said, "but it's worth a try." Todd didn't have a patch large enough to cover the hole, so he made two round patches from an old innertube. Each patch was large enough to overlap the hole by two inches. When Todd finished the repair, it sure seemed like the patch would hold.
I went into the office to ask Gary how much I owed him for the repair. "Take it out and try it," Gary said. "And if you don't drown when the canoe sinks, come back and pay me nine dollars." We shared a good laugh about that.
Harry and I launched the canoe in the largest lagoon in Ottumwa Park. We went fishing for two or three hours, and the patch was as water-tight as a frog's ears. (That's not exactly how the old saying goes, but you get the point.)
The following day, I went to see Gary for two reasons: 1) to prove I was still alive and 2) to pay him the nine bucks I owed. Todd had successfully repaired the hole; the only problem was that it looked hideous, with a big black rubber patch on the red paint. Now that I knew the patch would hold, I began addressing the appearance.
I went to O'Hara Hardware and bought two small cans of spray paint: red for the outside and tan for the inside. In my blissfully naive youth, I didn't realize there were so many different shades of red and tan, but it still looked better than the black circles.
Harry and I enjoyed fishing in the canoe through the summer months. By fall, the patch was coming loose at the edges, allowing water to seep into the boat again.
I placed an ad in the Wapello County Shopper, "Coleman canoe in excellent condition other than the big hole in the side. $25."
A man showed up at my house and examined the canoe's hole. "Will you take $15," he asked. I quickly added the numbers: $40 for the canoe, $2 for duct tape, $9 for the patch, and $3 for paint. $51 total.
"How about $20," I countered. The man handed me a twenty, and I helped him load the canoe into the back of his pickup.
Over the next few years, I saw the man on occasion. He still had the canoe; he repaired the side properly with fiberglass and painted the whole canoe green; it looked very sharp! I only lost $31 on the old canoe, which was a good deal considering I used the canoe all summer long. I kept the paddles worth at least another $20; I would use them for my next canoe. But the next canoe was a long time in coming.
I bought a new Kawasaki Jet Ski and several different fishing boats with motors and oars. The paddles sat in the garage – until I met my wife, Melissa.
Melissa appreciated nature and the outdoors as much as I did. We were dating only briefly before I bought an orange Coleman canoe. My old paddles were in the water once again.
On one of my most memorable dates with Melissa, we went to Lake Wapello. We paddled the canoe around the lake, enjoyed the scenery, and cast a few lines into the water. After fishing for a while, we enjoyed a nice picnic I had packed, then paddled to watch the sunset. It was a lot of fun.
We enjoyed canoeing and soon upgraded to a brand-new 16' green Wenonah canoe. We looked at it together, and I bought it for Melissa's 30th birthday. She named the canoe The Green Pearl – a take-off from Captain Jack Sparrow's pirate ship, the Black Pearl. (Pirates of the Caribbean.) I sold the orange Coleman to my brother Dan, who still has the canoe at their lake house.
Melissa and I moved to Minnesota and began paddling lakes and rivers with my Uncle John and Aunt Di. We were planning our first canoe trip into the boundary waters; the only problem with the Green Pearl was its weight; she weighed in at a hefty ninety-two pounds, which was very heavy for portaging the canoe (Carrying the boat over my head while transitioning through the woods from one lake to the next.)
Uncle John found a good deal on a used Wenonah Kevlar canoe, an eighteen-footer weighing less than 50 pounds. The Kevlar canoe was also two feet longer than the Green Pearl, making it faster in the water. We bought the canoe and have been to the boundary water a few times; each time was a thrill. We kept the Green Pearl to let people use it when they would come to visit.
In addition to the enjoyment of paddling canoes into the boundary water, the fantastic scenery, fishing, and wildlife, I also enjoyed cooking over a small, Coleman LP gas camp stove. We had some delicious meals.
Melissa and I also enjoy grilling food at home and have owned a couple of gas grills. But they were cheaper grills and only lasted a few seasons – maybe four if we were lucky. We threw away our grill when we moved to Minnesota, unsure if it would survive the move. We would buy another grill once I built a deck at our new home. Melissa wanted a good grill this time, one that would last, but they were so expensive. My wife knew what she wanted.
"A Weber Grill," I stammered. "Are you serious? Do you know how much those cost?" Melissa justified that a Weber would be cheaper in the long run because Weber grills are very well built, they last forever, and parts are still available for grills that are 30 years old. But still, the initial cost.
"We should be able to sell the Green Pearl for about the same price as a new Weber Grill," Melissa suggested. I wouldn't say I liked the idea of selling the Green Pearl. It was our first brand-new canoe, and we purchased it together as a couple. But the Green Pearl wasn't being used enough to justify keeping it either, so I agreed.
We ran an ad and sold the Green Pearl (in excellent condition, with no holes) to Owen, for almost enough to buy a new Weber Grill. Melissa wanted a green grill, but they were hard to find. Shortly after we started looking, Faron from Julie's True Value Hardware called me. "They just got three green Weber's in the warehouse in the model you want," Faron reported, "But they won't last long. Do you want me to order one for you?"
"Yes, please," I said. "But mums the words – I'm going to surprise Melissa with the new grill for her birthday."
Melissa and I were leaving town for her 36th birthday weekend of camping and canoeing. I arranged to have Faron deliver the grill to our house and put it on the new deck. "There are no steps yet," I told Faron. He assured me he could get the new Weber Grill on the deck.
When we returned home from our trip, Melissa was ecstatic to find a brand-new, shiny green Weber grill on our deck, for her birthday. Now, all I had to do was work on my grilling skills!
Over the years, I have learned the art of searing meat on the grill. I've also learned the purpose of those little round knobs on the front panel and the consequence of trying to cook meat on high from start to finish. I was getting better, but there was still much room for improvement. Finally, I bought a meat thermometer.
The meat thermometer was a great help, but difficult to use. I would probe a chicken thigh or steak, but by the time the thermometer gave me a reading, it was uncomfortably hot holding it over the grill. There had to be a better way.
I looked at thermometers that probe the meat being cooked and give a constant remote digital readout. I didn't care how many chickens got blackened or steaks charred; I was not going to lay out the kind of cash they wanted for a remote gadget.
I had seen ads for instant readout meat thermometers. I was skeptical and, again, not willing to part with a C note and a half for a meat thermometer.
One day, I saw an online advertisement for an instant thermometer priced at just $59. That got my attention. I searched for the same brand name and looked for customer reviews, which were mostly good. Of course, once you've searched for an item, you will be bombarded with advertisements for similar products.
One day, an ad appeared: a digital meat thermometer for only 39 dollars. "It must be junk," I said, but I still researched the brand for reviews. They seemed to be all good. A few days later, I saw an advertisement for the same brand: a Thermomaven F-1 Turbo for just $9.99 with free shipping! Wow! "Even if it is junk, I've wasted more money on dumber things," I said as I entered my card information. When the thermometer arrived, I couldn't wait to try it; I went to Zup’s Foods and bought ribeye steaks.
I showed the new gadget to my wife. "It's a Thermomaven F-1 Turbo," I boasted. "It will read a temperature in a half second. Melissa rolled her eyes. Hmfph. "We'll see if she's still rolling her eyes when I grill some perfect steaks!"
I checked the temperature of the cold steaks: 45°. I seasoned the meat and let it warm to room temperature, 65°. I seared the steaks and then reduced the temperature, turning them every few minutes. I checked the temperature several times while grilling the steaks, and finally removed them at 150°. I covered the steaks with tin foil, allowing them to rest. The final meat temperature was 162° - I was impressed by how the device gave me a temperature within a split second. "This thing is pretty cool," I said. The steaks were excellent! I put chicken on the grill the next night to ensure it wasn't just a fluke. Perfect chicken, too! I wanted to test the Thermomaven F-1 Turbo even more – for accuracy.
I let the cold water run for a few moments, 52°. I poured a refreshing cup of cold water; no ice was needed. Next, I heard the buzzer sound off on the dryer. I ran to the basement and probed the clothes. 177° on low heat, but the readout was slower. I adjusted the heat setting to high and rechecked the clothes after 20 minutes. The F-1 Turbo was again reading more slowly but eventually, after poking the laundry several times, it climbed to 198°. “That’s not much difference,” I concluded something must be wrong with the dryer.
Later that day, I noticed the sleeves on my flannel shirt felt a little shorter, and several pin holes were in one of my good T-shirts. Oops. I should not check the laundry, but I couldn't help myself. The wet clothes coming out of the washing machine were 63°. I was unstoppable!
I went out in the yard poking the probe into the ground about one inch; it was 68° in the morning, but by 2 p.m., the sun warmed the surface soil 72°. I checked the soil temperature in one of my potted apple trees; it was 75° and a little dry, so I would give it a drink of cool water. Water from the garden hose sitting in the sun was 138°- too hot for the apple trees, but after running for a bit, the water cooled to 62°. The apple trees appreciated the drink.
That night, Melissa was going to make a cup of tea. Once the tea kettle began whistling, I checked the steam; it was 240°, but the water poured into a cup only showed 228°. I wonder why that is? I made a cup of tea for myself using the microwave for 1:40 seconds, my water was only 167°.  Did you know popcorn can exceed 300° when cooked in a silicone popcorn maker? Man, I was on a roll!
I placed the probe under my arm; I was only 92 °, but I registered 96° under my tongue, which is about one degree lower than usual. Who's to say that the other thermometer is accurate?
Frozen fruit in the freezer was 1°, but the Bridgeman's Salter Carmel Espresso ice cream was only 14°. I wonder if that's like flooring? A ceramic tile floor will always feel colder barefoot than a wood or carpeted floor in the same house.
Our Weber grill is already ten years old, and works perfectly! Impressive. I’ve also been thoroughly impressed with my Thermomaven F-1 Turbo; I would recommend a Weber Grill, and a Thermomave F-1 Turbo one to anybody.
“What are you doing,” Melissa asked.
“I’m trying to check the inside temperature of the Weber grill when it’s in the sun, but not running.”
"Will you put that thing away?" Melissa quickly tired of me checking the temperature of everything in sight. Nova Mae and Edgar Allan have been staying closer to my wife lately. Again, I wonder why.

​There was an old song by Jim Stafford called Spiders and Snakes. The song is about Mary Lou, a school-age girl who is sweet on a classmate. She invites him to walk her home from school. On the way, she tells him, "I don’t have to go right home, and I would kinda like to be alone some, long as you would."
The young man answered, "Me too." So, they took a stroll and wound up down by a swimming hole; she wanted to get romantic. But in his adolescent awkwardness, the school boy finds a frog in the water by a hollow log; he shakes it at Mary Lou, saying, "This frog's for you!"
Mary Lou didn't like the frog and thus sang the famous refrain, "I don't like spiders and snakes, and that ain't what it takes to love me." I love that song!
Years later, the song inspired me to catch frogs and such, and on occasion, I've shaken one or two at my wife Melissa, saying, "This frog's for you!" Melissa was not impressed and responded a little differently than Mary Lou; as a matter of fact, one time, she locked me out of the house. Even though she is not afraid of them, my wife apparently did not want the reptile that close to her face when she wasn't expecting it. I'm not afraid of critters either, but spiders and snakes are different.  
Although I'm not afraid of spiders or snakes, decades ago, we made a deal: (me, the spiders, and the snakes.) Don't come in my house and you get to live. Simple. A spider in my house is not afforded the benefits of the 'catch and release' program. A spider in my house is compressed and wrapped in burial cloth (toilet paper) and given a proper septic burial. I've never had a snake in the house, but I would release the snake. I reciprocate the same courtesy when I am in their environment.
I will stop the mower to let a snake pass in the grass; that's his home, and I respect that. Spiders in the yard will have the chance to go away, but if they insist on staying where I'm working – well, one of us must go, and it ain't gonna be me. I never kill bees, and I even let a wasp go unless they build a nest too close to my home. Wasps are just not socially well-adjusted.
A couple weeks ago, a swarm of paper wasps built a nest on the side of my Alaskan camper – right by the door. I had intended to remove them at night, but I got busy and forgot. The other day, I needed a tool from the camper. There hadn't been any activity around the wasp nest for over a week. So, I carefully opened the camper door. HOLY CRAP!! The nest was indeed alive and well!
I had no idea how so many wasps could be inside that little nest! They came out like an army enraged, ready for battle to protect their fort. There were probably only a couple dozen, but when angry wasps are swarming – even a few can seem like thousands. I ran for dear life and dodged what could have been a disaster.
I went into the house looking for wasp spray, while giving the raging insects time to calm down. I get the wasp spray in a can that will shoot from twenty feet. "Dang, we're out of wasp spray?" I wrote it on the shopping list, left Nova Mae in the house, and returned to the yard. It would be hand-to-hand combat, one against an army of at least twenty-four. I really needed that tool from the camper.
By the time I returned to the camper, all the wasps were back inside – except two sentries who stood guard at the opening to the nest. I lost the sprayer for my garden hose, so I couldn't blast the nest with water from a safe distance. Instead, I picked up a six-foot-long 1X2 board and sneaked in from the side. One of the wasps saw me. "Look! It's your mom," I said, pointing in the other direction.
When the two wasps looked for their mom, I quickly poked the nest with the square tip of the board. The nest fell into the grass; wasps were swarming as thick as smoke from a wildfire! Before retreating, I smashed the fallen nest four or five times. "Haha! Take that, you evil little bas… Oh crap, they're coming after me!" I quickly threw my board like a skilled medieval warrior throws a spear, lancing the center of the grounded nest. Then – I ran like a cowardly chicken! I'm not a violent or vicious person – but I was battling wasps! I would have been more gentle with any other insect.
Over the last couple of months, I've been working on deck projects outside. I've come across a lot of pine sawyer beetles. Most of God's creations have a natural beauty, but not the sawyer beetles – they're just plain ugly and awkward, too. They fly with their body horizontal (as a pilot I assure you that is not aerodynamic) Well, the little beetles aren't so bad when they have their smooth black skin, but as they mature, their skin becomes rough, brown, and grey splotchy colored, and they are creepy – especially the males.
The male sawyer beetle has booming antennae twice the length of their body, that just hang in the air while they fly. It the most uncoordinated form of aviation I’ve ever seen. Sawyer beetle faces are ugly, too, with bulging eyes, and you can see their sharp pinchers! (They do bite.) Ick!
While working on the deck the other night, a sawyer beetle landed on my face! At first, I thought it was a giant mosquito, but its feet were clingy like a June bug, and then one of his antennas was actually poking me in the eye! Still, I didn't squish him. I grabbed the sawyer beetle off my face and threw him.
The beetle flew in his clumsy way and then landed on the top board of the deck railing where my carpenter's square was sitting. Wow! The insect on a measuring device showed how large he was, and I'd never seen one so big. After taking photos, I flung him off my square and into the yard. I'd had about enough insects for a while, but all insects serve a purpose; even the wasps, although I have no idea what their purpose would be. Still, I'd seen enough of the ugly; I needed to find some of nature's beauty.
The following day, I took a break from the deck to work on a trailer for a few hours. It's an old trailer I dug out of the woods on our property with my neighbor Gene. I will convert the trailer into a cute, raised backyard garden. I can't wait to see it filled with flowers.
While working on the trailer, a dragonfly flew very close to me and landed on the black frame's edge. I like dragonflies – I think they are pretty, and they are expert fliers with their four wings, especially compared to the sawyer beetle; it’s like beauty and the beast. Plus, dragonflies eat a lot of mosquitos, that’s a bonus. But this fella just sat on the black steel looking at me. He was the most beautiful dragonfly I'd ever seen and was only inches away from me. "Take a picture," I said. But as I reached for my cell phone, my movement scared him away. But not for long.
Within a few moments, something landed on my arm. I immediately thought it was a sawyer beetle, but when I looked down, it was the same dragonfly; his beauty was unmistakable, like no other. He climbed up my bicep and onto my shirt sleeve. I watched as he continued up my sleeve and came to rest on my shoulder. I was looking into his eyes, and he into mine, as if he wanted to tell me something. We gazed upon one another for at least thirty seconds. "Take a picture," I said. But as I reached for the camera, he flew away again. "Boy, if I never see him again, I will never forget his beauty." But he wasn't gone long.
The dragonfly returned, hovered around my face briefly, then landed about ten feet away. A few years ago. Melissa and our granddaughters built a fairy garden under the crabapple tree. The dragonfly landed on a log left over from the fairy garden. He was even more beautiful sitting where his color contrasted the brown log and green blades of grass. "You can come take my picture if you'd like," he told me.
I slowly took my phone from my pocket to take his picture. He seemed very comfortable with me, so I knelt in the grass next to him. I took several photos and told him, "You are the most beautiful dragonfly I've ever seen." He stayed on the log for a few minutes, occasionally batting his wings. I thought he would fly away, but he was just enjoying some sunshine. "I've never seen a red dragonfly," I told him. "You are special." I watched him for a couple more minutes until he flew away. "So long, my friend, feel free to come back anytime."
I opened my cell phone and typed, "How rare is a red dragonfly?" The first search returned, "Red dragonflies are extremely rare – so seeing one is a blessing in itself." Next, I searched for the significance of seeing a red dragonfly.
The Japanese consider the red dragonfly "very sacred," symbolizing courage, strength, and happiness. The American Indians believe red dragonflies can "bring a time of rejuvenation after a long period of trials and hardship." I am grateful nature sent this amazing creature my way.  
Ole Mary Lou might not like spiders and snakes, but I don’t mind them. Just how blessed am I that this little guy, a red dragonfly, should visit me three times on a beautiful sunny afternoon in the Northwoods? Life is good!

​I was on my way to northern California, pulling a Scamp trailer. It was late, around midnight, and I was in the middle of nowhere Nevada when the state trooper turned on his lights to pull me over. I wasn't speeding, so I had no idea why I was being stopped.
I greeted him, "Good evening. I usually know why I'm getting pulled over, but I have no idea tonight."
The officer laughed, then said, "You don't have any lights on the trailer."
"Really?" I was surprised. "I just had the wiring on the car fixed before this trip, and the trailer is brand new." He told me, "Your brake lights are working, but you don't have any marker lights."
I sighed with disappointment. "That's exactly what I had it in for."
The officer shined his flashlight for me as I wiggled the wiring connection between the car and the trailer to see if it would come on. No such luck. I opened the back hatch of my car and got into the spare tire compartment, showing him the part. "This is the new controller they just installed." I checked all the connections—they looked good. I was at a loss.
He asked me, "Where are you going? "North of Sacramento," I replied.
"I can't let you drive down the road without marker lights," he said, but he also had a couple suggestions. "I can call a tow service for you, or there's a rest area a few miles up the road. If you turn your flashers on, I'll follow you to make sure you get there safe. You can spend the night there, and in the morning, drive into Reno to get your lights checked out."
"I'd really appreciate it if you'd follow me to the rest area," I said, not wanting to spend the money for a tow truck.
Although I got on the road bright and early the next morning, I was behind schedule. I didn't stop in Reno to have the lights repaired. I would drop the Scamp off during daylight hours and drive home without a trailer. All the lights on the car were working, so I headed for Cobb, California, north of Sacramento.
As I got nearer to my destination, I passed a sign that read, "Welcome to Lake County, California." It caused me to laugh, as I live in Lake County, Minnesota. I said aloud, "Two thousand miles and thirty-one hours of driving, and I end up right where I started - Lake County."
It was a gorgeous morning for a drive. At 65 degrees, the air smelled very fresh, and the clear skies were a brilliant blue. I turned off Highway 29 onto County Road 137 - the final stretch to my destination. The drive was thrilling, with big hills, deep valleys, and a continuous ribbon of winding curves. As I drove up the mountains, I passed farm fields of fresh produce and orchards with dark green citrus trees in perfect rows. It's a beautiful part of California, with all the agriculture - and a pleasant contrast to the big cities like Los Angeles, San Francisco, or San Diego. These are the places most people think of when California comes to mind.
As I rounded a curve, a red Saturn was stalled on the opposite side of the road. The driver was on the shoulder, looking at a cell phone outside his car. I checked my phone and had no signal. I didn't have time, but if I was stranded without cell phone service, I would want someone to stop and help me. I made a quick U-turn to see if I could help him. I pulled up behind him and got out of my car. "Need a hand?" I asked.
"It's my battery." He said, explaining, "It's only holding seven volts."
I said, "I don't have cables, but if you have a pair, I could give you a jump start."
The man explained he didn't have jumper cables but had an alternative suggestion: "My car has a manual transmission. Maybe we could push it and bump start it."
"That should work," I said.
The man was wearing a green camouflage US Air Force t-shirt. "Is that a real Air Force t-shirt?" I asked.
He laughed, "No. It's a joke, but I have real Air Force shirts at home."
"You served then," I asked.
"Yes, at Castle Air Force Base from '83 to '87. Castle closed a few years after that." He told me.
I learned his name was Chai, but I wasn't clear how he said it. He spelled it "C-H-A-I." That's what he said. What I heard was C-H-I-A.
"Chia. Like a Chia Pet?"
"It's pronounced Kye, rhymes with guy," he told me. I finally got it. Chai said he was born in Thailand and came to the United States when he was nineteen years old. "I joined the Air Force because I could earn my citizenship that way." He said, "Plus, I learned a trade without paying for a tech school."
Getting back to trying to bump-start the car, he said, "You get in, and I'll push." Then he told me he couldn't push very far because he had a heart condition.
"Dude," I insisted, "if you have a heart condition, YOU get in, and I'll push."
"Are you sure? I feel bad having you push my car." He said.
I replied, "And I'll feel even worse if you have a heart attack pushing it. Now get in." We shared a laugh over that, and Chai got into the driver's seat.
"Okay, I'm ready." He called out the window. I leaned into the vehicle and placed both hands on the edge of the trunk lid. I pushed with all my strength, but the car wouldn't budge. Chai called out the window, "Oops. I had the parking brake set. It's off now." I laughed, then started pushing. Once I had the car rolling, Chai popped the clutch, but the car didn't start.
"Let's try it again," I called to him and started pushing. He popped the clutch a second time, but the car still didn't start. "Let's go again," I hollered. After the third failed attempt, the car still wouldn't start, and we reached a point where we would be pushing it uphill.
Chai set the parking brake and got out. "I'm going to have to walk home and get another battery. Seven volts just isn't enough to start it." He said.
"That's an odd thing to say," I said, "Most people wouldn't know how many volts a battery was holding. How do you know it has seven volts?"
Chai answered, "I tested it with a volt meter. I was an electrician in the Air Force; I worked on automotive electrical systems." "Oh, really?" I said, smiling, thinking about my taillight trouble.
I told Chai about my problem. He said, "You should have a little box in your car to control those lights."
"Yes," I said, "it's in the spare tire compartment. Could you take a look at it?"
"Let me grab my meter," he said. I opened the rear hatch, and lifted the wheel well cover in my car. Chai spotted the part right off and began testing it. "Your controller is bad," he told me.
"It's brand new; I just had it installed three days ago," I said.
Chai replied, "Oh, well, if it's brand new, then it's not bad – it's defective." We shared a good laugh about that.
Chai said, "I can run a jumper wire to bypass the controller if you'd like, and then your lights will work again."
I responded, "I would really appreciate that." He grabbed a small piece of wire, a couple of connectors, and a crimping tool. In just a few minutes, he had the lights working. "I really appreciate this, Chai. What do I owe you?" I asked.
Nothing. It's my way of saying thanks for stopping to see if I needed help."
I stopped to help him, but he ended up helping me.
I was now late for my appointment to drop off the Scamp. I thought, "You're already late; what will it hurt to be a little later? This guy has a heart condition, and Lord knows how far he has to walk through these hills." I asked Chai, "You said you were going to walk home. I'm on my way to Cobb; which way do you live?"
His eyes lit up, "I'm right on your way. I live on 137, about three miles before you get to Cobb."
"This day is just full of coincidences. Jump in; I'll give you a ride." I said.
On the way to his house, we passed by a KFC restaurant. I commented about it, and he asked, "Do you like KFC?"
I laughed. "It's my weakness," I confessed. When we got to Chai's house, he said, "You can let me off at the gate; I only live a few doors down." Chai gave me his phone number. "When you're done with your trailer deal, call me. I'd like to treat you to lunch for helping me." He said.
I laughed, "But I didn't help you. You helped me." We said our farewells, and I drove down the road.
I called Leigh. "Sorry I'm late," I said, "I'll be there with your Scamp in five minutes."
"Don't worry about it," she said. "I'm just excited it's finally here." It took longer than expected to show her how everything worked on the trailer. I was there for almost three hours, but I don't mind. I wanted to be sure she was comfortable using her new trailer.
After leaving her house, I planned to head straight home, but I thought more about Chai. I think he really wanted to go to lunch, so I called him. "It took me longer than I thought," I said. Do you still have time to go eat?"
"Of course," he answered, "can you pick me up at the gate?"
"I'll be there in five minutes," I replied.
When Chai got in the passenger seat, I asked him, "Do you need a ride back to your car?"
"No," he said, "I picked up my friend, John. He went with me to put a new battery in it. The car started right up. I drove it, and he returned my other car to my house. John will eat with us, then I'll run him home."
"Perfect," I said, then suggested, "There's a McDonald's up ahead. Do you want to stop there?"
"No way!" Chai said, "You told me you had a weakness for KFC, and I'm going to treat you to KFC." We shared a good laugh about that, then drove to the Colonel's place.
We had some nice conversations during dinner. Chai asked if I had ever been to the Redwood Forest. I told him I had not. "Man, you should go! It's not very far from here at all." He said.
John added, "Yeah, you're already this far west; you might as well go. It's awesome."
I told them, "I would love to, but that's a trip I'm going to save for a time when my wife can be with me." With that, we said farewell, and I jumped in the car to head east.
Just the other day, I was cleaning out a box of old papers. I came across the notes I had written about that day when I met Chai, including the paper where he wrote down his phone number. That was one year ago.
My wife and I have since been to the Redwood Forest, but I never did get the story written. I wondered if he still had the same phone number. I picked the phone up and called. There was no answer, so I left a message: "Hey, this is Tom. I'm looking for Chai and wondering if you remember me. If this is his number, give me a callback." Unfortunately, I forgot how he pronounced his name, and I said Chia, like a Chia Pet.
Over the past year, I have often thought of Chai. How ironic that I didn't have time to stop and help him, but I stopped anyway, and he ended up helping me! It's funny how things work out that way sometimes.
Almost immediately, my phone rang. "Hi, Tom. It's pronounced Kye, and it rhymes with guy. Of course, I remember you. You helped me with my car that day," he said.
I laughed, "But I didn't help you. You helped me."

​One day in the early 1970s, Dad came home with a new appliance. It was heavy, so he had my big brothers Peter and Danny carry it into the house. My siblings and I gathered around to see the new thing. The unit was harvest-gold in color, matched our refrigerator, range, and dishwasher, and was portable. It stood about kitchen counter height with a big drawer that opened from the front. I hoped it was a new dishwasher, but it looked too small to be a dshwasher.
We already had a portable dishwasher—a top-loader that was very awkward for a little kid to load and unload the dishes, especially from the bottom rack. One day, I was balancing myself on my stomach over the edge of the dishwasher, reaching for the clean plates below, with my feet dangling off the floor.
My brother Gerard grabbed my feet and lifted them, acting like he would push me in. Unfortunately, I lost my balance, and Gerard wasn't strong enough to hold me by my ankles. I fell into the dishwasher! Plates hurt when you land on the edges with your head, which scared the daylights out of me! But revenge was sweet.
When it was Gerard's turn to load the dishwasher, I closed the lid on him while he was bent over the machine. Gerad was yelling for me to let him out. "Say, uncle," I demanded. When Gerard finally surrendered and said Uncle, I still didn't let him out. "Now, say Uncle Tom is a nice guy." My brother was still yelling when Mom came into the kitchen.
Although I tried to explain what Gerard had done to me a few days earlier, Mom was disinterested and sided with my brother. "That dishwasher is not a toy," Mom scolded us both. Now you can just take the dishes out and wash them by hand." That was fine with me; I never liked that dishwasher anyway. 
When we wanted to run the dishwasher, we had to roll it over in front of the sink. Kitchen carpets were popular in those days, and the loaded machine was heavy and hard to push across the carpeting. Gerad and I would push the dishwasher together. Next, we had to connect the special hose to the kitchen faucet. The hose contraption was two hoses with one head: the top hose was for clean water going in, and the bottom was the drain hose.
A tab had to be held down while lifting the head up and pressing it onto a special aerator on the faucet. If you didn't have it on securely, water would spray everywhere when the faucet was turned on. I hoped Dad's new appliance was a new dishwasher, but it was too small. "What is it," the kids all wanted to know.
"It's a trash compactor," Dad boasted. "With this, we should be able to get our weekly trash in one load." Dad immediately demonstrated the new unit. "You have to use these special leak-proof bags." The bags were heavy paper and looked like they were wax coated on the inside. After carefully folding the bag's top over the bin's edges, Dad took the garbage can from under the kitchen sink. "Who's supposed to be taking the trash out? This can is overflowing," Dad complained – however, he needed a lot of trash for his demonstration.
We didn't have plastic trash bags, so we used paper sacks from the grocery store, which were not leak-proof. When Dad lifted the liner from the trash can, the bottom of the sack fell out, and garbage spilled onto the carpeted floor. "Dog gone it," Dad complained. "If you kids wouldn't let the trash get so full, the sacks would hold this just fine!"
Dad kept as much trash in the bag as possible by holding the bottom of the sack together. He then placed it in the compactor, pulling out a couple of glass jars. Next, he gathered the debris off the floor, setting any glass to the side, and added it to the trash in the bin, which was about three-quarters full. "I don't see how this is going to hold a week's worth of trash," I said. What's the advantage?"
"Watch this," Dad said. He plugged in the machine, and a light came on. The green light turned off, and a red light came on when I pushed the start button. The compactor hummed at first, then started to growl. I could hear things smashing and crunching inside; it sounded angry. Finally, the gadget hummed again, the red light went out, and the green light reappeared. Dad opened the drawer to show us how all that garbage was reduced to a few inches inside the compactor. "See how much space is saved," Dad said." Just remember, you cannot put glass into the compactor," he cautioned.
Dad went on to give training on properly using the compactor, but by this point, he had lost half the siblings. "This is not a toy; it is a machine that needs to be operated carefully," Dad said. "Used properly, it will last for years to come." But there were some things Dad didn't consider.
When the compactor was full, a yellow light would come on, indicating it was time to change the bag. The problem was that the bag inside the machine was holding several trash cans; it was heavy and difficult to handle, especially for a couple of skinny young boys who struggled to move the portable dishwasher across the carpeted floor. Still, Gerard and I managed to get the liner out of the bin and out the back door.
The two of us slid the heavy "cube" to the garage. Unfortunately, by the time we got to the garbage cans, we wore a hole in the liner and left a trail of garbage and garbage juice on the concrete driveway behind us. After we cleaned up the mess and took the garbage cans to the curb, we returned to the house. Another thing Dad failed to consider was the curiosity of young boys, and I had an idea.
Despite my brother's warnings of trouble to come, I decided to test the compactor. "Sure, it can smash an empty can—big deal—even I can do that," I said. We should see if it can smash a full can." I put a new liner inside the trash compactor, then a can of green peas and a tall can of salmon in the bin. I closed the drawer and pressed the start button.
The machine hummed and then growled. I was really struggling, and I was laughing. "You're not as tough as you think," I taunted the machine. Soon, it started to smell hot, and then I quit running. The lights went out, and the portable dishwasher by the sink quit running. Uh oh. Did I break it?" I was worried.
"You probably just blew a fuse," Gerard said. He was smart about those things and went to the basement to check the fuse box. Soon, the lights came back on, and the dishwasher started running again. The trash compactor hummed; the red light went out, and the green light came back on. I opened the drawer, and we looked inside. Both cans were still standing upright; neither was damaged.
"Those cans are stronger standing upright than they would be laying on their side," Gerard said. I challenged his statement. "Of course they are," he said. "What do you think Dad taught us to cut out the ends and lay the cans on their side to flatten them?" I had to admit, what he said made good sense.
I laid the can of peas and salmon on their side. "As long as we're breaking rules, we might as well break them all," I said. I took a partial jar of mayonnaise from the refrigerator and added it to the concoction.
Gerard quickly clarified, "WE are not breaking the rules; you are!" Even though he distanced himself from my experiment, he offered his expertise, "You need to lay the mayo on its side as well." I did and then pushed the start button.
The machine again growled and struggled a bit, but then we heard the glass jar break, followed by two crunching pops. Soon, the machine hummed, and the green light came back on. We laughed as we opened the drawer, expecting to see an explosion, but it wasn't all that spectacular.
The mayo was pooled with green juice from the mashed peas, and the salmon mainly was juice with just a bit of meat from the can. It was rather disappointing. "You better clean that up," Gerard warned. But I had no intention of cleaning up this mess.
"Why clean up what can be covered up," I said. (If I knew then what I know today, I could have been a successful politician with that kind of logic.) I put a folded paper grocery sack over the gooey mess. "That sack will soak up the juice," I reasoned, closing the drawer. But there were a few things I failed to consider:

1. The experiment was done on trash day. It would be a whole week before the trash compactor was emptied again.
2. The reason for not putting glass into the machine is that it will cut the liner like a razor blade!
3. In the early 70s, very few houses had air-conditioning – including ours.

      
By midweek, the garbage smelled bad; by the weekend, it was very ripe; by trash day, it was putrid! Looking for the source, Dad opened the compactor.
Dad lifted the liner, and juice ran from the obviously cut bottom of the bag (I was wrong about the paper sack absorbing the liquid). The aroma of rotten fish and spoiled mayonnaise permeated the room. "Did someone put a glass jar in the compactor," Dad asked. "Dog gone it, I told you kids, 'No glass in the compactor.' Now, it's probably ruined. If you can't use the compactor correctly, don't use it at all." He was furious, and the investigation began.
"Who did this?" Naturally, no one confessed. "Of course," he ranted, "No one ever did it." Despite several attempts to clean the unit, the smell never did go away, and Mom eventually made him get rid of the stinky, harvest-gold, portable trash compactor.
Before he bought the trash compactor, Dad taught us to save space in the trash can by compacting the trash manually. "Cereal boxes can be opened and flattened," Dad demonstrated. "Then, they will stand up on the side of the bag."  We cut both ends out of tin cans and stomped them flat. Back then, there weren't many plastic bottles; milk and pop came in returnable glass containers, and even Prell Shampoo came in glass bottles. I remember the commercial where they dropped a white pearl into the green shampoo to show their product's thickness; you could watch it sink slowly through the clear glass.
Eventually, Prell and other shampoos switched to hard plastic bottles. Prell changed its commercial to show a bottle of their shampoo falling in the shower and bouncing off the tub floor rather than shattering.
When empty, the plastic Prell bottles went straight into the trash. Everything went into the trash; we didn't have recycling yet. Now, we recycle.  
 
At our house, we recycle what we can. I was accustomed to weekly recycling collection in Iowa, but here in northern Minnesota, they only come once a month, on the first Monday. I'm in charge of recycling at our house and keep up with it quite well. With more limited recycling collection days, I reduce the mass by flattening aluminum and tin cans, cereal, and food boxes. Smaller cardboard boxes are flattened, and bigger boxes are cut into flat pieces and put into a box of boxes, so to speak. I learned this skill from my dad.
Boxes are more challenging for me to get rid of because, like many people, I find myself saying, "That's a good box. I'll have a use for that box one day." Everyone likes boxes and has good use for them.
People trying to ship something or folks who are moving are always looking for good boxes. But. Too many boxes were piling up at our house, so I headed to the basement to reduce the ruble.
"Don't cut up that Target box," my wife hollered from the back bedroom.
"Which Target box," I asked. "There are several down here."
"The bigger Target box," Melissa answered. It's the perfect size to start a box of things to take to the Dilly Dally Shop." Everybody needs a good box. I especially like a themed box to surprise someone with cookies.
For example, Sean was working on my truck, which needed a new bushing. It came in a perfect size box, so I texted Sean, "Save that box for me." I could send the box with cookies to my nephew Alex. (Alex is always working on his hotrod car.) When he got the package, he would look at it and say, "Precision Bearings? I didn't order anything from them."
I ordered replacement parts for a faucet. It arrived in a small box marked Moen Faucets. I can surprise my brother Dan (the plumber) by sending cookies to his house in this box. When he gets it, Dan will ask his wife, "Why are they sending parts to our house instead of the shop?" I love surprises. So does our cat, Edgar Allan.
Over a month ago, I surprised Melissa with a twelve-pack of Corona beer and a lime. Melissa put the beer in the fridge, and Edgar immediately jumped into the empty box. Even cats love boxes. A month later, the Corona box is still on the living room floor as "Edgar's box." He will hide inside.
One day, Melissa was standing in the living room. Edgar pushed his paw through the carrying slot on the side of the box and grabbed her leg. It scared my unsuspecting wife, and she jumped and gave a little scream. Our dog Nova Mae and I laughed pretty hard about that. A few days later, Edgar jetted from the box and attacked an unsuspecting canine on her way to a comfy chair. I laughed alone that time. Boxes have historically been a source of much entertainment.
My daughters loved it when I would bring home a refrigerator box. They would put it in the backyard, cut doors and windows in the side, paint it, and play in the box until the rain melted the cardboard.
One year, our daughter Annie asked for a box for her birthday. She didn't want any 'store-bought' gifts, just a big box from my friend Mike, who had the box store (Mike's TV and Appliances).
Sometimes, I'll use a box for extra trash when cleaning out the basement, working on a house project, or cutting up other boxes for recycling.
This morning, being the first Monday of the month, I rounded up the recycling to take to the curb. I stomped a few cans and flattened several more boxes (saving a couple because they were too cool to throw away). I thought about the trash compactor my dad bought way back when. I've been compacting trash my whole life—first manually, then with the trash compactor, and now back to manually again. I prefer doing it manually.
I never liked that trash compactor, anyway. The only two good things to come from it were an experiment gone wrong and the box it came in.
The box was the perfect size and shape; I might need it someday, so I hid it in the attic of our garage. Several months later, I cut a hole in the top of the box, and one on each side, then spray-painted the box silver. I used black crayons to add some detail, and for Halloween, I went trick-or-treating as a robot. I love boxes.

​I was in Bloomfield, Iowa, when I first saw one; I thought it was the dumbest thing I'd ever seen. I turned my car around to make sure I saw what I thought I had seen - a pet wash? Yep. Right there on Highway 63, just a short distance from the downtown square. Since then, I've seen many others, and I'd shake my head each time. "Why? Why not just bathe your dog at home. Good grief." I suppose for the same reason, most people don't wash their cars at home anymore. The car wash is more convenient.
Several years ago, my wife and I visited a small farm in northern Missouri, near the state lines of Iowa and Missouri. The farm has been in Melissa's family for many years. Although her family does not farm, they lease the land to an area farmer.
When we visited, the farmer had cattle on the property. While we were engrossed in exploring the land, I kept calling our dog June to return to us. June was a border collie, blue heeler mix, and she really wanted to round up those cattle. Unbeknownst to me, June rolled in something mighty stinky in the cow pasture when we weren't paying attention.
I used what was left in my water bottle to rinse off the bad stuff from June, then wiped down her coat with an old towel. My attempt to wash her off only made matters worse, almost as if I had reactivated the stench. It was everything we could do to ride in the car with her, even with all the windows down! It was awful! It was a long drive back to Ottumwa, and then I remembered Bloomfield has a pet wash on the highway.
The drive to Bloomfield seemed pretty long as well. It was hot outside; I had the air conditioning on, but we had all the windows down because of old Stinky in the back of the car.  I swear we hit every light red going through town to get to the north side, completely stopping all air movement. Gag!
That day, I had my first experience with a pet wash in Bloomfield, Iowa, and I was impressed. Since then, I've used the one in Two Harbors, Minnesota, many times.
I like the "pet wash" concept. It's more comfortable bathing the dog without bending over the tub. I like having an overhead, spring-loaded, constant-temperature water hose that is always right there for me and comes on with the gentle squeeze of the handle. Having the shampoo dispensed with the water eliminates the bottle and the need for a third hand. I am not wasting water while shampooing June's fur; the pet wash makes sense. The super easy clean-up is very nice, too. I want to put one in my basement.
I asked June how she would feel about installing a pet wash in our home. She didn't see the need for one. She would rather not be bathed in the tub or the yard with a garden hose. In fact, she would rather not have a bath at all. June said everything would be fine if I just drove her to a lake once in a while, where she could chase a stick or a ball in the water and call it a bath.
I called my brother Dan, the plumber, to inquire about a home pet wash. He told me they start at about $3,000 and go up from there. Wow. It only cost me about three bucks to wash the dog in Two Harbors. If I bathe the dog once a month, a basic home model would take eighty-three years to pay for itself. I decided I would just keep taking June to the pet wash in Two Harbors.
As the years went on, June Bug passed away, and Nova Mae became a part of our family. Nova Mae is also a border collie and blue heeler mix.
 
Nova Mae enjoys running through ditches and puddles of stagnant water, which smells nasty! What is it with this breed, and why do they like stinky stuff anyway?
The pet wash in Two Harbors is in the same building as the car wash. The first time I took Nova Mae, she did just fine until the high-volume (very loud) air dryer came on in the automatic car wash bay. That scared the bejeebers out of Nova - so badly that I haven't taken her back.
There is a leash about ten inches long at the pet wash to keep your dog from jumping out of the basin. Even though June would jump out of the bathtub at home and at the pet wash at every chance she got, I've always figured if something scares my dog that badly, I want her to be able to run and not feel trapped.
June Bug and Nova Mae: the two dogs are so much alike in many ways and so different in others. June, loved to swim, but did not like getting a bath. On the contrary, Nova Mae doesn't mind a bath (she just doesn't like the water spraying on her face) but she only likes swimming if she can stand in the water.
With June, I had to lift her into the tub and give constant commands to sit and stay; it was a battle to the end, and I didn't always win. On the other hand, I turn on the shower and tell Nova, "Let's take a bath, and she voluntarily walks into the shower. I learned other neat things from the pet wash about bathing a dog.
I no longer apply shampoo directly to Nova's pelt. Instead, I mix the shampoo with about a gallon of warm water and wash the dog with a washcloth. The dog likes this method better because the shampoo rinses from her fur much quicker and more thoroughly. I also learned how to dry my dog.
I tell Nova, "Shake, shake, shake," each time, she gives a big shake, removing most of the water from her head to the tip of her tail her own. Then, I use a towel to get what water I can. From that point, I will let her "air dry."
From experience at the pet wash, I have learned not to use the hair dryer on my dogs; it's the equivalent of starting a fight. June despised the vacuum cleaner. (She once had a physical battle with a Dirt Devil.) The hair dryer at the pet wash sounded just like a vacuum. But I suppose some other dogs or pets would like the hair dryer.
We had a cat when I was a bachelor living with my brother Gerard. (Gerard and I both had hair back then.) When the cat heard the hair dryer, she would run into the bathroom, hoping for a blast of warm air in her face. Then, she would jump on the sink, insisting on more! But we never tried to bathe the cat.
The pet wash. What a cool concept! I've often wondered if anyone has ever attempted to take a cat to the pet wash, and if so, did they live to tell their story?

​It doesn’t matter if it’s your kid or not; nothing will get your attention faster than a young child who screams, especially if it sounds like they are hurt or in danger.
My daughter Delaney and I share adjacent birthdays; hers is November 14th, and mine is the 15th. When she was about four, I took her to a Denver Broncos football game to celebrate our birthdays together, just the two of us.
I’m not a huge fan of stadium food; however, I’ll admit that I like their overly salty hotdogs on a plain bun or with a line of yellow mustard. I also like their chips and nacho cheese, and I really like their giant soft pretzels with cheese, too. Okay, I do like stadium food, but I despise the high prices! For this occasion, I decided to splurge at the concession stand before the game started.
My kids were accustomed to hearing me complain about the stadium prices, so my daughter looked surprised when I said, “Get whatever you want, Delaney; we're celebrating our birthdays.” We ordered three hot dogs, two soft pretzels, an order of chips with nacho cheese, two glasses of pop, and a couple Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies instead of birthday cake. As I recall, it was around fifty bucks, and this was in the mid-90s. “Wow, that’s a lot of food,” I said. I wondered how I would carry this back to our seats.
I shoved the hotdogs in the left pockets of my oversized Broncos coat and the two cookies in the right. “Do you want a tray to carry this, sir?” the cashier asked. I gladly accepted her offer. The lady placed our drinks in the cup holders and stacked our food in the middle. It would still take two hands to carry the tray. How was I going to carry my daughter, too? She would have to walk.
“Delaney, grab my back pocket and stay with me,” I said as we began walking through the crowd.
There were plenty of bumps, ‘pardon me, excuse me,’ and a couple of ‘Hey, watch where you’re goings’ along the way. I kept checking, “Are you still with me, Delaney?”
She would reply, “Yep,” or “I’m here, Dad.”
Someone ran into a tall man, knocking him into me. He had very red hair tied back in a ponytail and was wearing a giant foam Broncos horse head hat, which fell off his head. He wasn’t really that tall; he just looked tall because of the hat.
The man dropped several items from his tray, and a lid popped off one of my drinks. The man knelt down to get his hat and gather his items, but I didn’t want my lid back; those walkways were filthy.  We recomposed and got back on our way to find our seats. “Hang on to my pocket, kid,” I told my daughter.
After about twenty more steps, we got bumped again, pretty hard. This time, the pop in the open glass sloshed into the nacho chips. Ugh. Although I could feel Delaney's hand on my pocket, I asked, “Are you still with me, Delaney?” She didn’t answer. I called again, “Delaney?”
When I turned around to check on her, I dropped my whole food tray on the ground! Holding onto my pocket was a little boy with red curly hair! He was a cute kid, but not MY kid! My heart began to race, and I was instantly scared.       
I looked down the way we had come from. I couldn’t see Delaney but saw the tall man with a ponytail and horse's head hat. I recalled he had a kid with him, too. Maybe our kids got mixed up during that collision. I needed to catch him before he got any farther away.
I quickly picked up the little boy behind me with my left arm and started pushing through the crowd with my right arm toward the other man. There was ‘no excuse, or pardon me,’ it was “Get out of my way!”
The little boy soon realized I was not his father and started crying and screaming, “Daddy! Daddy!”
There I was, a man running, rudely shoving my way through the crowd with a kid under my arm, screaming for his daddy. If this didn’t look like an abduction, I don’t know what would have. The kid’s screaming and crying indicated he was in danger, drawing attention. People were trying to stop me, but I was on a mission and bounced them out of my way like Shannon Sharp running for the end zone with a football tucked firmly into his arm. Even a security cop tried to stop me, but I blew right past him, too.
As I caught up to the man with the red ponytail, he heard a kid screaming – it drew everyone’s attention, and I’m sure he recognized his kid’s voice. As I reached him, the security cop grabbed me from behind by the collar.
The man with the red ponytail and horse's head hat was confused and stunned, to say the least when he saw me carrying his child. “What the heck are you doing with my son?” he demanded, snatching his boy from my arm. Delaney was still holding onto his back pocket. A crowd was circling us to see what was going on.
“I believe you have my daughter,” I said, taking Delaney’s hand. “They must have grabbed the wrong pockets when we collided.” Meanwhile, the cop was dumbfounded as to what was going on.
I explained to the officer what had happened, and the other dad corroborated my story. “When an officer tells you to stop, you stop,” the cop scolded me.
“Not when I’m rescuing my kid,” I said. “Actually, two kids.”
“Even so. You need to stop when an officer tells you to do so,” the cop said. “We would have made sure both kids got back to their parents.”
I wasn’t going to argue with the cop, but can you imagine how scared my daughter and the other dad’s son would have been while sitting at a police station alone or at a stadium security office for a couple of hours while the police tried to locate their parents? Keep in mind that in the mid-90s, cell phones were pretty new, and most people did not have one. (Mine was a big Motorola bag phone mounted in my truck.)
The officer asked for my ID and wrote down my information, just in case, and we were on our way.
“Are you in trouble with that policeman,” Delaney asked with concern.
“Nope,” I replied confidently. “He’s just mad because I outran him, even with a kid under my arm.” Then I laughed, “If that policeman was a football player, he’d probably play for the Kansas City Chiefs because he wasn’t very fast.” We shared a good laugh about that. (At least I did.)
Delaney and I went to our seats. We bought a glass of Pepsi from the concessionaire selling in the aisles, enjoyed our completely mashed hotdogs (that must have happened when the boy was struggling to get away from me), and then devoured broken pieces and crumbs of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies in lieu of birthday cake. The Broncos went on to beat the Chiefs by a wide margin that day, so all in all, it was a good birthday weekend!
I’ll never forget that birthday weekend, especially the little boy. In retrospect, it seems like a cruel thing to do, to just grab him and take off running, but I sure as heck wasn’t going to leave him there alone either. I think I’d do precisely the same thing if faced with that situation today, but I haven’t heard another kid scream like that until just the other day.
I was running errands in Duluth and Superior. I stopped at TJ Maxx first to return an item for my wife. Walking from the parking lot, I heard a young girl screaming hysterically. I saw her standing by her mom next to their car. The little girl kept screaming until her mom finally told her, “Calm down, I can’t understand you when you’re screaming.”
The mom must have thought her daughter was hurt as she looked her over. The girl was pointing upward in the air; I thought a bee had stung the child. I kept a vigilant eye in case they needed help. When the girl finally calmed down (a little), I could make out what she was saying: “Mommy, Mommy, look, it’s a rainbow!” The child was not hurt or in danger – she was just overly excited. “Mommy, can we chase it? Please? Can we go find the end?”
What started as a legitimate concern for the little girl's well-being soon became pure joy—the innocence of a child asking to chase a rainbow and find the end. I love rainbows, but it seems most of the time, we see only a partial rainbow. However, I’ve been blessed to see some pretty cool full arches.
Hillside Park was across the road from our house on Albany Street in Ottumwa. It was initially called Reservoir Park because it has a huge underground water tank. Because of the tank, there are no trees in most of the park, making it a great place to see rainbows.
It was raining one summer morning on the south and west end of town. The sun behind me created a rainbow that soon turned into a double, full rainbow! Wow!  
Another day, while driving east on Belknap in Superior, Wisconsin, I saw a huge, full rainbow. It was so big I couldn’t capture it on one screen for a photo; I had to take a video. I guess now these smartphones can take a panoramic photo. (Technology moves way faster than I do.) I’ve even had the pleasure of seeing rainbows from above.
It’s common to find rainbows below the viewing platform at High Falls, on the Pigeon River, bordering the United States and Canada. The mist from the waterfall frequently provides the sun with continuous opportunities to make rainbows on a sunny day, but they are small and only partial rainbows.
While driving in a remote, mountainous area in the west, I encountered an isolated rain shower in a valley. I was treated to a complete rainbow viewed from above. I’ve never seen such a thing since then. Again, I had to take a video as I was unaware of what “pano” meant on a cellphone, let alone how to use it.
I have seen a full rainbow over the water a few times, with rain showers over Lake Superior. I’d love to catch an iron ore boat sailing under a rainbow, but I wouldn't know how to photograph the phenomenon.
Open spaces are the best place to see rainbows, especially complete arches. Living along the north shore of Lake Superior provides about the most significant open area you’ll find—unless you go to the ocean.
When Melissa and I were in Hawaii, a local flying club manager told us how neat it was to fly between the islands of Molokai, Maui, and Lania. “When ships would lose power, the trade winds would drift them into the channel between the islands,” Kat said. “A lot of ships sank there. On a clear day, you can see dozens of shipwrecks in the water from the air; there’s an eight-mile stretch called Shipwreck Beach.” We rented an airplane and took off to see the shipwrecks.
I flew due east from Honolulu toward Molokai. It was a thrill flying over the Pacific Ocean along the north shore of Molokai. We rounded the east end of the island, flying westward along the south shore. With Molokai to our right and Maui off the left wing, we were headed toward Lanai and Shipwreck Beach. Just then, it started to rain. The isolated rain shower got heavier, and I decided to turn around and head back.
Although I was rated and qualified to fly in such conditions, there was no sense in intentionally flying into the inclement weather in an airplane with which I was not familiar. Besides, Kat told us it had to be a clear, sunny day to see the shipwrecks below the water’s surface. I landed the airplane at the airport on Molokai; maybe we could wait for the rain to let up.
Rain showers over the southern Pacific islands come up quickly and are generally short-lived. Unfortunately, this shower was hanging on.
Although we did not see any shipwrecks that day, we enjoyed a great airplane ride over the Pacific Ocean. The rain showers and sunshine entertained us on the ground at the Molokai airport and en route back to Honolulu with some of the most brilliant full rainbows I had ever seen. How would that little girl in Duluth have reacted had she seen the rainbows we saw that day?
It doesn’t matter if it’s your kid or not; nothing will get your attention faster than a young child who screams, especially if it sounds like they are hurt or in danger.
The little girl sure sparked a lot of memories and emotions that day by shrieking over a rainbow: she rekindled the fear I felt when I thought I’d lost Delaney at Mile High Stadium. The relief both dads felt when reunited with our respective children. She reminded me of the simplest of joys, like seeing a rainbow, and the hope and excitement in the innocence of a child. Mostly, she reminded me that I’ve been chasing rainbows my whole life; I still chase rainbows, looking for the end, and I hope I always will.

​A school teacher, Carole Olsen, was in charge of religious education at Saint Mary’s church in Ottumwa. “You should be teaching a CCD class,” she told me. I was in my early twenties; I was not a teacher and knew nothing about teaching, so I told her no, but Carole didn’t give up.
“You don’t need a degree in education to be a teacher,” she said. “A teacher is someone from whom others learn. A degree just lets you get paid for teaching in the public schools.”
“I wouldn’t know how to go about it or what to do,” I justified. “Thanks for the offer, but I won’t be teaching religious ed.” Carol wasn’t going to give up.
“There is a book for the students and a teacher manual that goes with it,” Carol explained. “Everything you need is in the manual; lesson plans, projects, and such, and plenty of tips on teaching for your age group. You relate well with little kids, so I’ll put you down for the third-grade class. You’ll do fine.” She was very persistent, but I stood my ground, again declining Carol’s offer.
On my first night, after introducing myself to the students, I said, “We’re here to learn about our faith.” A young boy immediately raised his hand. “Yes, James?”
“What is faith?” James was a spirited soul, and I knew he would be a handful, yet he seemed sincere in his question. I had read the manual for the first night’s lesson, and faith was not defined. I knew what faith is, but how would I explain this in a way an eight-year-old would understand? I told Carole I wasn’t a teacher, and now I felt like a deer in headlights. I had to figure this out on my own.
“Faith is believing,” I said. There. A nice, short, simple answer to James’ question. I continued with my opening, but James interrupted.
“What do you mean?” This kid was going to challenge me all year long.  
“You’re in third grade, right,” I asked James. “Where do you go to school?”
“Lincoln Elementary,” James replied.
“How do you get to school in the morning,” I asked, “and how do you get home after school?”
“My mom takes me to school and picks me up,” James answered. “But sometimes my dad picks me up after school.”
“How do you know your dad will be there after school,” I asked.
“He told me he would come get me,” James explained.
I continued, “And do you believe him?”
“Yes,” James said. “He’s always there when he says he'll come get me.”
“Believing he will be there is having faith in your dad, like we believe in God. That’s our faith, which we will learn more about.” James was good with my answer, so I must have replied on a third-grade level.
To this day, I still reflect on and ponder James’ question from nearly forty years ago. It often leads me to think about the story of the apostle referred to as doubting Thomas.
Thomas was not present when Jesus first appeared to the disciples, and he didn’t believe their story: ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands…and put my hand into his side, I will not believe,’ he said. Then, a week later, Jesus appeared to the disciples again, this time with Thomas present.
Jesus told Thomas to put his fingers in his hands and his hand in his side, “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.” Because of this story, I have spent much of my life conscientiously trying to believe without seeing. Sometimes, it’s easy to do.
For example, on a cloudy, overcast day, I hear people say, ‘I sure wish the sun would come out.’ “It is out and shining brightly,” I assure them, even though they cannot see it. But I am somewhat a doubting Thomas myself.
On many overcast days, I’ve taken an airplane and flown above the clouds just to see and bask in the sunshine; it does wonders for an attitude that needs adjusting. After landing, I'd assure naysayers, “The sun is out and shining brightly. I just saw it.” This would again remind me: blessed are those who believe but have not seen. Sometimes, it’s not always so easy to believe without seeing.
Living in the Northwoods, there’s a lot of wildlife around our property, and we love it all. Some animals come out during the day, while others prefer the night, like raccoons and bears. I do love watching the bears. Unfortunately, bears and dogs are not friends. Because we have a dog, Nova Mae, who ‘marks’ her domain, the bears tend to steer clear of our yard. I’m pretty sure they still come around. They just wait until the nighttime when the dog is asleep.
Something has been cleaning out the bird feeder on the deck at night. I have no way of proving this; I’ve not seen the bears in our yard for quite a while, but I believe they are the robbers because the noise seems more than a raccoon would make. “It’s a raccoon,” Melissa said. “Bears would have torn down the feeder, and they haven’t touched the hummingbird feeder.” (The hummingbird feeders are hung where the raccoons cannot reach them, but a bear standing on its hind legs could get them.)
Even in the middle of the night, I’ll get up when I hear a ruckus outside in the dark, but by the time I get to the back door and turn on a light, the thief has escaped in the night. “One of these nights, I’m gonna bust you,” I say to the bear that was not there.
A few days ago, it rained just before dark. Not long after the rain let up, Nova Mae ran to the front window barking. I heard some noise on the front porch that sounded like footsteps on steps and assumed it was the UPS guy; they’d been working long hours. I went to the front door, “Stay here,” I instructed my trusty canine to keep the delivery guy from being jumped upon. I opened the door, but no one was there. I stepped onto the porch to investigate.
I had not been out since the rain fell, but I noticed fresh footprints on the steps and a few on the porch, too, but only near the top step. There was no package left on the porch, and I did not see a truck on the street, going down the road, or at the neighbor’s house. Then, it occurred to me that the footprints were not human. “Was it a sasquatch?” I wondered.
I looked around the porch and over the edge of the railing; no creature was on the ground unless it was hiding under the porch. I called my wife outside to have her check under the porch. (Hey, she’s shorter and can look under there more easily than me.) I showed Melissa the evidence of Sassy on the steps.
Melissa noticed wet paw prints on the hand railing as if the animal was reaching for the squirrel feeder hanging from a rod over the edge. “It looks like a small bear,” she said.
Or, a baby sasquatch, I thought to myself. Still, I did not say aloud lest my wife should have me taken in for a psychiatric evaluation. “We haven’t seen a bear around here since last fall,” I said.
“You never know,” she said, returning inside the house. Although I'd not seen them on the back deck if a bear came to the front porch, why wouldn’t they come to the back deck, too?
Last week, Melissa quietly called me to the back door. Two big, fat raccoons were climbing the post on the back deck. They would hold onto the wood post with their back feet while stretching to grab the hanging birdfeeder almost two feet away with their front paws. Then, they would lick the sunflower seeds out of the feeder with their tongues. It was hilarious to watch these little burglars!
The raccoons returned two or three nights in a row, making plenty of noise, disproving my theory of bears being the culprits. Besides, bears are notorious for tearing things up; they pull a bird down with minimal effort and break it open to get the treat inside. Although our bird feeders have yet to be damaged, I still think bears are getting into them. (Or sasquatches, or is the plural sasquatchi?)
The other night, I went outside to get something from my van in the driveway. I took Nova Mae along with me for a potty break. Melissa stood on the front porch, asking, “Is Nova on a leash?” I told her she was not. “Bring Nova inside right now. Do not let her go to the backyard.” When my wife says this, I never question why. I called Nova to come inside with me.
On our way to the front door, I wondered if it was a wolf or a coyote. Had the sasquatch returned? “Come on, Nova. Stay close to me.” It was probably the raccoons again, and Melissa didn’t want Nova to chase them or, worse yet, get into a scuffle. I couldn’t wait to find out what was going on.
“There’s a bear on the back deck,” Melissa reported. When I went to look, there was no such animal there. “He might have run away when I called you into the house,” she said, “but he was out there.”
“Have you been in the gin? I don’t see a bear,” I said. My wife told me to be quiet, and he would probably return.
A few minutes later, we heard the ladder by the deck rattle. Sure enough, a small bear climbed the step ladder and came lumbering across the deck. The bear stood on his hind legs, grabbing the bird feeder with his front paws to keep it from swinging, and he licked the sunflower seeds out with his tongue. “It’s amazing he doesn’t just pull it down,” I whispered as we watched him. When the feeder was empty, the bear sniffed around the deck for something else to eat.
Eventually, the bear came within about three feet of the back door, where we stood watching him. Bears have poor eyesight, so he did not see us, but their hearing and sense of smell are impeccable. I’m sure he could either smell us or hear Nove whimpering in her kennel in the other room. Anyway, he sensed our presence and returned down the ladder.
We watched as he made his way through the yard toward the woods. Before leaving, he laid down in the grass, crossing his front legs like a dog, to rest for a bit. Then, finally, got up and moseyed back into the woods. We haven’t seen him at night again since then, but it was a thrill to have him stop by to visit us.
Several nights since then, I have been awakened by noises from the back deck, but whatever was there left by the time I got there to look. Melissa thinks it’s just the raccoons, but I think it’s the bear.
Finally, last Friday night, I fell asleep in the three-seasons room adjacent to the deck while watching old reruns of M*A*S*H. I woke up at 5:25 in the morning to Nova, making a soft, low, rumbling growl. There was noise on the deck. I got up to see if it was the raccoons. Nope. It was the same black bear, with his brown snout and great big ears. He was cleaning out the bird feeder, but my movement alarmed him. The bear jumped off the edge of the deck, then scurried to the tree line. I like that bear.
I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see that bear again, but I have known the pleasure of watching him, and I believe I will see him again.
Thank goodness for Carole Olsen who talked me into being a religious ed teacher. Had it been any other way, I may never have met James; a third-grade student who taught me more about my faith then I ever realized at the time.
I hope you will get to watch a bear in your yard someday, too. He’s probably there even if you don’t ever see him. You don't believe me? Don’t be a doubting Thomas; remember: “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.”