​June and I were on our way to Massachusetts when I received a text from my daughter Annie, "How is your Wednesday?"
 
I replied, "Good. On my way to Masschusettes, which most people can't even spell, let alone point out on a map. Lol." I was laughing about my text, then re-read what I'd written. "Oh no!" I gasped, then quickly sent Annie another text, "Guess I should spell check myself before mouthing off. Bahahaha." (I had to write 'Bahahaha, as my flip phone doesn't send emojis or, obviously spell check.)
 
Annie is a school teacher; surely, she would catch the typo. So, to prove I knew how to spell the state correctly, I fired off another text, "Massachusetts. M-A-S-S-A-C-H-U-S-E-T-T-S. Massachusetts. Would you like me to use it in a sentence?"
 
Annie wrote back, "Hahahahaha, yeah, you'd better be careful about your spelling." (She had to spell out, 'Hahahahaha' because my flip phone doesn't get emojis either.) Although we were hundreds of miles apart, I knew we were sharing a good laugh about that.
 
One of my blessings is my ability to travel around this great country; meet people in far-away regions, and communicate despite our language difference. Even though we may both be speaking English, the different dialects are most interesting.
 
People often tell me Minnesota people talk funny, meaning they have an accent. Not so. Like everyone else, we spell our state with only one o; pronounced, Minnesoota, as if it had two long o's. The same is true with the word 'hoome' and others.
 
When we first moved here, I would ask where something, or someplace was. They might answer, "A boot ten miles from here." It took me a while to understand that people were not referring to winter footwear when saying a boot. (Spelled, a-b-o-u-t)
 
In other states around the country, I hear people pronouncing words differently, and sometimes they phrase a sentence differently than we did when living in Iowa. We've lived in Minnesota for seven years now, and I've still not adjusted to some terminology. For example, if a person drives a semi, I'd call them a truck driver; one who drives children to school is a bus driver. But, in Minnesota, people will say, "She drives bus, or he drives truck."  And it could be me; a couple of months ago, I heard someone use these same terms in Oklahoma.
 
Although I truly enjoy the different dialects around the country, I don't think I can ever get used to Minnesotans and northern Wisconsinites calling tater-tot casserole, tater-tot hotdish. It’s casserole (to me anyway).
 
A big terminology difference I noticed involves carbonated beverages. In the mid-west, we call such a drink pop. Other parts of the country call it soda or cola. In the south, it's all coke.
 
Years ago, at a café down south, I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke. I thought the waitress was poking fun at me when she asked, "What kind of coke do you want." I asked what kinds of coke they offered? "We have Coca-Cola, Pepsi coke, orange coke, strawberry coke, or lemon-lime coke (7-Up). We also have diet coke (TAB in the pink can; diet Coca-Cola didn't come out until the early eighties), and root beer." When I told her I just wanted a regular coke, she asked, "What flavor."
 
I also enjoy the way people will spell and use a word the same but pronounce it differently. For example, this morning in the mail, I received a gift of handmade pecan pralines from a friend in Texas. I know of at least two ways to say the word pecan and four ways to pronounce pralines; one must say it correctly according to the region you’re in, lest ye be labeled a tourist.
 
Regional terms are also fun; in some areas, 'you guys' refers to a group of people regardless of gender. If I understand southern English correctly, y'all can mean one person, or two people. But when addressing a group, a southerner will say, all y'alls.
 
Last week in Massachusetts, I overheard a conversation among a group of men having coffee in a restaurant. The man who caught my attention had an accent; I would guess he was from New Jersey. 
 
He kept referring to an adomaduh. It made no sense to me, so I listened more keenly. I swear it sounded like he was trying to say "Mah-na Mah-na."
 
Do you remember the Sesame Street Character Mahna Mahna? He was a purple Muppet with the wild orange hair that wore a fuzzy green tunic and yellow sunglasses. The only words he ever said were his name. He sang a song with the two pink Snowths with long eyelashes, horns, and yellow lips? I thought the guy was saying his name, Mahna Mahna.
 
As the man in the cafe continued talking, I figured out he was talking about a crooked car dealer. "It's just wrong when someone tampas with an adomaduh."
 
When I got up to leave, I stopped at the man's table and asked if he was talking about an odometer. "That's what I said. The crook tampas with adomaduhs." I started laughing, but I was the only one, so I awkwardly exited stage left and out to my car. Driving the rest of the day, I kept singing, "Mahna Mahna. Do doo be-do-do. Mahna Mahna. Do do-do do.
 
Although I could not get that song out of my head for the life of me, I do love the various accents, dialects, and terminology used around America. But, let's be honest, if we all spoke proper English as it was initially written, life would be far less exciting.
 
After the road trip to Massachusetts, it was good to be back home where everyone speaks a language I understand. I brought a load from the car into the house while June ran out into the yard.
 
Our black cat Edgar Allan, standing on the back of the couch next to the front door, gave me a head butt and greeted me. "Did you bring that rotten dog home with you," he asked? Now, Melissa and I will sometimes refer to them as "that rotten dog" or "that rotten cat." But only in a loving manner when one of them has done something naughty or mischievous.
 
I set down the bags that I was carrying. "Edgar, you are not allowed to call June a rotten dog. That term is reserved for people use only. Besides, June is not a rotten dog; you, on the other hand, can certainly be a rotten cat," I said as I gave him a scratch behind the ears. I had a good laugh about that, but I was the only one laughing.
 
Edgar defended himself, "Yeah, but June is more rottener than me."
 
"Edgar, your grammar is atrocious in so many ways, in any region…and you call yourself Edgar Allan." I shook my head, laughing, but I was the only one laughing, so I went outside.
 
So, there I was, correcting the grammar used by a cat; me – the same guy who misspelled 'Massachusettes' while poking fun at people who can’t spell Massachusetts.

​I went to an estate auction just to see what was there. It was July, and it was hot. A couple of items interested me, but I wasn't sure I wanted to wait for them to come up for bid in the heat. So, I went inside the house to see what was there, but mostly I was hoping to find some air conditioning to escape the hot weather.
 
I fell in love the very moment I saw it on the east wall in the living room. I knew it would probably sell cheap because people don't want these big old things. Most folks consider them an albatross; they just want to buy the bench or the stool. So, I decided to stay and wait for it.
 
A few hours later, the auctioneer said, "What we have here is an antique piano and bench. We'll be selling them separately, starting with the bench. Whoever buys the bench can have the piano if they want it; if not, we'll sell the piano next."
 
The piano was gorgeous, an antique upright-grand. The unique rounded corners made of dark quarter-sawn oak, the wood carvings on the sheet music boards, the sculpted legs, and hand-carved beading on the edges made this a breathtaking piano. The center keys had been replaced with modern plastic, but the original ivory keys remained on high and low notes.
 
The piano bench was nothing special; a late sixties piece of furniture that did not match the piano. Jim, the auctioneer, asked, "Who'll give me two hundred to open." Auctioneer's always start high. He chanted a few seconds, then asked for one hundred. A man called out a bid of two dollars and fifty cents. "We've got two and a half; who'll give me five?" I raised my hand. The other bidder rapidly went seven-fifty; I raised my hand for ten. He took twelve and a half, and I nodded my head for fifteen. The other man bidding, looked at me and said something obscene, then walked away; it shocked me that he said it. No one else was bidding; Jim paused his auction cry, glanced over the crowd, then announced, "Sold for fifteen dollars," I held up my card, "to number one-seventeen." Then he addressed me, "Tom, do you want the piano or just the bench?"
 
I laughed; Jim knows me, "All I wanted was the piano, but I'll take both."
 
The other man who was bidding approached me, asking if I wanted to sell the bench. "Sure, twenty-five bucks," I said with a smug tone.
 
I could tell he was annoyed with me, "You only paid fifteen."
 
"Yeah," I replied, "but then you said what you said to me, and if that isn't worth ten bucks, I don't know what is." The man glared at me briefly, then repeated his rude comment. "The price just went up to fifty," I said to him as he turned away; in the spirit of a live auction, I added, "Do I hear more?"
 
I bought several cool items that day – the piano was the prized treasure among them. When I got home, I told my wife I had purchased a baker's cabinet, some other things and then told her about the piano. "It's going to look great with that antique piano bench you bought in Winona." She asked where I would store it since we were still finishing the remodeling of our home. "Oh yeah," I casually mentioned, "I bought the house, too. I'll keep it there for now." (That's another story that didn't end as well.)
 
The piano sat in the house for a few months; I wanted to move it to our home, ready to play before Christmas. So, I called a man named Paul Kennedy, a piano tuner. I was told Paul was a real enthusiast for old pianos. "I'll come right over," he said. I explained the house didn't have any utilities connected, and it was dark. "I have a flashlight on my phone," he said, determined to come that evening, "I can be there in ten minutes."
 
"You better give me thirty minutes," I told him and hung up the phone. When I got to the house, Paul was pacing on the front porch. After a brief introduction, I unlocked the door.
 
Paul rushed right in to look at the piano. "Holy cow, this is amazing," were his first words. He ran his hands over the top and the sides. "I can't believe this," he said, then opened the keyboard and played a few notes. "It's not far out of tune," he said, then pulled the piano forward to look at the soundboard, "Do you have any idea how cool it is to find this complete? I usually find pianos like this in pieces in boxes and baskets." Now, I was in love with this piano at the very first sight, but Paul's excitement made my affection seem like puppy love.
 
"You need to get this moved into a warm space; the cold, dry air isn't good for it," Paul said. He wrote down a few notes, including the serial number, and promised to be in touch soon.
 
Less than an hour passed when I received a call from Paul. I barely said hello, when he started, "Your piano is a 1906 Ellington, upright grand. Ellington is an upscale piano built by Baldwin in Chicago…." Paul finally took a breath and asked, "Can I come to see it again in the daylight on Thursday." Of course, I agreed and told him to call first.
 
By Thursday, the piano had already been moved into our house, having a couple of days to acclimate. Paul sat down and started playing lightly. "It's really held its tune well." As he played, I could see the dust floating in the sunlight coming through the front windows. Finally, he stood up, "Can I ask what you paid for the piano?"
 
"I gave fifteen dollars for the bench; the piano was free," I told him.
 
"This piano, restored, is worth about twenty-six thousand dollars on the west coast when sold by a reputable dealer." Paul handed me a card, "This is a friend of mine; he's a collector and a dealer. He'll give you six thousand for it, sight unseen, based on what I've told him – but now that I've seen it in the daylight, he'll give you at least eight."
 
"The piano isn't for sale," I told him, "It has a history here in Ottumwa, and I'm going to keep it." Then I told Paul I wanted him to clean it up and tune it. It was terribly dusty inside.
 
Paul made a clicking noise and pointed at me, "That's what I wanted to hear." Before I knew it, he removed the movement and keyboard from the piano cabinet and carried them out to his car.
 
"Wait a minute," I said with concern. "How much is this going to cost me?"
 
Paul just laughed, "It'll be very reasonable. Trust me; I am more interested in seeing this Ellington play again than a paycheck. I'll be back on Monday – say three in the afternoon?"
 
Paul returned on Monday bringing in the keyboard first; he had removed the white plastic tops from the center keys and replaced them with natural ivory from other antique pianos he'd collected for parts. Then he pulled the toe board, got down on his hands and knees, and started cleaning with tiny brushes and a vacuum.
 
When he finished cleaning, he reassembled the piano, sat on the bench, and began to strike keys. Next, he used a tool to turn pegs, tuning the piano. Then, when he finished, Paul started playing the piano with enthusiasm and spirit – It was magnificent!
 
When I remodeled our house, I removed all the carpet and refinished the hardwood floors. Any floors that weren't wooden were ceramic tile. The entire house became part of the instrument with all the hard floors. The sound resonated from room to room; it was music unlike any I'd ever heard from a piano before. I was absolutely in awe at the sound and the tone of this piano that was over one hundred years old. Then I told Paul some of the Ellington's history.
 
"Delilah was the name of the lady who owned the piano. I talked to her sister, Dorothea, who lived next door, and she told me a lot of stories:
 
"It's a fabulous instrument, an upright grand, you know." I smiled and continued listening. "The piano came from the Ottumwa Opera House; they bought it new. Then, in the early twenties, they traded it in for a full-sized grand piano at that music store next to the South Side Drug. Dad bought the piano, used, for Delilah to learn to play. She was pretty young then.
 
“The piano company delivered it and set it up on the west wall. Dad insisted the piano be kept perfectly tuned, so he had the tuner come by once a month to check it. Everyone in our family was a musician, so when Dad saw the tuner walking down the sidewalk with his case, he called for Mom and us girls to come to the living room. A few neighbors and friends would see him coming, and they came to the house with their instruments too. After the tuner looked over the piano, we all started playing. It became a regular event for people to gather at our house on Sunday evening for a music jam once a month.  Other people came just to listen. The piano never seemed to need much tuning; we figured Dad just wanted folks to get together for the music. I think the piano tuner wanted the same thing because he never charged Dad to tune the piano.
 
"Several years back, I was over visiting Delilah; she said to me, 'help me move this piano to the other side of the room.' I told her I would not; I said, 'Dad had them put that piano on the west wall. It's been there for over eighty-five years, and that's where it's going to stay.' Well, a while later, I was back at the house, and I'll be darned if that piano hadn't been moved to the east wall. So I asked Delilah, 'who moved that for you.' I kept a close watch on my sister. I didn't see anyone going in or out of her house. Finally, Delilah told me she moved it herself, a few inches at a time until it was on the east wall. Can you imagine that? That woman, at ninety-one years old, moved that piano across the rug no less until it was where she wanted it."
 
Dorothea's eyes were welling, and she changed her tone of voice, "Well, I suppose that's just stubbornness for ya." She went on to say, "Dad built that house in 1917 – my sister and I were just babies when we moved in. I suppose Delilah was about six years old when Dad bought the piano." Dorothea paused as she reminisced. "She lived there her whole life and never did marry; that piano was her love." Her eyes were welling up thinking about her sister; Dorothea said, "You best be going now; I need to fix some supper."
 
When Paul had finished tuning and playing the piano, he stood up, motioning for me to take the bench, "Sit down, play it; tell me what you think."
 
I blushed, "I don't play the piano; I always wanted to, but I don't."
 
"Oh, your wife plays?" I told him she did not. "Do your kids play?" I said they do not. Paul seemed confused, "If no one in your family plays, why do you want a piano?"
 
"Because I like to cook," I answered, leaving Paul more baffled.
 
"How do you cook with a piano?"
 
"I don't cook with the piano," I replied. "I cook a nice meal and invite people who can play to come to dinner. Then, when we've finished eating, I hand them a ticket and tell them, 'Pay or play – nobody eats for free.'" We shared a good laugh about that. We said our farewells, and Paul went on his way.
 
One day, I decided to go through the piano bench. I knew there was some sheet music and such in there; I wanted to clean it out and probably get rid of the bench. I found several pieces of music that Delilah had composed. "Maybe I'll keep these with the piano," I thought. Next, I found a couple of letters addressed to Delilah from John; each letter had a military return address.
 
I opened the first letter; it was handwritten: "My dear, sweet Delilah…." My heart melted at the greeting. The letter went on; "I tested out in the military, so they'll be teaching me a trade. When I get home from the war, I'll have a skill, so I can get a good job to provide for you, if you’ll marry me one day, and start a family." His letters were the sweetest love letters I'd ever read.
 
I took the letter to Dorothea, asking if she wanted them. "No, they should stay with the piano." Maybe she had seen the letters before. She went on to tell me, "Johnny never came home from Germany. Delilah never married, never even courted. The piano would be my sister's only love for the rest of her life." The story moved me very much; enough to go home and start planning.
 
I called a friend of mine, a wonderfully talented pianist, to invite him and his wife, Marta, to a dinner party. I told Michael, "Be sure to bring cash or a good variety of sheet music to play; nobody eats free around here."
 
I also invited Dorothea, arranging to pick her up and drive her back home. She seemed excited to come for dinner and hear the piano being played again. I was looking forward to hearing more of her stories.
 
The day before our dinner, Dorothea called me, "I'm afraid I can't make it tomorrow evening." I offered to postpone the event for her, but she declined. "I just can't..." she paused. "I just can't hear it played by anyone else. I'm sorry." That was the last time I spoke to Dorothea. I tried several times to call her but only got the answering machine. Dorothea passed away within a few years of her sister.
 
It was a difficult decision, but we left the piano in Ottumwa when Melissa and I moved to the north shore. We sold it to a young man who had a sincere interest in Ottumwa and the area's history. With his strong appreciation for the piano and its history, we were confident we left the piano with the right person.
 
Every time I look at a picture of the Ellington, I recall all of the love stories it holds. The love from their dad, the piano tuner, the neighbors, and friends. I feel the love between Dorothea and he sister, Delilah. I feel the love and hope in Johnny's letters, and I share Delilah's pain when Johnny didn't return from the war. I understand her true passion for the piano that became her lifetime love. I also feel the love, joy, and appreciation of the young man who owns it now.
 
For well over one hundred years, every note of every song played on that piano has entertained and comforted many. There is no doubt in my mind it will continue to do so for another hundred years.

​"My gosh, how old is she? Isn't she nine or ten?" my cousin Sarah guessed in awe.
 
I tossed the ball again, "She's eleven and a half," I replied as June emerged victoriously from the stairwell with Sully in close pursuit. She set the ball, covered with dog slobber, in my hand. 
 
"Woof, woof," June spoke with excitement, "Throw the ball again, Dad, I'm ready" I tossed the ball down the stairwell to the lower level of the house. June and Sully both took off chasing the ball; June was two full strides in the lead.
 
This game of catch had been going on for nearly four hours, with only short breaks. Sarah shook her head, "I think June is wearing Sully out."
 
Sully is a two-and-a-half-year-old, handsome Golden Retriever. His picture-perfect appearance is typical of his breed. He has those big, brown puppy dog eyes that will melt your heart. His soft reddish-brown coat is wavy and features stylish cowlicks. Whisps of longer blonde hair trail on each of his lanky legs, flowing down to his toes. When Sully wags his tail, the longer hair flows like the groomed mane of a show horse, cantering through the breeze.
 
Sully stands half again taller than June; he weighs thirty pounds more and is physically fit. June, nine years his senior, still carries the girlish figure of her youth; she refuses to act like a dog in her senior years.
 
Age consideration aside, the two dogs get along well. June will often yield way to the larger canine; not because of the size difference; June just plays smarter. You might say she chooses her battles wisely - unless there's a tennis ball involved. Both dogs love to chase and catch the ball and become quite competitive when the yellow fuzzy sphere appears.
 
I threw the ball down the stairs again, June took off in the lead, Sully followed close behind. June was just getting ready to start down the steps. Trying to turn the corner while running, Sully slipped on the ceramic tile floor. He went sliding by, feet first, like a baseball player trying to beat the ball to home plate. Sully crashed into June's rump as he passed. June was launched down the steps like the runner who crashed into the catcher. She tumbled for a bit before regaining her footing. Sully quickly caught up, and the two charged across the family room.
 
One of the dogs bumped the ball with their nose. The ball ricocheted off the stone fireplace and bounced down another set of steps going to the lowest level in the house. Sully was in the lead but slammed on his brakes, stopping short, allowing June to fly by, down the steps. June returned to the living room with the ball.
 
At the top of those steps was a white round disc on the floor; I thought it was a smoke detector that had been removed for some reason. My cousin Andy explained, "The cat food dish is down there, and he'll clean it out every chance he gets. If Sully gets too close to the disc, he gets a little tickle from his collar, so he doesn't go near those steps."
 
I learn new things every day. That also explains the smoke detector on top of the cat box upstairs; all this time, I thought their cats must eat some bad things if Andy felt it necessary to mount a smoke detector on the litter box.
 
Although June came upstairs with the ball, Sully had the ball a minute later. He held it between his teeth, making a lump under his lip; he looked like a baseball pitcher with a big wad of chew tucked in his cheek.
 
June turned to me with despair, "Sully has my ball."
 
"Well, how did he get it from you?" I explained like a coach, "You have to protect the ball, cover it up; you can't let your opponent take it away like that. It's his ball now; possession is everything in any game using a ball."
 
Sully laid down, gnawing on the ball, unwilling to give it up. Sully is bigger, but June plays smarter. What she did next amazed me!
 
While Sully laid with the ball in his mouth, June went to his pile, bringing me one of Sully's favorite toys. I tossed the object into the dining room. June flinched, stomping her front feet as if she was going for the toy. Sully dropped the ball and ran to retrieve the toy before June got there. As soon as he ran, June calmly walked over, picked up the tennis ball, bringing it to me. I laughed but was indeed amazed at her thought process.
 
At first, I thought June's ploy was just coincidental until she did it again and again! The next time June baited Sully, Sarah also witnessed it. "Come on, Sully! June is bluffing for Pete's sake, and you fall for it every time!" Sarah shook her head, "Sully, you’re so gullible." I was proud of my crafty little girl.
 
The following day, June and Sully were looking at my computer screen while I went for a refill of coffee. I had started writing a story titled 'June and Sully.' 
 
"Why is your name listed first," Sully demanded to know? June pushed a few keys on the laptop, bringing up a different page I had opened.
 
"Look here, Sully," June explained, pointing her paw at the screen. "According to the American Kennel Club, Golden Retrievers are the fourth smartest breed of dogs. Do you know which is the smartest?" June pressed another key, scrolling the screen, "It says here, Border Collies are the smartest breed." June gloated to her playmate, "That's why my name is listed first."
 
June went to find a ball; Sully climbed on the couch to nap in the warm sunlight coming through the front window. Watching this exchange between the dogs, I said, "June, that's not exactly correct."
 
"I know," June said, smiling, "You obviously listed the names in alphabetical order." Then she presented a tennis ball covered with dog slobber, "Can you throw this for me, Dad?"

Dozens of people have sent me the same picture; it's a signboard that reads: "Say what you will about the south, but no one retires and moves north." It still humors me. Although I'm not a big fan of the heat associated with the south, that's not the most significant flaw I find in the message. I always have to tell these people, “I'm not retired; I'm just between jobs."
 
Admittedly, while between jobs, I did move to northern Minnesota, where I enjoy the cooler climate. We don't get sweltering temperatures in the summer, and I love the cold and snowy winters. But this type of winter is not for everyone, especially people who say they hate snow. I read a social media post that might help these poor misguided souls.
 
"If you choose not to find joy in the snow, you will have less joy in your life but still the same amount of snow." That's profound. I wish I were the one who wrote that, but I'm not, so I will quote it as 'author unknown.'
 
I've always lived where five months of the year came with cold weather and snow; in a word, winter: Montana, South Dakota, Iowa, Wisconsin, and now Minnesota. I like snow and always have.
 
As a kid, we'd listen intensely to the radio station impatiently waiting for the morning disc jockey to speak those four glorious words: "School is canceled today." When he finally said it, we'd jump up and down celebrating. Cheers echoed through the house as the word spread, "There's no school today." It was as if our favorite team had just won the championship game in overtime against a detested rival.
 
With this news, some of my brothers and sisters went back to bed, while others scrambled to find boots, hats, scarves, gloves, and of course, extra socks.
 
Mom had a large wicker basket of mis-matched socks. If we didn't have snow boots, we'd put on two pairs of socks, then slip a plastic bread bag over our foot, followed by another sock, then the shoe. Even though our shoes would get wet, the plastic kept our feet dry so that we could stay outside longer.
 
When gloves or mittens weren't available, a pair (or two) of socks on your hands worked just as well.
 
There was a lot to be done on a snow day:

1. We'd hurry outside to the undisturbed, new snow.
2. Standing with our backs to the fresh snow, we'd put our arms straight out to our sides and fall backward.
3. Sweeping our arms and legs simultaneously, we made snow angels.

After making snow angels, we might take our snow shovels out to clear a few walks and make a few bucks - or keep playing in the white magic.
 
The neighborhood kids would gather and roll big snowballs to build snowmen and snow forts to take cover from fast-flying snow projectiles. We always started off with teams, but inevitably teammates would turn on one another, and it became a free-for-all. The walls of the snow fortress no longer offered protection as many snowballs came from a teammate within the same fort!
 
Snowball fights weren't my favorite thing to do because, frankly, I wasn't that good; it’s hard to throw a snowball with socks on your hands, but I still participated. Sooner or later, someone was going to get hit a little too hard. Then, tempers flared, and warm tears rolled down cold cheeks. Some of the kids stomped away angry to their houses, but always came back out.
 
Inside the house, we'd toss our wet clothes in the dryer. Boots and shoes made a thundering racket tumbling inside the drum! Socks, gloves, and hats were set on top of heat registers to dry, along with cold hands to be warmed. When our clothes were dry enough, we'd get dressed again and make our way to a nearby hill for snow sledding. Sleds with steel rails were only good when the snow was packed down.
 
To prepare the sledding site, we'd go screaming down the hill on a saucer or rolled up plastic sled; they were the fastest. School lunch trays that were "borrowed" from the cafeteria, were also great for sledding. A cookie sheet or a turkey roasting pan would work for the smaller kids - even a big piece of cardboard would do. As long as it was smooth on the bottom, it was a potential for sledding. Of course, the more we packed down the snowy hill, the faster the sleds went.
 
Albeit dangerous, bumper skiing was an exciting event where skiers soon learned the hazards of a dry patch on the road. Unfortunately, the sport resulted in headaches, not from hitting the pavement but crouching down behind a running car right next to the tailpipe. Just a couple of runs in this event always left me queasy and nauseous. Bumper skiing wasn't the only risky thing we did in the snow.
 
In Iowa, we would pull a saucer sled or an inner tube tied to a long rope behind Dad's red and grey Ford 8N tractor. On the tube, you'd hold on for dear life when the tractor picked up speed, then suddenly turned sharply. The sled whipped on the end of the rope, crossing perpendicular over the plowed rows of a snow-covered cornfield. Wiping out hurt, and much like bull riding, there was no stopping the tractor until the rider had been launched. I'm still amazed that we never broke any arms or legs doing this. Still, pulling sleds behind a tractor wasn't the most dangerous thing I did.   
 
When I was fifteen years old, my older brother Gerard and I bought identical motorcycles at Jerry Smith's Cycle Ranch; – bright blue Kawasaki KZ400s, with a gold and black stripe. Mine sat in the garage (as far as Dad knew), waiting for me to turn sixteen to get my driver's license. My birthday is in November, so being one who loved the cold and snow anyway, as soon as I had my license, I rode the motorcycle all winter long.
 
One day, riding in fresh snow, I was stopped at a red light, heading south on Highway 63. A car was coming up behind me, and I knew it wasn't going to get stopped, so I tried to get moving. Unfortunately, the car slid into my rear tire, shooting me through the intersection like a rock coming out of a sling-shot. I shot right between two cars coming off the cross street. Woodland Avenue. Fortunately, I didn't get hurt.
 
The guy who hit me had a pipe-wrench and helped me pull my bent fender away from the rear tire so I could ride home. "You shouldn't be riding that thing in the snow!" He warned me.
 
I probably sounded like a smart-aleck teenager when I replied, "Would it have made a difference if I was in my car? You still would have hit me; you need to slow down." The man gave me a dirty look and his information, saying he would pay for the fender. I did partially heed his advice; "From now on, if it's snowing, I'll stay off the highway."
 
A week later, I rode my motorcycle in the snow heading south on North Court Street, which parallels Highway 63. A car was approaching the stop sign on Woodland Avenue. I could tell she wasn't going to get stopped, and oncoming traffic kept me from trying to swerve around her. The car slid through the stop sign; I hit the front left fender and flew over my handlebars, smacking my mirror with my knee! I bounced off her hood, then tumbled and skidded across the snow-covered street.
 
The lady jumped out of her car and came running to see if I was hurt. I got up from the pavement, trying to remove the snow that packed into my helmet and was freezing my cheek. "Are you okay," she asked, quite shaken herself. "I couldn't get stopped, and it just happened so fast, and…"
 
"I'm okay, just a little banged up," I said while brushing snow off my chest and pants. "Is my motorcycle okay," I asked while limping back to the other side of her car to check it out.
 
A police car pulled up with his lights on; Ron Tolle was the officer; I knew him. I had never been in an accident before, and his presence made me feel more at ease. "Is anyone hurt," he asked? "Tom, are you okay? Do you want me to call an ambulance?" I assured him I was okay.
 
Officer Tolle helped me lift the broken bike lying on its side, back up on its wheels, and put down the kickstand. The headlight was still on, but the motor wasn't running; I turned the key off, then assessed the damages. Ron walked around the bike with me. The front forks were bent and pushed inward to the frame, the left turn signal had broken off, and one mirror was knocked loose. "Did someone hit you from behind, too," he asked? "How did your back fender get smashed up?"
 
"That happened last week," I pointed down the street, "on the other end of Woodland Avenue. A car hit me from behind on the highway."
 
The officer shook his head, "You shouldn't be riding this thing in the snow!" He warned me. I turned the key on, pulled in the clutch, and pushed the button - the motor fired right up. Ron must have read my mind, "You can't ride this home Tom, I’ve already called a wrecker to tow it."
 
The tow truck arrived and Bill Carr got out. "Are you alright," he asked while putting on his gloves. I told him I was, then he said, "You shouldn't be riding this thing in the snow. Does your dad know you're riding a motorcycle in the snow?" I stood there quietly as he lifted my bike with his wench. He read the side of the gas tank, "Kawasaki. Do you want me to take it out to Jerry Smith's or drop it off at your folks' house?"
 
When Jerry Smith saw the motorcycle, in his soft, always gentle voice, he said, "You know Tom, you shouldn't be riding this on snowy roads; it's not the right type of bike for that."
 
With time, I got smarter, I still rode my motorcycle all winter, but when it was snowing, I drove my car instead. What a thrill it was (and still is) cutting cookies in a parking lot covered with fresh snow in my car.
 
A few things have changed as I got a little older and had a little more money: I prefer a snowblower over a shovel, I bought a six-foot toboggan, but I think I would still ride a sheet of cardboard down the hill. I have warm boots and gloves now, and my aim has improved - I like throwing snowballs at my wife, daughters, and grandkids.
 
I don't think that will ever change for me; I still love the cold and snow. With hot cocoa, and wood fires in the stove, winter isn't just a season – it's a special feeling.
 
It is true, "If you choose not to find joy in the snow, you will have less joy in your life but still the same amount of snow." Author unknown.
 

With Thanksgiving upon us, there's always plenty for which to be thankful. But, this year, I have a little more; some extraordinary things – things money cannot buy.
 
While helping my brother with a remodeling project in Missouri, I promised him an apple pie. We were busy working, but I finally baked the pie the night before I left for home. I returned to Missouri a few weeks late to help again. Dan dropped a subtle hint by placing ten Granny Smith apples on the counter for me to find when I arrived.
 
When I saw them, I said, "Good Lord, Danny! There are enough apples here to bake two pies."
 
Danny laughed and said, "I know." Unfortunately, Dan had to leave a day before me, and I didn't get around to making the pies; but I wouldn't let the apples go to waste either.
 
I made two apple pies thinking I would drive five hours farther south to Oklahoma City. I could visit several family members, give them each a slice of pie, then head home to Minnesota. I called my wife and told her my plans, "Will you save a slice of pie for me," she asked? I promised her I would.
 
Before leaving Missouri, I learned of a friend in Iowa who was having health issues. I started thinking about how many people in Iowa I'd promised to visit. The list was getting longer, and many of these people are getting up there in years. I changed plans again. I would take the pies to Ottumwa and visit several friends, leaving each with a slice of pie. I called my wife and told her of the new plan. "Okay," she said, "Will you still be able to save a slice of pie for me?" I assured her I would, then started driving north.
 
My first stop would be to visit my friend Dale; he's a resident in a memory care facility. I called his daughter Becky first to make sure it would be okay to stop and see him. Becky gave me some tips, "Tell him who you are, and don't get hurt if he doesn't remember you."
 
A staff member showed me to his room. I started to remove my face covering, "Hi Dale; it's Tom…" Dale interrupted me.
 
"Tom Palen, what the heck are you doing here?" It made me feel good that he knew me.
 
"I'm bringing you a slice of apple pie; what else would I be doing here?" We shared a good laugh about that. I honestly had planned to stay for only fifteen or twenty minutes, but an hour and a half later, we wrapped up our visit.
 
During that time, we shared a lot of old stories and some new ones. Dale told me about the day he met his wife, Joann. I couldn't understand what he was saying as far as where they were, but the gist of the story was more important. "I had seen her a couple of times before but didn't pay any attention to her. Then one day at a social, I noticed her standing across the lawn and thought she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen." I could see in Dale's eyes that he was reliving that day. "I was standing with some buddies and pointed her out. I told them, 'Boys, I'm going to marry that gal over there.' Anyway, I bought her lunch." I wasn't sure what he meant by that, but he kept talking, and I kept listening.
 
"When fall came, some things changed in the bus routes, anyway, I was riding the bus to school. The driver stopped to let some more kids on. When the door opened, the most beautiful girl in the world climbed the steps into the bus. I moved over and asked her if she'd like to share the seat with me. She sat down to my right side, and she's been in the right seat next to me ever since then.
 
"She's still the prettiest woman I've ever seen, and she's the only woman I ever loved; she the only woman I could ever love." Dale looked around the room and got a little teary-eyed. "The hardest part of living here is going to bed at night without Joann by my side." Feeling the love and emotion in Dale's voice caused my eyes to well up also.
 
When I talked to Dale's daughter before the visit, I told her I would leave a slice of pie for her mom too. "You're leaving a piece of apple pie for mom, with my dad?" I asked her if that would be okay. "Mom will never get it," she said laughing, then suggested, "Why don't you take the piece to mom yourself." I hadn't seen Joann for at least a few years. So, I told Becky I would visit her mom, too.
 
Dale and I talked about many things during our visit; then, I told him I would visit Joann next; to take a slice of pie to her. "You could leave her pie here, and I'll give it to her when I see her." We shared a good laugh about that. "I'll bet she'll be happy to see you," Dale said to me, Then while giving me a very heartfelt hug. "You be sure to tell Joann that I love her."
 
"I will, Dale. I promise."
 
Joann greeted me at the door, welcoming me. "It's so good to see you; come in, sit down." She offered a glass of ice-cold water with mint. It was very refreshing. I honestly had planned to stay for only fifteen or twenty minutes but stayed for about two hours.
 
During that time, we shared some old stories and some new ones. I asked Joann where she had met Dale. "At a box social," she told me, "The girls would decorate boxes, then make a lunch to inside. The boys would buy a box, then get to eat lunch with the girl who made it. Dale bought my box lunch." It was fun listening to Joann, as she recalled that day. Then with strong suspicion, she said, "The boxes were supposed to be anonymous, but I think those boys had a way of finding out who made which box."
 
I told Joann what Dale had told me, "He was saying it was some sort of social, but I didn't understand what type, and I didn't want to interrupt his story." I told her that Dale said she was the only woman he ever loved or could ever love. "Dale said you were, and still are, the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. Joann started to blush a little.
 
"Did he really say that," she asked?
 
"Absolutely, word for word," I assured.
 
After a moment, I asked Joann, "What was it like when you had to make the decision to have Dale stay at the facility?"
 
At first, it seemed my question caught Joann off guard, then she began telling me the story and the reasons it was necessary, "It was the hardest thing I ever had to do, and he was so angry about it; angry with me." As she spoke, I could see a distance in her eyes and hear the pain in her voice. "He's probably going to be mad at me for the rest of my life."
 
I thought about the way Dale hugged me before I left him that day and when he said, "You be sure to tell Joann that I love her." I needed to share more about my visit with Dale that day.
 
I placed my hand on top of Joann's and said, "Dale is not mad at you." The way she looked at me, I could tell she wanted to believe me but had doubts. "I want to share a story Dale told me today:"
 
"Palen, does God ever talk to you? I mean, talk to you in a way that makes things really plain to understand," Dale asked?
 
"Yes, He does – quite often," I answered.
 
Dale went on: "When God is talking to me, He sends one of those…I can't remember what you call them; they write things in the sky."
 
"Do you mean an airplane, like a sky-writer?" I offered.
 
"Yes, that's it, a sky-writer," Dale said, then continued, "When I first got here, I was mad. Mad at everybody, everything, and everyone. I asked Joann, 'Why the hell did you bring me out here?' I spent a lot of time being mad. Even though they treated me pretty well here, I was still mad. Then one day, I was lying in bed because I didn't feel like getting up. I knew I should get up, but I was mad, and I didn't want to." Dale went deeper into his story.
 
"As I laid in bed sulking, staring at the ceiling, that little airplane appeared and started writing: 'You belong here.' It might sound crazy, but I knew it was God talking to me; that's how He's always talked to me my whole life – with that sky-writer." Dale took a long pause.
 
"I was mad when I got here, at everyone – even Joann, but now I understand that it was selfish of me to think she could keep taking care of me alone at home. I should never have got mad at her; she was just doing what had to be done." Then Dale looked at me and said, "The hardest part of living here is going to bed at night without Joann by my side." 
 
I asked Dale, "Have you told Joann that you're not mad anymore; have you told her about the message?"
 
"I don't know how," Dale replied.
 
"Well, that sounds like you're just being a stubborn German! You should tell her."
 
Dale broke the deep conversation, changing the mood in his usual style - with humor. "Well, I'm not staying here forever," he said, "I'm eighty-nine years old, and when I turn ninety, I'm breaking out of here and going home."
 
I laughed, "I'm with you, brother. Should I start looking for a get-away car?"
 
"Yes, and make it a fast one," Dale said. We shared a good laugh about that; then it was time for me to go.
 
Joann's eyes had well up. "He's not mad at you, Joann. He's more in love with you today than the day he saw you at the box social; he told me so. He's just not sure how to tell you. I feel like God wanted me to come to share that with you." We shared a few tears; then I had to go.
 
I left Joann with a slice of apple pie, "I was going to leave this with Dale, but Becky said you would never get it, so I wanted to deliver it personally." Joann agreed with Becky. We shared a good laugh about that, then said our farewells before I left to visit more friends.
 
I got in my van, smiling as I backed out of the driveway. I thought about our visit and thought I finally figured out why God redirected me from Oklahoma to Ottumwa.
 
I went to visit my friends Donna and Skip. Each visit was only supposed to be fifteen or twenty minutes, but I guess I talked more than I thought. It was getting late. I would have to wait until the next day to visit my friend Jerry.
 
I showed up at Jerry's house around three in the afternoon. I had planned to stay for only twenty minutes, but you know how that goes. I hadn't seen Jerry for about four or five years. He greeted me at the door, "Palen, you, old son-of-a-gun, how are you?"
 
In his kitchen, I opened the plastic grocery sack I was carrying. I handed Jerry a plate with a slice of apple pie. He sniffed the pie and smiled, "Oh boy," he said, "that is going to be a big part of my supper tonight. Do you have some time? Come in and sit down." I set the grocery sack on the counter and followed Jerry to the living room. 
 
Jerry Strunk had operated Midwest Aviation at the Ottumwa Airport; MWA, pronounced mah-wah, by Jerry and all who were close. I got my instruction, training, and my pilot's license at MWA. Now eighty-two years old, Jerry was one of the best and highest time pilots I'd ever known. After logging tens of thousands of hours flying airplanes, Jerry told me, "I hung up my goggles and headphones when I turned eighty. I figured if flying airplanes hadn't killed me yet, I wasn't going to let it happen now." We shared a good laugh about that.
 
We shared stories and laughter; talked about the past and the future. For example, in the 1970s, Jerry brought the Navy, Blue Angels, and Airforce Thunderbirds to perform at airshows in a small town in Iowa – nobody thought that could happen. Jerry accomplished many great things and touched many lives in the world of aviation; still, it wasn't the most important thing in his life.
 
Jerry was most passionate when speaking about his wife, Jo Ellen. I remember calling him right after she had passed away; he was devastated and heartbroken. Time had passed, but time did not heal all wounds. Jerry was doing okay, but his loneliness without Jo Ellen was still very real. Jerry smiled, "She waiting for me, you know. The first thing I'm going to do is give her a big kiss, then take her for an airplane ride – just like the old days," he said with a sparkle in his eye.
 
I looked at the clock, "Good Lord, I've been here almost three hours," I said, "I've got to get going."
 
"What's the rush?" Jerry questioned.
 
"I'm going back to Silver Bay, Minnesota tonight. I've got almost nine hours of driving ahead of me."
 
Jerry shook his head, "That would be only a few hours in an airplane." We shared a good laugh about that. "It was really good to see you and spend some time catching up, Palen," Jerry said, then hugged me. "Feel free to come back again – as long as you bring a pie with you." We had another good laugh; then, I headed for my van.
 
I was on the road for forty-five minutes when I looked at the empty passenger seat next to me. I called Jerry, "Strunk, did I leave a white plastic grocery sack on your kitchen counter?"
 
Jerry walked to the kitchen, "Yeah, you did. What's in it? Anything dangerous?"
 
"It's the last slice of apple pie. I was supposed to take it home for my wife," I replied.
 
"Are you coming back for it," Jerry asked?
 
"No, I'm already past Pella. It looks like you get the last slice of apple pie."
 
"Well, it won't go to waste here," Jerry said, and we shared a good laugh about that.
 
I often think about that trip and how good it was to get back to visit some dear people, friends I'd been putting off going to see. I am grateful for these people who are a part of my life and that brief moment when God told me to go to Ottumwa, not Oklahoma.
 
You see, just ten weeks after that visit, my good friend Jerry Strunk passed away. Although I will obviously miss him, this is not a story of sadness; rather, it is a story of happiness and joy. I laugh as I envision Jerry carrying Jo Ellen in his arms, across the clouds to an airplane waiting on heavens ramp.
 
I am happy for those few hours, I had to visit Jerry one more time, and I am thrilled that Jerry got the last slice of apple pie.
 
I count this trip among my many blessings. I wish for you to know many blessings as well. Peace, my friends, and Happy Thanksgiving to all.

It was just after three in the afternoon when I went to pick up the payroll. The accountant's office was just a few blocks down from the high school, so instead of trying to squeeze into heavy traffic on Fourth Street, I decided to take the back alley to go back to the radio station.
 
On the corner of the accountant's driveway and the alley, there's a vacant lot with a foundation in the hillside from an old garage or barn torn down years ago. The foundation's three walls are in disrepair, leaning outward, with gaps and spaces between the carved blocks of limestone. The cement floor is cracked and separated near the back wall; an opening that tapers to about four inches wide, with a hollow space under the floor, seems like a great place for small critters to dwell. Still, the structure was stable enough; tenants from a nearby apartment building used the space for parking. I've passed the ruins hundreds of times but never given them much attention until that day. Something moved and caught my eye. Rather than turning left toward the radio station, I turned right.
 
I smiled when a tiny kitten sprang up from the opening in the floor. Its orange tiger-striped coat stood out in contrast next to the grey concrete floor. The kitten ran, being chased by another small gray striped cat that soon pounced. The two rolled about the floor. One would get free, then spring back to re-engage. Soon a third gray kitten joined the fun, then a fourth. They entertained me, to say the least. I shifted my truck into park and walked toward the kittens. "Hey, you guys, what are you doing out here? Does your mom know where you are?"
 
The cats froze, skeptical of an intruder. The orange tiger-stripe was bravely curious and walked my way, brushing against my ankle. I bent over, giving him a welcome rub on the head, then spoke softly and started to pick him up. "How are you doing, little guy." When I began to lift him, his three siblings scurried, retreating to their shelter. The orange kitten jumped from my hand and sprinted off to join them. His sharp little claws left thin red scratch marks on my palm. I wanted to know more about the kittens; they seemed barely old enough to be away from their mother.
 
Getting down on my hands and knees, I peered into the opening on the floor. I could only briefly see the little orange cat; then, it ran back deeper into the hollow area. I walked down the slope to the face of the foundation wall and looked into an opening. In the daylight coming through the crack in the floor above, I could see the kittens playing with the mama cat in the back. "Hello, beautiful," I said, "Now I see where your babies get their stripes." She didn't growl at me but didn't take her eyes off me either.
 
As I continued peering through the opening, my eyes adjusted, allowing me to get a better look at the mother cat. She was thin, looked tired and hungry, and had plenty of battle scars on her face. "I'll go get you something to eat," I said, "wait here."
 
A man came out from the yellow house adjacent to the empty lot. He saw me looking into the hole. "What are you doing," he asked with a gruff tone of voice.
 
"There's a mother cat in here with four kittens." I explained, "She wouldn't happen to belong to you, would she?" He adamantly assured me it was not his cat. "She looks hungry," I said, "I'm going to get her something to eat."
 
The man shook his head. "She's a stray, and she's mean. She fights with other cats all the time. I wish someone would get rid of her."
 
"Well, I'm going to try to help her. If nothing else, maybe I could get her to the animal shelter."
 
The man shook his head, "You would be best to leave that cat alone," he advised, then went back inside his house.
 
I drove to the radio station, not far away. Some company promoting a new cat food had sent us sample packages of their product to give away on the air. I grabbed a couple of the foil pouches and a long-handled cooking spoon from the drawer in the breakroom.
                                                                                                                                      
My daughter Delaney was at the radio station. "Do you want to come to help me," I asked? Delaney was hesitant to answer. This question usually led to being roped into working on some project of which she wanted no part. "I'm going to rescue a mother cat with four kittens," I explained.
 
She responded with excitement, "Heck ya, I'll go with you!" Being a big cat lover, Delaney was thrilled with the prospect of seeing some kittens. On the way to my truck, I grabbed an empty box. My daughter, Annie, also rode along with us.
 
At the foundation, I put a few pieces of food on the spoon, lowering it through the crack in the floor. The grey tiger-striped kitten came and took them immediately. I scattered a few more on the concrete floor, attempting to lure her out into the open. The kitten came right out, and I handed it to Delaney, who snuggled it with enthusiasm.
 
One by one, I lured the other three kittens from the cave, handing each to Delaney. With their sharp little claws, they started climbing on her shirt, up her arms, and onto her shoulder. Delaney was the playground to the four active kittens. I had her put them inside the truck. We sprinkled food in the box, and all four cats began wolfing down the nuggets; they were starving. Annie sat with them while Delaney and I went for the mother cat.
 
The older, street-wise feline wanted nothing to do with the dry cat food; I moved on to plan B.
 
There was a drive-in restaurant just two blocks away. I gave Delaney a few dollars and my truck keys. "Go to Sonic, and buy a cooked hamburger patty, no bun or cheese, just a cooked burger. I should be able to get the mama cat to come out for that." Meanwhile, I kept talking to mama.
 
Delaney returned. "What took you so long," I asked? "Sonic is only two blocks away."
 
Delany presented the bait wrapped in sandwich paper. "It was kind of a weird request, Dad. I had to explain what we were doing." I broke off two small pieces of meat, placed them on the spoon, and reached inside the opening on the foundation wall. The mother cat approached cautiously and ate them both. I offered another piece on the spoon, which she eagerly took. It was time to up my game, so to speak.
 
I offered the next morsel of meat on my open hand; the mama cat took it. After hand feeding her another piece, I slowly took my hand to give her a rub on the chin. She pushed her cheek into my hand, then let me rub her ear. While I was massaging her, the mother cat turned her head so that I could rub the other ear too. Feeling I had now earned her trust, I tried to coax her out, but she retreated back farther into the hole. The burger wasn't working; it was time to move on to plan C.
 
"Delaney, go to the truck and bring out the loudest kitten." We would use her crying baby to lure the mother cat. Surely, she would come out and tend to her baby. I had Delaney set the kitten in the grass, about ten feet or so in front of the wall. The mother watched her young with great concern but stayed well inside her safe harbor, out of my reach. It was time to move on to plan D.
 
I moved to the top, on the concrete floor. I had Delaney place the loud kitten right next to the wall. The mother cat would have to lean out to see the crying offspring. When she did, I would grab her from above, lifting her by the nape of her neck – just like she carries her babies. In one quick sweeping motion, I would rescue the mama cat, reuniting her with her litter, and everyone would live happily ever after – right? It seemed to be my best idea yet, and it worked!
 
Delaney positioned the meowing kitten. The mother cat peeked out from the opening to locate her young. I reached down to grab the mama cat's nape – but something went horribly wrong.
 
At the last second, the cat looked up, seeing me. I was already in motion and couldn't stop. The plan did not include an option to retreat. Rather than grabbing the nape, when the cat turned, I inadvertently grabbed around her neck. The cat simultaneously sank her teeth, with a death grip,  into my pinky finger. 
 
As I pulled her from the opening, the angry cat dug her left front claws into the back of my left hand, bringing her other front paw up to secure my right. Then, in a split second, she dug her rear claws into my left and right forearms. I quickly stood upright on the concrete floor. There was a lot of hissing, cursing, and growling going on.
 
Delaney pleaded, "Let her go, Dad!"
 
"I don't think you understand," I confessed, "It's not me who has her – it is her who has me!" It was a serious situation that called for immediate action. How would I free myself from this cat without her shredding my limbs?
 
I got on my hands and knees, placing the cat between my knees. I called Delaney to assist me. "Put your hand behind her paw on her right leg, and push her foot forward, so she can't tear my flesh." We did the same with the left hind leg, and I held the cat's back end firmly with my knees. Delaney did the same with the two front paws. "Now, I need you to get that kitchen spoon."
 
My daughter protested, "I'm not going to club the cat!"
 
"Just get the spoon," I snapped. While I held the cat, I had Delaney press the thin round shaft of the handle between my finger and the cat's lower jaw. The cat reaffirmed her biting hold, allowing Delaney to slip the steel shaft inside the feline's mouth and across her bottom jaw. "Now, push her jaw down to her chest, and I'll be able to get my finger out of her mouth without her taking a chunk of flesh."
 
Once freed of the cat's grip, I held her legs tightly, pressing the cat to the ground. "Get in the bed of the truck, Delaney. I have no idea what this cat's going to do when I let her go."
 
With Delany in a safe position, and Annie in the cab of the truck, I held the cat's body, then in a single motion, I released the pressure on my legs and lunged the cat away from me. The feral cat ran off so fast; I didn't even see where she went.
 
My arms were throbbing with pain, keeping rhythm with my racing pulse. "All in all, it's not too bad, considering what that cat could have done to me!" I stood up and examined my wounds and realized this Tomcat was no match for that alley cat!
 
This particular part of town is overrun with feral cats, so we decided to take the kittens with us. We would find good homes for them. I dropped the girls and kittens off at the house while I went to seek medical attention.
 
This turned out to be the beginning of a long-running health care relationship with Cynthia at the new Get Well Clinic.
 
The nurse practitioner walked into the exam room, seeming like she already knew me. But, admittedly, she did look familiar. "Your younger brother used to date my daughter."
 
With a nervous shakiness, I laughed the way Shaggy did when he and Scooby-Doo met the bad guy. Then, I muttered under my breath, "Why should I be nervous?" I hoped my younger brother and the daughter parted on good terms. I had already tangled with the scorned mother of four kittens today; I wasn't sure I could handle another.
 
Cynthia directed me to a sink, "First, you need to wash your hands." I rinsed my hands carefully, keeping the water out of the open wounds. I reached for a paper towel and started to walk away. Cynthia led me back to the sink, "With soap this time."
 
Imaging the burning sting, I protested, "With Soap? Are you crazy?"
 
Cynthia turned on the water, "Am I crazy," she repeated my question, "I'm not the one who was trying to catch a feral cat. Here's the Soap right here."
 
In time, my hand healed after a round of antibiotics.  Unfortunately, I never did catch the mama cat. However, I would see the mother cat sometimes when I would get the payroll. We soon found good homes for all the kittens, including the little grey cat Delaney named Bella.  

​Some days at work are easy and very productive, while others are tough. It's when difficult days come in a series, workloads begin to back up - and that's never good in any situation. Such is true for everyone, no matter what business you're in - even for our pets.
 
Our dog June starts each morning the same. I tell her at the front door, "Potty and then June food." She has her routine down pat – just like any person going to work. First, June enthusiastically trots down the steps into the yard – sniffing the air to assure no wild animals had been in her space overnight. Then, after going potty, she charges back up the steps, ready for breakfast, and to start her day of jumping, running, playing catch, and of course, plenty of nap time. Sometimes June goes "out-out," to her office, feeling she has more business to complete first thing in the morning.
 
After going potty one morning, June paused. Then, with a stressed expression, she looked up at me on the front porch to let me know she wasn't ready to come inside. "Go out out, June Bug," I said, waving toward the far side of the yard. That's her office, so to speak.
 
June meandered farther out into the yard, choosing just the right spot for a "morning business meeting." Despite her good efforts, no business was accomplished. So, she moved on, seeking a new location. She sniffed the lawn, turned several circles, then hunkered down to go to work. Still nothing. She repositioned herself, then moved to yet another spot and tried again. Nothing.
 
Finally returning to the front porch, June looked at me as if this was my fault. "Don't give me that look," I said. "I've been telling you that you need to drink more water." June nudged my leg as if to push me to the side while she went through the front door. I followed her to the kitchen, continuing to lecture her the way my dad did when I didn't heed his advice, and things went awry. I could tell she wasn't listening to me any more than I listened to my dad when he preached at me.
 
I set a fresh bowl of cool water on the kitchen floor, encouraging her, "Have some." She meagerly wetted her tongue, then waited for the entrée. I poured a cup of food in her bowl, "I'm telling you, you need to drink more water, June," then I went to feed Edgar, the cat.
 
When I returned to the kitchen to refill my coffee cup, June was gone, but her food was less than half-eaten. In the living room, I found June lounging on the warm brown leather. Normally I would tell her to get off the couch, but sensing something was wrong, I rubbed her head to see if she was feverish. "Are you feeling okay, Bugs?" Her ears perked up. She jumped from the cushion and retrieved her orange stuffed moose. She seemed fine, so I scolded her, "You know you're not supposed to be on the couch." June just wagged her tail while waiting for me to throw the moose.
 
She seemed to be acting and feeling okay, but June could not perform her regular duties for two consecutive days, and that's not like her. On June's third day of going through the motions, but without results, I reported to the board of directors – I called the veterinarian.
 
I told the vet everything that had been happening and not happening. Dr. Kylee asked many questions: has June been lethargic, any changes in exercise or sleep patterns, did June get into anything she should not have, has she been around any new or strange dogs? Have you changed her diet? Is she eating well and drinking plenty of water?
 
The only thing I had to report was a change from regular to senior diet dog food. That happened over a month ago, and everything had been fine until the last couple of days. Then, I explained, "June usually cleans up her bowl, then sniffs around the kitchen floor looking for something to eat, as if she's starving. But the last couple of days, she'll eat less than half of her meal, then nibble on it throughout the day. That's not like June."
 
"Is she drinking plenty of water," Kylee asked?
 
"She drinks some, but I don't think near enough. So I'm always telling her she needs to drink more water."
 
The doctor had several suggestions; temporarily switching to wet food, mixing in some extra water and vegetable oil. She said to give June some pumpkin, too. June loves carrots, so I knew pumpkin would be a hit with her. Kylee offered another suggestion in case these things didn't do the trick. "You want me to do WHAT?"
 
Kylee repeated her question, "Are you comfortable giving June an enema?"
 
"June and I are really close friends," I said, "but she doesn't even like me trimming her toenails; I don't know how this is going to work – or what even to use." Dr. Kylee gave me some instructions and helpful tips – at least they sounded helpful, but I would have to wait and see. I would try the easy suggestions first.
 
I had to run into Duluth for some things; I would get the necessary equipment then – just in case.
 
I called a pharmacy on my way into town, "I have kind of an odd situation; I hope you can help me." I briefed the pharmacist of the situation. "I need a syringe that will hold about 10 ml." He explained that all his syringes were much smaller for administering insulin and told me what quantities came in different packages. "I only need one, and I can't use a syringe with a needle," I told him. (I was wondering if I had his full attention.)
 
He was puzzled, "Why don't you want a needle?"
 
Now I was confused; we were not on the same page. "You can't have a needle on it to give an enema!" There was a very awkward pause.
 
He questioned, "You're going to give yourself an enema with a syringe."
 
I was aghast! "Heck, NO!" I blurted out, "It's not for me! It's for my dog; that's why I prefaced this by saying, 'the vet said.' Vet, as in veterinarian, as in my dog's doctor!"
 
Finally understanding one another, we both roared with laughter. Then the pharmacist offered, "I have 10 ml syringes for administering oral medication. They don't have needles on them. Do you think that would work?"
 
I jested, "It's for the other end, will an oral syringe work." We shared another good laugh about that.
 
Unfortunately, by the time I got to the store, that pharmacist was off duty. So I had to explain the whole situation again – only this time I didn't say vet; I used the complete word, veterinarian - every time. Finally, I got the syringe and headed home.
                                   
The next day, June had still not done the deed. Operation enema was eminent. I mixed the solution but couldn't find the syringe. Dang! You might say June "dodged the bullet."
 
I ran into town to see if the Silver Bay pharmacy would have a syringe. It was Saturday afternoon, and they were closed. So, I went to my aunt Di's house; maybe she would have one. She didn't. It was time to think like MacGyver; there had to be another way.
 
A light bulb lit up over my head. "Maybe I could use a mucus extractor." I had lost Di. "A baby booger sucker," I said, "you know, one of those little blue suction bulbs with the stem. You put it in a baby's nose to get the boogies out when they're too young to blow." Di said she didn't have one, so I resumed thinking.
 
"A turkey baster! Of course! That should work," I said with glee, "It has a smooth tip and holds plenty of volume." Di agreed; it might just do the trick. Since I don't own one, naturally, I asked, "Do you have a turkey baster I could borrow?"
 
With an expression as serious as death itself, Di gave me a stern look, "You are not using my turkey baster." I guess it was a bit much to ask.
 
I stopped at Julie's True-Value Hardware on the way home. They always have helpful solutions if they know what you're trying to accomplish, so I explained my dilemma once again. Finally, after many good laughs, I left with a brand-new turkey baster.
 
I mixed the warm water with a bit of dish soap at home, just like the doctor suggested. Then, I summoned my dog and my wife to the front yard. "Why do I have to be there?" Melissa wanted to know.
 
"This was no time to debate. Come on."
 
In the yard, Melissa held June's collar while whispering sweet things in her ear. I gave June a scratch on the rump, just above her tail. Then, speaking soft and gentle, I said, "Okay, June Bug, this is going to be a little awkward for both of us, but you have to trust me – it will help you." I lifted her tail, slowly doing what I had to do.
 
Some soapy water made its way in, but the unsuspecting canine quickly stepped forward, protecting her territory and disrupting the operation. From the front end, Melissa reported, "June's eyes got as big as silver dollars, and she has violated look on her face."
 
I was trying to stifle my laughter, "She has to have more," I said.
 
Melissa hugged June more firmly and resumed gently talking to her. I reloaded the assault device and again assured my trusty dog that this was for her own good. Then I did what I had to do. A good bit more of the magical elixir went where it was supposed to, but June had had enough of this nonsense. She clinched up tightly - the bulb on the turkey baster burst sending tiny bubbles floating into the air, and soapy water showered my arm, jeans, and shirt. Although it was clean water, it still felt gross.
 
June escaped Melissa's grip and shot across the yard like a rocket. Apologizing for what I had done, I called June back, but she kept her distance while threatening to report us to the ASPCA.
 
Eventually, June came back to me. Now the question was whether to let her in the house or not. The process seemed to be ineffective, so I let her come inside.
 
A very short time later, June stood at the door, speaking soft and low, "Oof, oof, oof." Then a little louder, "Woof." I hurried over to open the door. "Go out out, Bugs," I said, waving toward the far side of the yard.
 
June ran down the steps and out to the yard – her office. After making only one fast circle, she directly called the business meeting to order, and much business was conducted.
 
A much happier dog trotted back to the front steps and onto the porch. I congratulated June, "Awesome job Bugsy. Now wasn't it worth a little awkwardness?" I continued, "You probably wouldn't have had this problem if you'd just drink more water like I keep telling you."
 
June nudged my leg, pushing me to the side, then went through the front door as if nothing had ever happened. "What time is dinner," she wanted to know.
 
I followed June to the kitchen and began giving her the talk, as my dad would with me when his advice proved correct. I could tell she wasn't listening to me any more than I listened to my dad when he preached at me. "Some days at the office are going to be tougher than others," I told her, "Still, everything always seems to work out in the end. But I'm telling you, June, you need to drink more water."

​Last Friday, I went on a little road trip with my granddaughters in my daughter's car. I picked them up around 2:30 and asked if they had lunch; they said they did. I was craving a flame-broiled burger, "I didn't eat yet, would you two mind if I went through the drive-up at Burger King to get a burger." Both acknowledged that would be fine. "Would you like some French fries as a snack?"
 
Addison, the eight-year-old, said, "No, thank you. We had fries at lunch."
 
Four-year-old Evelyn differed, "Papa, can you get me one French fry?"
 
I laughed, "You only want one French fry?"
 
"Yes, just one, please," she answered. I looked in the rearview mirror; Ev maintained a straight face, but I still felt like I was getting punked.
 
The person at the drive-up would think I was nuts; "Yes, I'd like a Whopper with cheese, one French fry, and a medium, un-sweetened ice tea." With intentions of hedging her prank, I said, "Maybe I'll just get an order of fries and let you have one."
 
I set the sack in the passenger seat next to me and pulled onto the street out of the parking lot. From here, it's like setting a mouse trap; I reached into the bag pulling out one sole fry, then stretched my arm between the front seats into the back. I waited only a moment, then a little hand reached forward and took the bait. Next, I offered another fry to Addison on the other side of the car – she also took the bait.
 
After sending back a second French fry for Ev, I asked Addie if she wanted another. She did. "I'll just give you the box of fries; you guys can eat what you won't – just save a few for me."
 
After a few minutes, Addison confessed, "Papa, I accidentally ate the rest of the French fries."
 
"You accidentally ate them? Did you at least share them with Ev?"
 
Addie explained, "No, Ev only wanted one, so I ate them."
 
"But I gave her two," I replied.
 
"She gave the second one to me," Addie explained, "Then I ate the rest accidentally." I looked in the rearview mirror, they didn't actually 'high-five' each other, but the grins on my darling granddaughter's faces told the story – they got Papa, and they were pretty smitten with that.
 
An hour down the road, Ev presented a sleeve of Ritz crackers. "Papa, can I open these?" I inquired where she got them. "Mom sent them for snacks."
 
"Yes," I replied, then reaching between the seats, "May I have a cracker?" I felt something placed in my open hand; it was a small round cracker with a bite missing. I ate the cracker and reached between the seats. Another small cracker was placed in my hand – this time, about two-thirds were missing. Hmm.
 
I heard Ev wrestling with the wrapper about thirty minutes later, "Papa, would you like a cracker?"
 
"Yes, please," I said, offering my open hand. In the thirty minutes that passed, I had forgotten about the previous crackers provided. I brought my hand forward and in my palm was a morsel of cracker, no bigger than a sunflower seed. Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw Evelyn laughing. She got me again. I ate the crumb, "That was delicious. Thank you!"
 
Ev was laughing, "Do you want another one?"
 
"No thanks, I'm stuffed," I said, rubbing my belly with contentment.
 
I dropped the girls at their destination and drove back to my daughter's house to return her car. "Why are Ev's socks on the dashboard," she asked. I had no idea – it was a mystery to me.
 
A couple of days later, I went to get the girls and bring them home. We had a fun time on the way home playing I Spy With My Little Eye, and I'm Looking For… Traveling with a four and an eight-year-old is never dull. Ev asked me if I wanted a piece of her cookie, but I wasn't hungry and recalled the cracker incident, I declined.
 
"Ev, do you remember giving me a cracker with a bite out of it on the way down?" She started laughing. "And do you remember asking me if I wanted a cracker, then giving me a really small piece?" Both girls started laughing hysterically.
 
"Papa, Ev pranked you," Addie offered, quite proud of her little sister. We all shared a good laugh about that.
 
An hour or so later, it was dark outside when something fell from the sun visor, lightly bumping my head. I turned on the dome light looking for the item but didn't find anything. Maybe one of the girls was messing with me by touching my head. In the rearview mirror, I saw two innocent girls looking intensely at their iPad. It couldn't be them – they couldn't reach me from their car seats.
 
When we got back to my daughter's house, I was helping the girls gather their things from the car. I got Ev out of her car seat, "Where are your socks?" Both girls started laughing but didn't say anything. I found one of Ev's socks on the dashboard; the other was on the front, passenger's side floor.
 
Addison confessed, "Evelyn was bouncing her socks off your head." Ev threw her head back, laughing. The mystery was solved.
 
I laughed with them but then thought to myself, "If this little prankster is Ev at four, what is fourteen-year-old Evelyn going to be like?" I gathered up her socks, "I'm going to have to sharpen my skills!"

​I enjoy camping, but one must always be aware of the surroundings and potential dangers of nature. In the Northwoods, it's imperative to be bear smart; appropriate storage of food and trash is a must.
 
We were camping in the San Juan mountains in Colorado. One evening I was preparing chicken hindquarters at the picnic table to roast over the wood fire. In this situation, I would typically expect to be shooing pesky flies that come around, and I had the fly swatter nearby if I needed it. But this day was different; were no flies at all – just bees.
 
I know bees are attracted to a pitcher of lemonade or other sugary foods, but I've never known them to come around for chicken.
 
It was difficult to trim chicken fat with a kitchen knife without losing a finger and counting bees simultaneously. I tallied about a dozen swarming around me, and they kept trying to land on the fresh meat. I'm no dummy; I know better than to swat at a bee. So instead, I'd just move my hand gracefully toward them, and the bees would fly off, then come right back from a different direction. A few of the bees even landed on my arm, overlooking the feast, choosing the drumstick they wanted. But, again, I didn't strike at them; I just let them ride on my arm. As long as they weren't stinging me, I saw no sense in poking the proverbial hornet's nest.
 
Eventually, I created a small pile of chicken fat on the other side of the table; the bees gathered there and left me alone. It was a good lesson on cohabitating peacefully with nature; no bees were harmed, and no humans were stung.
 
The day before, we had met a new friend at the campground and invited her to join us for dinner. We ate well, then enjoyed wine and conversation around the campfire. Everyone agreed the chicken was delicious – even the bees. The following morning Melissa and I packed up and headed to our next destination.
 
Black Canyon Campground is in the Sangre de Cristo mountains in New Mexico. At 8,500 feet above sea level, walking and breathing at the same time can be a challenge for a flat-lander from Minnesota.
 
I had chicken breasts marinating for dinner while we went hiking mountain trails and exploring Historic Old Town Santa Fe. It was dusk when we pulled back into our campsite. I quickly fetched an armload of wood from the van and got a fire started; we would need a good bed of hot coals to grill the chicken.
 
Once the fire was going, I brought the rest of the wood over. There was one piece from a branch about three inches round and thirty inches long. Melissa poured two glasses of wine and brought the camp chairs to the fire area, and became the self-appointed supervisor. Honestly, I had everything under control.
 
I watched the meat on the fire while also frying potatoes in the cast iron skillet on the camp stove. With onion, green pepper, mushrooms, and my special seasoning, these potatoes are the bomb. I was pretty proud of the meal I was fixing.
 
It was now dark out, so the supervisor kept a close eye on things; mostly her wine and everything I was doing, "You better turn the chicken; the potatoes need to be stirred; you should put another log on the fire, and watch out for that raccoon."
 
I stood up from the fire and looked around, "What raccoon?"
 
"The raccoon by the firewood pile…oh honey, be careful. That's not a raccoon; it's a big skunk!"
 
"WHAT? You mistook a skunk for a raccoon?" I can understand her error; I mean, raccoons wear a black mask, where a skunk has a wide bright white stripe down its back – anyone could easily confuse the two. This, my friends, is a fine example of why supervisors should not drink wine while on duty. (Although I will admit, it was a good, local cabernet.)
 
Standing before me was the biggest skunk I'd ever seen, and he looked to be on a mission. But, should the skunk and I engage in battle, I wasn't sure I could take him with just the metal spatula I was holding to turn potatoes and chicken.
 
He waddled a few steps my way; I was the only thing standing between him and my chicken. "What do skunks eat," I asked my wife.
 
"Mostly bugs and small rodents, I think," said the super.
 
I kept my headlamp shining on the skunk, "Do they eat people food?"
 
"I think they'll eat garbage if they're hungry. But, honey, don't shine your light on him; you're blinding him."
 
"Well, I'm not taking my eyes off him, for Pete's sake!" I had to defend my turf – and my chicken. I quickly reached down and grabbed the short branch log. "Back off Pepe Le Pew," I ordered, "this ain't garbage, and you ain't getting it!"
 
With a kitchen utensil purchased at Dollar General in one hand and a stick in the other, I immediately doubted that I was equipped well enough for the impending confrontation. Nevertheless, I held my position and warned the intruder, "You take one more step, and we're going to play golf – and you're the ball!" I shook my stick at him, and he took a couple more steps my way.
 
"Honey, leave him alone; don't hurt him," said the spectator from her chair. I wasn't sure if she was talking to the skunk or me. I'd never been this close to a live skunk – other than one time at a petting zoo, and frankly, I don't know that much about them. 
 
I don't know much about skunks, but I knew this couldn't be good when he turned around and raised his tail. "Look, buddy, nobody raises their tail and points their butt at me and gets away with it – well, except for my cat Edgar, and I don't like it when he does it either." I presented my stick, "You wanna play golf?"
 
"Honey be careful," Again, I didn't know which of us she was warning. "I think they can spray up to twelve feet or so." I assumed her warning was for me since I didn't have a Super-Soaker squirt gun or a can of skunk repellant.
 
There were about six feet between my opponent and me, meaning the skunk, not my wife. (Come to think of it, there was also about six feet between my wife and me, and frankly, I wasn't sure if she was rooting for the beast or me!) I looked at the thirty-inch stick in my hand, "Twelve feet? Dang, I'm going to need a longer golf club."
 
The skunk arched his rear end higher in the air and puffed his tail; it looked as bushy as a foxtail. Then he started stomping his front feet on the ground. For a moment, I was dumbfounded. "I didn't know skunks could flair their tails like that, and what's he doing stomping his feet?"
 
"Tom, he's doing the skunk stomp! Back off; he's getting ready to spray!" I probably should have taken heed of her advice; I even thought about running and taking cover behind the supervisor's chair, but I still wasn't sure who's side she was on.
 
There I was, looking directly into the business end of an agitated skunk, who had his gun loaded, cocked, and ready to fire. I already mentioned this was the biggest skunk I'd ever seen. From my current point of view, he looked to be twelve feet tall and bulletproof. Still, I bravely (or foolishly) held my position. Waving my spatula that had a couple of half-cooked potato slices stuck to the flat surface, I stomped my foot to intimidate him, "Get outta here, ya bum!"
 
The skunk's chest inflated as he took a deep breath while looking over his shoulder with me in his crosshairs. "It's never happened to me before, but here it comes," I prayed, "Dear Lord, save me!" Just then, much to my surprise, the skunk lowered his tail and scurried in retreat to the far side of our concrete picnic table area. Had he been bluffing? Was his stinker all out of stink? 
 
At the edge of the woods, the polecat turned around, staring me right square in the eye. He raised his tail, stomped his feet again as if to say, "I know where you live, Betty Crocker!" Then, just like Arnold Schwarzenegger, he warned, "I'll be back."
 
Almost with glee, my wife declared, "Oh honey, I think he's got your number."
 
Feeling tougher than John Wayne, I victoriously puffed up my chest. First, I tossed the seven-foot-long timber I was wielding one-handed back to the woodpile. Then, spinning my spatula like a six-shooter, I blew the smoke from the tip and pretended to sling it back into a holster – a potato slice dislodged and fell on my foot. "Oh yeah? Well, you better bring your little sister to help you!"
 
Fortunately, during the commotion, June was inside the Scamp. I can only imagine how this would have turned for the worse with a dog in the mix. Our cat Edgar Allan was also in the Scamp, looking out the window; he also watched the skunk closely. 
 
I went back to tend to my meal cooking over the fire, "Darn it!" I burned the chicken. "Stupid skunk."
 
I felt like a real hero for saving our camp. Meanwhile, the supervisor poured another glass of wine. I reached my hand out to accept her token of appreciation. She pulled the glass toward her, took a drink, then returned to her chair. "Honey, during all the mayhem, I couldn't help but wonder what you would have done if that skunk had sprayed you?" Her concern was overwhelming, "I mean, with no showers or even running water in this campground, there's no way I was going to let you take the van into town, and you sure as heck weren't getting into the Scamp smelling that way." She took another sip of my wine, "I just don't know what you would have done, but it sure would have made for a good story if he sprayed you." She was laughing so hard; she shot a little wine out her nose, which bothered me because a good local cabernet shouldn't be wasted like that.
 
I'm not sure who won the contest, me or the skunk. Every time I thought I heard a noise in the woods, I snapped my head to look. If the wind wrestled the leaves, I jumped from my chair, reaching for the stick. In the Scamp, with the lights off, I peeked through the curtains, keeping a vigilant watch for my nemesis. Just then, Edgar brushed against my bare leg in the dark, "Sweet Jesus have mercy!" I jumped, hitting my head on the overhead cabinet, and I think I peed a little. It was a restless night, to say the least.
 
The next day while we were driving, Melissa asked, "Honey, do you remember last night when you were in the stand-off with that skunk."
 
Even though I had nightmares about that critter, I acted as if I had forgotten all about it, as if it was not a big deal. I rubbed my chin, trying hard to recall the incident, "Oh yes, I vaguely remember. The skunk I chased away when it wandered into our campsite. What about it?"
 
"Would you be upset if I told you I was secretly hoping the skunk would have sprayed you? That would have been pretty funny."
 
I enjoy getting out to camp in the wild, but one must be prepared; there are a lot of potential dangers in the woods: bears, bees, skunks, wives…