Tom Palen,a broadcaster, pilot, writer, and our Guest Columnist! Archives
May 2024
Categories |
Back to Blog
National Library Week5/1/2024 Libraries are much more than books. I use our library fairly often to research things online because it doesn't have the distractions I have at home. For example, at the library, I've never had a cat (Edgar Allan) walk across my keyboard, typing random gibberish while I went for a drink of water.
The ladies at the Silver Bay Public Library are great! Shannon, Eileen, Julia, and Tracy have helped me a lot over the years, especially with printing and technical issues. (I'm not the kind of guy who can hit 'control print' and make it happen without an intervention.) National Library Week was coming, and I wanted to do something to give back to our local library. Shannon, the librarian, told me they would serve coffee and cookies for Library Week. I promised to send some homemade cookies. Sunday evening, before National Library Week, I baked a couple hundred cookies for the event and gave the library a Pie-O-U. A Pie-O-U is something I came up with years ago for fundraisers. Instead of an I-O-U, people buy chances for $1 each, or 6/$5. If their name is drawn for the Pie-O-U, I will bake a pie of their choice and deliver it to them. It's far more delicious than an I-O-U. I delivered the cookies on Monday morning. On Tuesday, I stopped at the library. "I went to my kitchen for a cookie, but I didn't have any," I said. "If I want one of my cookies, I have to go to the library." We all shared a good laugh about that, and then I snatched a maple nut and a ginger crack cookie. Wednesday, I got a message from my friend Gretchen. (She was my boss when I cooked for the assisted living home.) "Are you home as in Silver Bay? I know, a weird question, but I have a question for you." Well, that certainly got my attention, so I called Gretchen. "Do you have anything made up at home," Gretchen asked. "Something you baked or cooked that would be ready right away?" "I have a pan of lasagna in the freezer," I said, "But that would take two days to thaw." "I need something sooner than that," Gretchen said. "Do you have any cookies, a pie, or a cake at home?" "Okay, that is a strange question," I said. "Tell me what's going on." "I have a friend named Star from Silver Bay," Gretchen said. "Do you happen to know her?" "I don't," I answered. "Is that her real name?" Her real name sounded familiar, so I looked her up. "Oh, yes, she is a Facebook friend." "She's a very dear friend of mine who reads all your stories; she thinks you're the greatest," Gretchen said. "Anyway, she's been under Hospice care for a while now. Last night, just out of the blue, Star said, 'Before I die, I want something Tom Palen made.'" I certainly was not expecting that. "She sees your posts of dinners you make for your wife and the desserts you bake; she wants something you made," Gretchen said. "Star has no idea that I know you, and I was hoping to take something for her when I visit tonight." "Consider it done. I can run to Zup's and whip up a fresh pan of lasagna," I offered. Gretchen said lasagna would be too much. "Do you have any cookies, a pie, or cake at home?" "I baked over two hundred cookies Sunday," I told her, "But I gave them all to the Silver Bay Library for National Library Week." "I know; Star told me all about it," Gretchen said. "She wanted to go to the library for your cookies but can't get there anymore. Star is an avid reader and visited the library almost daily when she was able." "Of course! That's why she looks so familiar," I said. "I would frequently see her there when I went to the library." I had an idea. "Shannon would give me a plate of cookies for her. I can get them to you or deliver them if you'd like." Gretchen explained that Star and her two sisters were staying at a cabin in Beaver Bay, on Lake Superior, about ten miles away, for a couple of days. "Do you have time? That's asking a lot, and I don't want to put you out," Gretchen said. I laughed. "Gretchen, you haven't put me out since that Memorial Day weekend when you scheduled me to cook. It was the weekend I had family coming into town, and you put me on the schedule – but I'm over it now, Gretchen, so don't even worry about it." "It doesn't sound like you're over it," Gretchen rebutted. "You're bringing it up again ten years later!" We shared a good laugh about that. (I am over it.) (Almost.) I told Gretchen I would get the cookies together and call her on my way. Next, I called the library and told Shannon what I was doing. "Could you put together a plate of ginger cracks, maple nut, and snickerdoodle cookies for Star? Three of each, if you have them; her sisters are visiting." "Absolutely," Shannon said. "We love Star. Do you want any date cookies?" The date roll cookies are the hardest to make, so I took fewer of them to the library than the others. Besides, I made another batch of date roll cookie dough the night before to send to my brother but only baked half of the batch. "I just turned the oven on to bake some," I told Shannon. "Do you need more date roll cookies for the library?" I wrapped the freshly baked cookies and went to the library to pick up the other plate. The ladies also made a card for Star: "Silver Bay Public Library loves you, Star. Happy National Library Week. Thanks for being such an amazing supporter. With care, Shannon and Julia." It was perfect! Nova Mae and I gathered the gifts and headed to Beaver Bay. When we arrived at the cabin, Nova stayed in the van. A lady met me at the front door. "You must be Tom," she said. (Gretchen told them I was coming so they wouldn't be alarmed when a strange man showed up at the door with cookies.) "I'm Star's sister, Sue," she said, inviting me inside. "And this is our sister Kitty. Star is in the living room; Sue showed me in. "Hello, Star," I said. She was sitting in a chair where she could look out the patio doors to Lake Superior. "Who's there," Star asked. "I don't see distances too well these days." I approached the side of the chair. "I'm Tom Palen." I introduced myself, as we'd never met in person. "Tom Palen? Oh, my goodness!" Star's face lit up, which made me feel good. "What are you doing here, and how did you even know I was here," she asked. I replied, "Do you know Gretchen?" "Yes, she's a dear friend of mine, she and I go way back," Star said. "So do I," I replied. "Did Gretchen put you up to this?" Starr said. "Gretchen just told me you wanted something I baked," I said. "So, I brought you something." Star's face lit up again. "Is it pie?" "Not pie," I chuckled. "I wanted to bring you cookies, but I gave all my cookies to the library." "Oh, I know that," Star said. "I read that they were serving your cookies all this week, and I so badly wanted to go, but I just can't get out anymore." "Well, I called Shannon at the library, and she sent a plate of cookies for you," I said. "They also sent a card for you." Star read the card and got a little teary-eyed. "Bless those dear hearts." Star sighed, "I just love Shannon, Julia, and all the girls at the library. They treat me so well." I gave her the plate of cookies, and she smiled. "And are these your cookies?" I told her they were, and she said, "Well, tell me about them." "These are Ginger Cracks; I learned to make these with my mom." "Oh, those are the cookies I see in your pictures; I've wanted to try those for a long time," Star said. "These are snickerdoodles. I just started making them not too long ago." Star said her sisters loved snickerdoodles. "The light-colored cookies are Maple Nut, made with Wild Country 100% pure maple syrup harvested right here on the north shore. The key word is nut, so they have walnuts in case you have any allergies," I cautioned. Star said, "I'm not allergic to anything; I can't wait to taste them." Next, I unwrapped the last package of cookies. I handed Star the small tray. "These are Date Roll or Pinwheel cookies made with my Grammy's recipe." "Oh my," she said. "Kitty, Sue, come feel these; they're still warm!" I told her they came out of the oven just before I left home. "I want to try these first while they're warm. Sue, will you get some plates?" As the sisters enjoyed cookies, we shared some wonderful conversation. I learned how Star met Gretchen over twenty years ago. The girls told tales of growing up, and of course, I shared a couple of stories myself. We visited for an hour, and Star was getting tired. "I'd better get going," I said, getting up. But Star began telling her sister another story. "Tom and his wife, Melissa, have a black cat named Edgar Allan and a border collie named Nova Mae. They had another border collie named June Bug before Nova. They travel all around the country with their pets." Star had a twinkle in her eye when she talked about Nova. "I know it will never happen, but I would give anything to meet Nova. She is such a beautiful dog." That warmed my heart. "She's out in the van," I said. "Would you like to meet Nova Mae?" "I would love to, but I don't think I can get out there," Star said. I suggested bringing Nova inside. "We're not allowed to have pets in the cabin," she said. "But if I brought Nova inside, then technically, you did not have a dog in the cabin - I did." I looked to one of the sisters, who nodded with approval. "I'll bring Nova in for just a few moments," I said. Nova Mae was excited to come inside; I held her leash short to keep her from jumping. "Oh, Nova Mae, you are such a pretty girl. Come here, sweetie." Star leaned forward in her chair, sharing hugs and affection; Nova returned the sentiment. "If I could, I'd be rolling on the floor playing with you, Nova." They were buddies from the get-go. I would have loved to have visited longer, but Star was tired, and I wanted to stay within our welcome. I held her hand to say our farewells. "Thank you so much for coming; this really meant a lot to me," Star said. "Thank you for the cookies and for bringing in Nova Mae. I'm so happy I got to meet both of you." I told Star that Nova and I enjoyed meeting her and then went to the van. Driving home, I contemplated people and life—the things we want. We become very goal-driven and busy with work to achieve our wants and desires. We want a bigger house, a new car, a more powerful boat. We save money to go on that exotic vacation and attend a particular school, and of course, we're always worried about putting away enough money for retirement. In contrast, there is Star. In the final chapter of her life, what does Starr want? A cookie! One of my cookies. I'll admit, I was flattered. Such a request could quickly go to my head, but instead, it had a far more spiritual effect on me than feeding my ego. My thoughts ran deep. Star wanted a cookie, but why one of my cookies? There are a lot of bakers on the north shore, and many are far better than me. It humbled me that Star should request something I baked. I believe my ability to bake is a God-given talent. A talent is simply that—just a talent—until it is shared. Once shared, the talent becomes a gift, and gifts are meant to be given away. Something was happening here, and it was more than sheer coincidence. Was this another case of God putting me where He wants me when He wants me there? I felt emotional and blessed to have met Star. I shifted the van to park at the stop sign and took a moment. I was moved to tears as I recited an old Kris Christopherson song: "Why me, Lord? What have I ever done to deserve even one of the pleasures I've known? Tell me, Lord, what did I ever do that was worth love from you and the kindness you've shown." I said a prayer of thanksgiving, dried my eyes, and drove home. Gretchen texted me: "I don't even have words, Tom. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Star means the world to me…I just wanted to do something for her that she wanted…I seriously owe you." Gretchen didn't owe me anything. She told me, "You really made Star's day with your visit." But in truth, I was thrilled to be there—it was Star who made my day! The weekend came and went, and with it came the end of National Library Week. On Monday, I went to the Silver Bay Public Library; there was still the matter of drawing a winner for the Pie-O-U. Shannon brought out a clear container of tickets and asked me to draw the winner. I struggled and laughed, reaching into the jar. "My fat hand won't go through the mouth." A young man, maybe a volunteer, was working behind the counter. "Let's have him draw the winner." The young man's hand fit into the jar just fine. He swirled the tickets vigorously, mixing them well, then pulled a single ticket from the jar. Shannon read the winner's name. (Imagine a drum roll.) "And the winner is Gretchen Jacobsen." Needless to say, I started laughing. What are the odds? Shannon would notify the winner. Gretchen sent me a message: "I appear to have won the Pie-O-U at the library. I'd like to call the cookies an even trade." I wasn't going to accept that. "I'm serious. It was about making a donation to the library," she wrote. "I never win anything, so who'd have thought…." "She's not getting out of the pie that easily," I said, then replied, "What kind of pie do you want?" "Peach is my favorite," Gretchen replied. "Does the pie come with wine?" And so I made a peach pie for Gretchen, sans the wine, and delivered it. I felt very content. "Another Pie-O-U paid in full," I said. What did Gretchen do with the peach pie? She shared it with Star, of course. I thought about the whole week, how one thing led to another, and everything kept falling perfectly into place. These events were much greater than just coincidences. All in all, I'd say this was my best National Library Week EVER!
0 Comments
Read More
Back to Blog
Asking Questions4/24/2024 We bought our house in Minnesota almost 10 years ago. Planning to do a complete remodel, I gutted every room in the house.
Naturally, while they were open, I tried to think of everything that should go inside the walls. I ran new plumbing, wiring, and ducts for the heat, air conditioning, and exhaust fans. We ran cable for TV and USB ports in nearly every room. I even remembered running a cable to hardwire the smoke detectors and a waterline for the ice maker in the refrigerator. I thought I’d thought of everything, but it didn’t even occur to me to run wiring for a doorbell. Ironically, we’ve never used the TV cables; they run through the internet now. Nobody connects computers to the internet with wires anymore; everything is wireless. So, I ran a bunch of cables for nothing, but we could use a doorbell. In hindsight, why would we need a doorbell? We live on the edge of being in the sticks with only a few neighbors, and bears don’t ring doorbells; they just come in through a window if they want inside. Besides, even the doorbells with fancy cameras and security systems are wireless these days. We have a wireless doorbell: Nova Mae. Instead of a porch camera, our wireless doorbell has two eyes and fantastic ears. Nova alerts us if anyone comes on the property or pulls in the driveway; she even lets us know if someone is in the street. Nova Mae tells us when the mail is here, when the garbage truck has arrived, and when a delivery truck is at the house. Nova has an assistant for 24-hour security: Edgar Allan. Our black cat takes the night watch, letting us know if a raccoon is robbing the birdfeeder on the deck or if the neighbor’s cat is prowling around the yard. Between the two of them, we are very well protected. The other day, I ran to the post office in town to mail some cookies to a friend. Nova Mae came along for the ride and wanted to go inside with me. “You have to wait here in the van, baby girl,” I told her. As I walked away from the van carrying the package of cookies, Nova barked several times to express her disapproval of my decision. She thought I baked the cookies for her and was not happy that I was sending them away. When I returned to the van, she was acting strangely, as if she had done something, but I didn’t pay much attention and drove home. About ten minutes after I got home, Nova gave two soft, low woofs while looking out the bay window into the driveway. This indicates a low-threat visitor. I looked out the front window and a black Dodge sedan with silver letting on the door was in our driveway. “Silver Bay Police? What are the city police doing all the way out here,” I asked. I looked at Nova Mae, “You better not have done something in the van just because I wouldn’t let you go into the post office!” When I’m driving, if a cop turns around or pulls out behind me, I don’t make them chase me; I pull over. I guess the same is true at home. When the officer got out of his car, I stepped out onto the front porch. “Hello,” I said, walking down the front steps toward the driveway to greet him. Are you supposed to be way out here?” “Not normally, but I have a reason today,” he said, then asked, “Are you Thomas?” Crap. It’s seldom good when a cop, a school teacher, or your mom calls you by your formal first name. I gave my routine, smart-aleck answer, “It depends. Do I owe you money?” We shared a good laugh about that, and then I told him, “I am, but you can call me Tom. What can I do for you?” “Is there something you did or didn’t do that you can think of,” he asked. When I was in town, I did a rolling stop at Davis Street and Outer Drive, about a block from the police department, but I doubted he saw it, and certainly, he wouldn’t follow me seven miles out of town for that. Maybe someone complained that I left my dog in the van, but the temperature was in the forties, so Nova was not in danger. I drew a blank. “If you give me a clue what you’re talking about, I can probably come up with a confession or an alibi.” “Do you have a Facebook account,” he asked. I told him I did. “Have you been in New York lately,” he asked. It was raining, and I could tell he was serious. I looked at the name on his uniform. Sean Bergman “Would you like to step up on the porch and talk, Sean, to get out of the rain?” Under the roof on the porch, Officer Bergman again asked, “Have you been to New York lately or communicated with anyone in New York?” I explained, “I have a lot of friends I’ve met through social media, and I do communicate with them through comments on posts, but I don’t know if I’ve talked to anyone specifically in New York.” He named a person (I don’t remember the name): “Do you know Jane Smith, or does her name mean anything to you?” I told him it did not. He asked, “How many Facebook profiles do you have?” “I only have one profile,” I answered. I felt a bit suspect, “Can you tell me what this is all about?” “A lady reported getting messages through Facebook, saying that you had been kidnapped in New York, and if she didn’t send ten thousand dollars, they were going to feed you to the fish,” Officer Bergman explained. “She said the messages were coming from your Facebook account. They even sent her a recorded message.” He played the message for me, but I couldn’t even understand what the man said. “Obviously, that is not your voice,” he said. “And you only have one profile?” When I confirmed that I had only one profile, Sean pulled it up on his phone. “This is your profile photo and your page, correct?” he asked, scrolling through the page. “It sure looks like my page,” I said. The officer continued, “When I type your name into the search bar, three more pages appear under your name with your photos. Someone has lifted photos from your wall and created clone pages using your name.” I shook my head in disbelief. “I’ve seen a lot of people get cloned,” I told Sean, “But I had no idea I’d been cloned – or kidnapped in New York, for that matter. Why would anyone want to clone me?” I get friend requests from people who follow my stories; I don’t know many of these people, but I do know others. Or, at least, I think I know them. So, I am cautious when anyone sends me a friend request. I’ll reply, where did we meet, or where do you know me from if it’s someone I haven’t met yet? I can usually tell from their response if they are legitimate or not. Just a few days before, I got a friend request from a person in Ottumwa whom I’ve known for over 30 years. The photos on the profile were definitely Don Phillips and he had pothers of himself and his wife, who I also know. It seemed legit, but still, I went through the same precautionary routine, asking where we met or where you knew me from. Don replied, “Facebook suggested you for me to add, that’s why I sent the request. You look familiar also, but I’m not sure where we met.” That sounded suspicious. Don would know the answers. He used to live across the street from me, and our kids went to elementary school together. I'd worked with Don many times through the news department at the radio station, so I asked another question. “Where do you work?” Don replied, “Okay, I work as an expert in crypto trading….” Wow! A clone, for sure! I looked up the real Don Phillips profile. He posted, “I’ve been cloned. Do not accept a friend request from me.” Double wow! It takes a lot of guts to clone Don Phillips, the Sheriff of Wapello County, Iowa. If these hackers will clone the sheriff’s profile, why would they even think twice about cloning me or anyone else? Officer Bergman handed me a card with a web address. “You can go to this website to report the cloning,” he said. We said our farewells and he was on his way. After Sean Bergman left, I spent time reflecting on his visit. Even though I briefly felt like a suspect, I was glad he was asking questions. He’s doing his job and keeping the community safe. It can be a scary world out there. Facebook can be a fun place, but it's necessary for all to be vigilant and watch out for one another. Ask questions when you get a friend invite, and when you're confident it's legitimate, ask more questions. I gave Nova Mae a rub on the head and a treat, too. “Thanks for the heads-up that someone was in the driveway. You're a lot better than any doorbell.” Be safe, my friends.
Back to Blog
Acclimation3/13/2024 As a kid living in Madison, Wisconsin, I was naturally a Green Bay Packers fan. During neighborhood football games, I dreamed of someday replacing Bart Starr as the Packers quarterback, but that was a short-lived dream.
I wanted to play football. "You're too scrawny," said Coach Scents, the junior high coach. "You should go out for track." "You're too small," said coach Clement in high school. "You should try wrestling. You'd do well in the light weights." Admittedly, I was small, but light weights? I lost interest in football, redirecting my enthusiasm to motorcycles, a passion still with me today. In 1983, I rode my motorcycle to Colorado with my dog Harry. We were camping near the Continental Divide, on the Guanella Pass, outside Georgetown. I carried a tent with me but preferred sleeping in the open air; the stars in the mountains are spectacular! Campers in the Rockies had to park a minimum distance from the road, so I rode my bike a little into the open area and camped on the ground next to my bike. Even summer nights are cold in the mountains; having the right camping gear was necessary. I had a zero-degree sleeping bag and a mat and blanket for my dog. I unrolled my bag and laid out Harry's bedding. The wind was calm, so I hung my jacket on the mirror, then took off my shoes and slid them under my motorcycle. I crawled into my sleeping bag, and Harry laid on his mat. I covered him with his blanket, then slid down into my sleeping bag and pulled the drawstring until there was about a two-inch opening left for air. With Harry curled up next to me, we both stayed warm. Harry kept pushing closer and closer until, eventually, he was on top of me. By daybreak, I was having a hard time breathing with his weight on my chest. "Harry, what are you doing? Get off me," I complained while trying to nudge him to one side or the other, but Harry wasn't budging. I loosened the drawstring and pushed open the top of my sleeping bag; that's when the snow fell on my face. "This isn't good," I told my trusty canine. There I was: at an elevation of almost twelve thousand feet, in the mountains, on a motorcycle with a dog, and five inches of fresh snow on the ground. "We're in a predicament here, son," I reported. It wasn't very cold, but it would be challenging to get down the mountainside in the snow. I shook the snow from my sleeping bag, Harry's mat, and blanket and stuffed them into a saddlebag on my bike. With the mild temperature, the snow was already melting, and the outside of my coat on the mirror was I put on an extra flannel shirt, then my coat. I buckled my helmet chin strap, then pulled my gloves from my coat pocket. Fortunately, my gloves stayed dry inside my pockets. "Get on, Harry," I said, and he jumped into the backseat. "Here we go," I said. The back tire spun slightly in the snow, but we got back to the road without much trouble. "It's all downhill from here," I joked with my dog, but Harry wasn't laughing. I kept the pace nice and slow as we started down the mountain. Even though I tried to go slow, the heavy bike picked up speed. It was kind of scary, but what was really frightening was the first hairpin turn ahead of me. The bike was still gaining speed. If I applied more pressure to the brakes, the wheels locked up, and the bike continued to cut through the snow like a razor. I was probably only going fifteen or twenty miles per hour, but I had no control of the bike. As I approached the turn, it felt like I was going at least a hundred. I reached behind me and pushed Harry off the motorcycle. "By God, if I'm going over the mountain's edge, he doesn't need to go with me," I said. When I pushed Harry, my movement caused the bike to wobble and fishtail. The back wheel locked, and I went down on my side. I envisioned myself going over the edge. When I came to a rest, I lay there for a moment, confused and unsure if I had gone over the edge. Harry ran up next to me. "What just happened," I asked as I got up. I looked at my bike lying on its side with a berm of snow in front of it. "It's like I wiped out in slow motion," I answered myself. "The motorcycle pushed snow like a plow until the bike stopped. That was a pretty neat trick," I said as I looked to heaven. I still had several more hairpin turns to negotiate. I got on my knees and dug the snow out from under the bike with my hands, and then stood the motorcycle upright. "Let's go, Harry." We climbed back on the bike and started down the hill again. I tried to keep the pace slow, but the bike still picked up speed against my will. If I got going faster than I was comfortable or approached a hairpin turn, I would call out, "Harry, get off," and he would jump off the bike without me pushing him. Then, I would turn the handlebars slightly while locking the rear brake and gently lay the bike down in the snow. It took a while, but we were finally out of the white stuff about halfway down the mountain. When we returned to Georgetown, I was grateful that the roads were dry and the sun was shining. The roads were dry, but I was wet from being on my knees while digging the snow with my hands and laying on my side when putting the bike down; and when you're wet, you're cold. Harry and I rode to the gas station, and I used their men's room to change into dry clothes. After changing clothes, the cashier grumbled something about the bathrooms being for customers only, so I bought a large cup of coffee and a sandwich. I took Harry's food and water bowls outside to the motorcycle, and we sat on the curb to eat breakfast. Although we still had a couple more days, after the morning's ordeal, Harry and I decided to head toward home. Driving east on I-70, I turned the radio to News Radio 85, KOA. It was mid-morning Sunday, and all the talk on the radio was about the Denver Broncos. All the scuttlebutt was about some new snot-nosed Stanford University quarterback drafted by the Baltimore Colts but refused to play there. The quarterback wanted to be traded to a West Coast division team, and if Baltimore didn't trade him, he would accept the option of playing baseball for the New York Yankees. "And so today rookie quarterback, John Elway, will make his debut before Broncos fans in this first preseason game here at home in Mile High Stadium," the announcer reported. I had never been to a professional football game and thought it might be fun. We made our way into the city and found the football stadium, and I got a single ticket. Fans were really intrigued seeing Harry on the motorcycle with me. Some friendly people tailgating in one of the parking lots, inviting me to park my bike in their space with them. They offered me a hamburger from their grill and a beer. (I declined the brew and opted for a Coke.) They really liked Harry, the dog riding on a motorcycle, and offered him a hamburger. During the pre-game festivities, we played football in the parking lot. Every time I ran for the ball or chased another player, I found myself winded; it was hard to breathe. My new friends had no problems breathing. I thought something was wrong with me. "You're not used to the high altitude of Denver," one of the ladies told me. "It takes a few days to get acclimated," she said. It was the first time I'd become familiar with the term acclimated. I huffed and puffed every time I exerted myself; I couldn't keep up with these guys, who were all older than me. Fortunately, it was getting close to game time. Harry was accustomed to traveling with me. He would stay with the motorcycle while I went to the game, but I fastened his leash to the bike to ensure he didn't wander off. I placed his mat next to the bike and tucked his blanket under the seat, making a tent to be sure he had a shaded area. I filled his bowl with fresh water and then headed into the stadium. I was breathing hard inside the stadium as I climbed the steep steps to find my seat. I was buzzing with excitement in the new environment, my first time ever being in the stands of an NFL game. The green field with white lines looked surreal, far more brilliant than I'd ever seen on a televised game. The colors, sounds, people, and vibrancy in the air all had me awestruck. The people didn't pay much attention when the stadium announcer introduced the visiting team; they even booed some players. "And now, here's your Denver Broncos starting lineup!" The crowd came alive; everyone stood up, cheering as he called out the names, and players ran from the tunnel onto the field. "And, your new Denver Broncos, starting quarterback, number seven – John Elway!" The crow exploded. It sounded like deafening thunder as 75,000 fans stomped their feet on the metal stands. A few people booed the rookie over his controversial way of getting to a West Coast division team. When the game was over, the Broncos defeated the Seattle Seahawks, and the crowd was ecstatic. I was one of them. Back in the parking lot, Harry was off his leash playing with our new friends. "What did you think of the game," one lady asked me. "Wow," I said. "I took the hook, line, and sinker. I am officially a Denver Broncos fan." Several guys patted me on the back, saying, 'Atta boy,' 'Welcome,' 'We're the best fans in the league.' I looked at Harry. He always wore a red bandana around his neck, but one of the ladies bought him a Denver Broncos kerchief and tied it around his neck, too; how fitting. "I guess Harry is now a Broncos fan, too." "See," the one lady said. "It didn't take you two very long to acclimate." We all shared a good laugh about that. But acclimation isn't always that quick. Last December, I helped with a project in Florida for two weeks before Christmas. I acclimated to the beautiful weather almost instantly. After the holidays, Melissa returned to Florida with me for two months to continue helping with the work. January was also nice, but by February, the temperatures were getting a little too warm for me, and it was so humid! A friend who relocated to Florida told me, "I got used to the heat pretty quickly, but you'll never get used to the humidity, and I've been here for seventeen years." I could believe that. This year, I came to Texas for three weeks to help my sister with some work around her house. The weather has been pretty nice so far, with only a couple of hot days (Upper 80s). I would stop over and visit the crew next door, who were building a garage on the neighbor's lot. The workers were all Mexican, and a couple did not speak English, but that didn't stop us from communicating. I spent a whole day cutting, gathering, stacking, and piling brush and yard waste to burn the following day. I texted my friend Bob Henricks: "I'm lighting the fire at 5:00 am. Would you like to bring a mug and join me for morning coffee?" It didn't take Bob long to respond: 'Wow! God's not even up at 5 am. I'll pass on that, but I will get in touch with you tomorrow morning.' I laughed out loud at his response. "See, this retirement business makes a guy soft," I told myself. I sent Bob another text, "I would love to have you join me at 7, 8, or 9… Whatever works for you. The fire will still be burning." Then I set my alarm for 4:30 am. I got up as soon as the alarm sounded. There would be no hitting snooze this morning; I was excited to get the fire lit on time. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and said my morning prayers. Then, I made a cup of coffee and stepped outside. It was pitch black! "God, are you awake," I asked. "Did you forget to start the new day? Where is the dawn?" Not hearing a reply, I called again softly, "God, are you there?" Finally, a voice from the dark sky replied, "I'm sleeping. What do you need?" Apparently, I had acclimated to the 70-80° days. The warmer temperatures tricked my body into thinking it was summertime by northern Minnesota standards. The voice spoke again, "It's March, Tom. March is still winter. I'm not turning the light on until 6:30. Now go back to bed." Instead, I took my coffee and sat on the back deck; it was a good time for some prayer and meditation. "What now," the voice said. "Oops, I was just saying some prayers," I explained. "Okay," said the voice. You talk; I'll listen and get back to you a little later." I was good with that. At 6:00, dawn broke, and I lighted the fire. The morning was mild, and as the flames blazed, it got sweltering, working near the fire. I remember that day Harry and I rode down the mountainside, cold and wet. "Boy, I sure could have used some of this warmth back then," I said. The fire burned quicker than I anticipated. I had stacked several large piles of 12' bamboo shoots the day before. Wow! I thought pine popped a lot when burning. Every time I threw another load of bamboo on the fire, it sounded like I had tossed in a pack or two of Black Jack firecrackers. At 7:20, I texted Bob, "She's going down fast. Come see how the bamboo burns." Bob finally came over a little after 9, "Good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty," I teased. Bob helped me drag more branches from the tree line to throw on the fire. Then, I started raking and burning leaves. It was hot, dusty, and dirty work, but I enjoyed it and kept the fire going until after 7 pm. At one point, I carried my leaf rake next door and handed it and my work gloves to a painter, and then I took his paint sprayer. Although he didn't speak English, he knew what I was getting at. "No, no, no," he said, taking his paint gun from my hand and returning my rake. Then he said something in Spanish, and the crew laughed, and others commented more. Although I did not understand a word they said, I knew they were having fun teasing me, and I laughed along with them. Another worker translated, "He said you're working too hard to take your rake and go away." We all shared a good laugh about that. Pointing at the sweat on my brow, the foreman teased me, "You Minnesota boys haven't acclimated to our Texas weather. This isn't hot – this is a nice day for working." We all laughed about that and then returned to work. The next morning brought a big change in the weather, with the temperature dropping to 45° at 8 am – a temperature I am well accustomed to. My Mexican friends were all bundled up in hoodies, wearing stocking caps and gloves. Naturally, I went next door wearing a flannel shirt with no hat or gloves. I gave a little tug on the foreman's black stocking hat in the driveway. "What is this," I asked. "It's my hat to keep my head warm," the foreman said. "It's freezing out here." "This isn't freezing," I laughed. "This is nice weather for working. It seems you Texas boys haven't acclimated to this lovely Minnesota weather." We shared a good laugh about that, and then I pointed to his stocking cap again, "By the way, that isn't a hat," I said, reaching inside my shirt. I pulled out my rabbit-fur-lined bomber cap with the big ear flaps like a magician would pull a rabbit from a top hat; I slapped it on, pointed to my head, and said, "THIS, my friend, is a hat!" We all laughed a lot about that. The crew guys started making comments and laughing. I couldn't understand their Spanish, but I knew they were having fun teasing their boss, and I laughed along. The foreman looked at me and asked, "Haven't you got some raking to do?" "Nope," I said. "I'm going to take down a tree in the front yard today," then went on my way. Traveling around the country, it’s necessary to adjust to different climates, humidities, elevation changes, and such. But I've never needed to acclimate to the people – and language barriers have never interfered with communication. |