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    Tom Palen,

     a broadcaster, pilot, writer, and our Guest Columnist!

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Tom vs. Tom

11/3/2022

 
​The trouble all started at Roseau Hardware: an Ace Hardware store in the small town of Roseau, Minnesota.
Roseau, is in northern Minnesota; on the Canadian border. Melissa’s great-grandfather, and great-grandmother homesteaded near Roseau in the early 1900’s. Her grandfather was born there in 1914, and we’ve traveled to that area a few times to do research, and learn more about her ancestors.
We were camping in Roseau. The campground was very wet and I needed a new mat to lay in front of the Scamp door so that we wouldn’t drag mud into the camper. (We learned later that Roseau had three inches of rain that morning before we had arrived.)
I stopped at Geroy’s Home and Appliance on the main highway. The people were very helpful. They had a small piece of green Astro-turf that was about twice the size that I needed. They gave me a great price if I wanted to take the whole remnant, and so I did. With the carpet in my van, I started for the campsite.
Just a couple of blocks back, on Highway 11, I had seen a hardware store on the same side of the road. I decided to go back. I had chicken hindquarters to cook over the fire for dinner, but all the firewood at the campground was wet from the rain. If I bought a bag of charcoal and a bottle of lighter fluid, I could cook the chicken on the old fashion BBQ grill mounted on a steel post in our campsite. Besides, I needed a roll of paper towel for the camper. I pulled into the parking lot.
Roseau, is a small town, with a population of around 2,700 people. They are the headquarters for Polaris snowmobiles, and several other industries. The town has a very impressive retail community with car dealerships, at least two hardware stores, two tractor supply stores, dollar stores, grocery stores, convenience stores, trading posts – all kinds of places that would sell charcoal.
Of all the places to buy charcoal in Roseau, Minnesota, I had to step into this joint; Roseau Ace Hardware. That’s where the trouble all started.
The staff was very friendly; I was greeted right away when I walked into the building. I swear, that store has everything; a guy could easily get lost in there. A gal named Sabrina took me right to the charcoal. I picked up a ten-pound bag, and a bottle of lighter fluid, then headed for the register. I suppose everything would have been okay, if I had just kept walking to the checkout counter. But, on the way, I passed a cooler full of Frost Top soda.
There was root beer, orange crème soda and several other flavors, but the one that caught my eye was the deep purple, Premium Grape Soda. I just had to have one. So with a bag of charcoal under my left arm, and a bottle of lighter fluid in my left hand, I opened the cooler and grabbed an ice-cold twenty-ounce bottle of that purple elixir with my right hand. I paid at the register, and headed for the van.
While fumbling with the keys to open the back doors, I dropped my bottle of soda. Fortunately, it was a plastic bottle and did not break, but did roll under the van. I put the charcoal in the van, then got on my hands and knees to retrieve my grape soda from the driver’s side.
A lady in the car next to me was watching as I climbed under my vehicle with my rump in the air. I stood up, brushed off my jeans, then held the bottle to show her. “I dropped my grape soda,” I explained. She nodded and smiled, and I climbed into the driver’s seat. I couldn’t wait to crack that bottle open, but maybe I should have.
When I twisted the cap open, it exploded. Grape soda sprayed everywhere. All over me, all over the dashboard, the seats, the steering wheel, and windshield; I even got my dog Nova Mae, sitting in the passenger seat. I was so anticipating that refreshing grape soda, I failed to consider the pressure it may have built up when the bottle was dropped.
I looked through the driver’s side window, which had purple juice streaming down. The lady in the car next to me was laughing. I reached for the new roll of paper towel. “Darn,” I cursed. “I forgot the paper towel.” I tried to clean up with a napkin from the glove box, but it wasn’t enough. I stepped out of the van, looked at the lady sitting in the car next to me, and said, “I had a little problem.”
“I see that,” she said, unable to stifle her laughter. I didn’t think it was all that funny. Neither did Nova.
I was greeted right away when I walked back into the store. “Where do you keep your paper towels,” I asked Sabrina, “and, do you have a restroom I could use?” I felt very conspicuous, but she was polite and did not mention my situation. Maybe she didn’t notice; the purple soda didn’t show on my black T-shirt, however, it did look like I had wet my pants. I washed my hands, got the paper towel, and was headed to the register. I probably would have been okay from there if I would have just kept walking to the register. But there it was in front of me, how could I resist. A popcorn machine with free popcorn.
Inside the clear glass display walls, a soft yellow bulb glowed on the golden salty treat. Mmm. I had to have some, and it would go great with what was left of my grape soda. But wait – there’s more.
“What have we here?” I picked up a container on top of the popcorn machine. “Grandpa Tom’s Cowboy Spice?” I sprinkled a little into the palm of my hand. “That’s pretty good,” I said. Then I picked up Grandpa Tom’s Jalapeno Pepper Spice and sampled it. “That’s really good,” I said. “It has a nice kick.” But then I saw the Grandpa Tom’s Sweet Smoked Chipotle Spice, and tried a taste. “Wow! That’s the best,” I said. It was similar to my Tom’s Secret Chicken Rub, which I make at home.
I looked on the side of the bottle, “For beef, pork, chicken, fish, and wild game.” My eyes lit up. “Chicken?” I had chicken hindquarters waiting at the camper, but I had forgotten my chicken rub at the house. The spice was very similar to my own.
“Who is this Grandpa Tom,” I wondered, “and where did he get my Secret Chicken Rub recipe?” I tasted the product again. Then I read on the side of the bottle, “It’s made at 610 3rd Ave, NE, right here in Roseau?” I looked up and down the aisle. No one was looking, so I tasted the spice one more time from my palm, then went to the display and picked up a bottle. I carried the spice and my paper towel to the register.
Back at the campsite, I seasoned my chicken. I grilled them very slowly and they came out amazing! “I thought you forgot your chicken rub at home,” Melissa questioned.
“Oh, this is just something I picked up at the hardware store,” I explained.
“It’s very good,” she said. “It tastes a lot like yours.”
Hmfph. “It’s alright,” I said, nonchalantly. I was worried my wife might end up liking Grandpa Tom’s seasoning better than my own.
Back at home, I made chicken on the grill several times, alternating between my Secret Chicken Rub, and Grandpa Tom’s. My wife never could tell which was which. A showdown was imminent. Then one day I was at Zup’s Food’s. “Chicken hindquarters were $1.09 per pound?” That was a good price. “It’s time,” I said with an evil laugh. “Bring out your best, Grandpa Tom, show me whatcha got!”
I kept hearing fiddle music. The Charlie Daniels Band, The Devil Went Down to Georgia, played over and over in my head while I seasoned the chicken carefully. I was sure to keep them separated, and cautious to sprinkle an equal amount of each spice on the meat to make it fair. I wrapped the chicken in separate bags, and placed them in the refrigerator. “The stage is set. Tomorrow is the day.”
I laid the two bags out about twenty-minutes early, letting them come to room temperature, while the Weber Grill warmed up. At precisely 2:00 pm, I put the hindquarters on the hot grill to sear; Grandpa Tom’s on the left, Tom’s Secret Chicken Rub, on the right. I turned them at the exact same times, until they were grilled to perfection. Honestly, they all looked the same – delicious.
I pushed toothpicks into the chicken with Grandpa Tom’s spice, in order to know which was which. I called Melissa to the dinner table; giving her pieces of each. “Which do you like better,” I questioned. I suspected she would pick my spice hands down.
“I like this one better,” she said pointing to my drum stick. “No, wait. I like the one with the toothpick better.” I made no facial expression. “No, the one without the toothpick, no with the toothpick.” She kept changing her mind, “Heck, I don’t know! They taste the same if you want to know the truth. I like them both.” Then she looked at the two bottles. “Grandpa Tom’s has a fancier label,”
Hmfph. “Well, it’s what’s on the inside that matters,” I said. “Besides, he’s probably got a marketing department to help him.”
After lunch, I got on the computer and typed into a search engine, “Companies that design chicken spice labels…”
Until such a time as I market my new product, “Papa Tom’s Secret Chicken Rub,” you might want to try the other guy’s spice. It is very good. You can order online, or you can buy it at Roseau Ace Hardware, while you’re in Roseau, Minnesota. It’s a fun town to visit, and the home of Polaris snowmobiles, and Grandpa Tom’s Spices, too. (I recommend the Sweet Smoked Chipotle)
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Toothpaste

10/26/2022

 
What some call a necessity, others consider a luxury. Growing up in a big family, we often couldn't afford some luxuries my friends considered necessary.
Simple things, home remedies, often worked as well, or better, than their more expensive manufactured alternatives. But unfortunately, large marketing firms create an image of necessity for products such as toothpaste.
When I was a kid, times were different. We didn't have toothpaste. Instead, we had little Tupperware containers shaped like shot glasses. They were about twice the size and had a lid with the famous Tupperware Seal. These handy little containers came in very cool colors; yellow, blue, green, pink, orange, and white for the person with a limited desire for flair.
 We kept the Tupperware container in the bathroom medicine cabinet filled with baking soda. You would open the container; sprinkle a little soda into the palm of your hand, then press the bristles of your wetted toothbrush into the soda. You were now prepared to begin the daily dental cleansing process.
We brushed our teeth in the morning and again before going to bed. I didn't seem to have any more or fewer cavities than my friends, who enjoyed the luxury of "cavity-fighting – tooth whitening" toothpaste. If you wanted a whitening agent, you added a few drops of hydrogen peroxide to the soda.
 On occasion, when K-Mart offered a blue light special, Dad would come home with Pepsodent: a complete care toothpaste. But, of course, with toothpaste came responsibility and rules.
In the TV commercials, they would run a thick bead of paste from one end of the bristles to the other. The actor always put a wavy, sweeping hump in the toothpaste, leaving a curly tip - like a soft serve ice cream cone. Dad always said, "They do that to sell more toothpaste!" He insisted, "Just a dot; the size of a pea, that's all you need. The rest is just wasteful." But there were more rules than just the amount used.
"Don't let the tip of the tube touch your toothbrush bristles," Dad would say. That was equally gross to double dipping in the chip dip. There was a right and wrong way to dispense the product. You had to put pressure on the tube so that when you had your drop of toothpaste, there would be a slight vacuum action within the tube. Almost like inhaling, the toothpaste would recede slightly back inside the tube, leaving a nice clean tip for the next person – not a gunky mess. "If you can't replace the cap, don't use the toothpaste," Dad would warn.
Finally, we were required to squeeze from the flat end of the tube. As the toothpaste decreased in quantity, the tube would stay nice and neat, maintaining its sleek shape. Rolling up the foil tube as needed would also keep a nice-looking tube of toothpaste. Never, under any circumstances, was it acceptable to squeeze the middle of the tube. Never!
Squeezing the middle disturbed the natural shape and distribution of the product. It resulted in an untidy, unattractive tube of toothpaste. Lt also caused the wasted product to be trapped inside, which would lead to an investigation by Dad. ,
The violator, who dared to squeeze from the middle, would be sought out, caught, and punished. Then, losing all rights to the family tube of toothpaste, the convicted child would be banished from the toothpaste and sent back to using baking soda."
The older kids who had jobs found a way around Dad's rules; they bought their own toothpaste. Still, Dad would preach his rules to them, "You're just wasting your money when you waste toothpaste." 
If we ran out of toothpaste and K-mart didn't have a special, Dad would say, "There's nothing wrong with using baking soda."
"But Dad, all my friends have toothpaste," I argued.
"If all your friends jumped off the bridge, would you jump off, too," He asked. But then, he reassured me, "There's nothing wrong with using baking soda."
Dad felt his position on dental hygiene products was proven correct when the "New and Improved Crest – Now with Baking Soda and Peroxide" was introduced. Maybe Dad knew more than we gave him credit.
I thought about Dad and his rules on toothpaste while standing at the sink this morning. Dad always used to say, "You'll follow my rules if you're living under my roof. You can make your own rules when you get your own house." I was in my house now.
I picked up my toothbrush and laughed as I squeezed the middle of the tube. I spread a thick bead of paste from one end of the bristles to the other. Naturally, I included the little wavy, sweeping hump in the middle, leaving a curly tip - just like in the commercials.
As I began brushing my teeth, it occurred to me I had used way too much toothpaste. I spit the excess into the sink, thinking, "What an expensive waste!" I went to the bedroom to get dressed. Before I left the house, I returned to the bathroom.
Applying pressure between my thumb and the tip of my index finger, I smoothed the tube from the bottom up. I made several passes pushing the paste toward the top, returning the natural shape to the damaged center where I'd squeezed it. Then, I smoothed out all the wrinkles I could. "There. That looks better," I said.
After all, I did not want to be the violator who caused the launch of an investigation. Such an investigation could lead to my conviction. I could lose all rights to the family tube of toothpaste; I would return to using baking soda, and I don't even own any of those little Tupperware containers.
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​Penny A Pair

10/19/2022

 

We had been home for about an hour from our fall camping trip. When I heard the buzzer on the dryer sound off, I gathered the sheets from the bed in our Scamp. I put them in the washing machine, then retrieved the clothes from the dryer.
I dumped a hamper full of clean, warm clothes from the dryer onto the bed. First, I pull out any items that need to be on hangers. Next, I like to fold the T-shirts, so they don't wrinkle. Socks and under ware are next, and towels are last. When I had folded everything, I picked up a lone sock. "Darnit!"
It was one of my favorite pairs of socks: they are short, beige in color, with Peanut's characters on the ankles. Charlie Brown is holding the phone for Snoopy. One of the Peanut's socks had a small hole, but I refused to throw away a pair of clean socks. If I'm going to toss a pair, I do it after I've worn them. If a holey sock gets washed – it will be worn again.
One sock always gets a hole before the other. With most of my socks, I throw away the failed garment while the good sock gets washed, then put it back in the drawer, waiting for another matching sock to go bad. Then the survivor gets a new mate. That's not so easy to do with a theme or printed socks.
I shook the towels well, and I would have felt the sock if it was clinging inside a T-shirt. I'm reasonably sure I know the culprit: that sock-eating Maytag dryer. I returned to the basement and checked the drum - no Snoopy sock. "Savage beast," I called the dryer as I shut the door, then went back upstairs to my bedroom.
I pushed my hand inside the Snoopy sock. Looking it over, I smiled, "At least the dryer took the sock with the hole in it." Expecting the worst but hoping for the best, I would place the lone sock in the drawer – just in case.
Still holding the Snoopy sock, I took a single grey sock from the drawer. "I haven't had any of these for years." Then, as I tossed the single sock into the bathroom trash can, I began to ponder philosophical things and proper etiquette.
"What is the proper amount of time to keep a surviving sock when its solemate has been consumed by the dryer before admitting the lost soledure isn't coming back?" Keeping that grey sock for years was undoubtedly beyond a reasonable period.
While holding my Peanuts-themed sock, I remembered my younger days when Mom and Dad always had a basket filled with single socks.
It was an oval-shaped wicker basket, larger than most oval wicker baskets. As a kid, I thought thousands of socks were in that basket. I'm sure it was only two or three (maybe four) hundred as an adult. Dad had a standing agreement: "I'll pay a penny for every pair you match," he offered. Many times, I thought I could make a fortune in that basket.
I presented ten pairs of socks to Dad. The socks had to be fastened at the arch with a safety pin to collect your pay. "We wouldn't have single socks if you kids would learn to pin your socks together before putting them in the laundry," he lectured.
Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his little green vinyl coin pouch. It was oval-shaped, like the basket, and when you squeezed the ends, the middle would open like a clam shell. He poked through his coins and handed me a dime. But then Mom got involved. You see, Dad was somewhat colorblind.
Mom looked over the socks I had brought. "Son, this is a black and a blue sock you've paired together." Dad would never have caught that. She continued, "These are two different shades of brown; these greys don't match, and the white socks; one has red stripes around the top, the other has orange." I returned to the paymaster wondering why Mom couldn't just mind her own business.
Saturday mornings, I was often determined to match several pairs. So I brought the sock basket to the living room, where my lazy siblings watched Saturday morning cartoons. "Anybody want to help match some socks and make some money," I asked. Glued to the TV, they had no interest in matching socks. Shaggy and Scoobie Doo soon gained my attention, and I also lost interest in the socks. But it was still worth bringing the basket to the living room.
I laid inside the basket on top of the socks. Then, resting my head on one rounded end, with my feet hanging over the other, I joined my brothers and sisters watching TV. Soon the wicker edge felt uncomfortable on my head. I went to my bedroom to get the pillow and blanket from my bed.
When I returned to the living room, someone had taken my basket. "You didn't call 'place backs,'" they declared. I would have to wait until the wicker edge was hurting their head, then seize the opportunity to reclaim my basket when they went for their pillow.
When that person returned with their pillow, they demanded I surrender the basket. "You didn't call place backs," I said.
"I did so," they argued.
"Did not," I insisted.
Another sibling would vouch for them, "Yes, they did. I heard them."
"I don't care," I said. "I brought the basket to the living room and had it first." Now it was a matter of size.
Determined to keep my nesting place, I gripped the sides of the basket, locking my knees over the end. The larger sibling would flip the basket, with me still in it. Socks spilled everywhere. An argument ensued, getting louder and louder.
Eventually, Dad would come around the corner in his bathrobe, "You kids need to pip down, or turn that TV off!" Saturday was his only day to sleep in, and he wasn't happy, "Why are these socks all over the place?"
"Instead of just sitting there, you guys could be matching socks while watching TV." (Note that the 'penny a pair was not offered' as we had disturbed his slumber.) The lecture would always follow, "We wouldn't have all these loose socks if you kids would learn to pin your socks together before you put them in the laundry." Those were simple days.
I stood by my dresser, holding and studying my sock. "Can a dryer eat two socks at once," I asked Snoopy and Charlie Brown? They just looked at me. "I know people lose a sock in the dryer all the time, but I've never heard of anyone losing a pair at the same time. So I wonder, if you pin a pair of socks together, would it be impossible for the dryer to eat them?"
While I pondered these questions, my dog sat at my feet. "Dad, do you really think those cartoon characters will answer you?"
"Sometimes they do," I answered. I heard the washer clunk as it finished its spin cycle. "Come on, Nova Mae. Let's go put the sheets in the dryer."
When the dryer buzzer sounded, Nova and I went to retrieve the sheets and dumped them onto the bed. I fold the pillowcases first, then the flat sheet to free up space on the bed before tackling the fitted sheet.
As I spread the fitted sheet, I swore I heard a faint voice, "Hello. It's for you."
"Did you say something," I asked my dog?
"I didn't say anything, but I heard it, too," Nova Mae answered.
I felt inside the corners of the fitted sheet and found something, probably the Bounce dryer sheet. I pulled it out. "Would you look at that," I said to Nova Mae. It was the lost beige sock, with Charlie Brown handing the phone to Snoopy.
I immediately went to the sock drawer, folding the two matching socks together. "I should get a penny for this," I said to my dog.
"I think you should get the penny," Charlie Brown said. “Me too,” said Snoopy.

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Sticks and Stones

10/12/2022

 

​Mom often said: "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." But, come to think of it, Dad said that as well. As a matter of opinion, I think every parent has probably recited that exact phrase. Children learn from their parents; I used the term raising my kids, and I have heard my daughter say this to my granddaughters. It's an easy thought to preach but not always so easy to practice.
I try to stay positive and say nice things, but I am as guilty as anyone when it comes to taking a negative attitude and saying things that aren't very nice. I frequently wish I could retract my words, but it's too late; I already said it. Sooner or later, Mom found out what I did. I can still hear her voice, "Thomas, if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."
"But Mom, they started it." I tried to justify my actions by telling Mom what the other person said to agitate me.
Mom interrupted me, saying, "Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words will never hurt you." As I grew older, I challenged Mom on this theory.
One day, Mom sat in her wing-backed chair in the living room. I held a hank of yarn stretched over the backsides of my two open hands while she wound it into a ball. When she finished, Mom pulled a lead from the fresh ball of material, dropping the ball into the basket next to her chair. She wrapped the strand of yarn around and between her fingers, then the tip of her needle, as she resumed working on her project.
While she toiled, I began a conversation: "Are you familiar with Sir Issac Newton's third law of motion?" She said that she was. "Then, if I should throw sticks and stones and break someone's bones, the opposite and equal reaction would be that my bones would be healed, right?"
Mom rolled her eyes, "Newton was talking about physics, not an age-old adage."
"Correct," I agreed. "Physics; as in motion. Throwing sticks and stones is clearly a motion." Mom found knitting very relaxing; I was annoying her with my ridiculous point, and I knew it.
Mom looked over the rim of her glasses, "Go find something to do, son before I clean your clock." She said this tongue-in-cheek, but I also knew she meant it. I pressed on.
"I don't have a clock that needs cleaning," I said, "But if I did, would cleaning my clock create a motion?"
"Cleaning one's clock is an idiom," she said.
"Don't call me an idiot," I retorted.
Again, looking over her glasses, Mom chuckled, "If the shoe fits…."
"Is that an idiom," I asked?
Now, I don't know much about knitting, but I know it requires two knitting needles. One needle gathers the knitted yarn, and the other needle, which seems to do all the work, is easily freed. Mom pointed the free needle in my direction, "Get before I create a motion you're not going to like!" She had had enough; it was a good time for me to skedaddle. Maybe I could go bother Dad; he always enjoyed a good play on words.
Dad was big on first impressions. "Choose your words wisely," he would say, "You'll never get a second chance to make a first impression."
A person's first impression is often drawn from the words we speak. But, accurate or not, it can develop into a long-lasting opinion. Dad also taught me the importance of your tone of voice. "You can say to someone, 'I like your shirt.' Depending on your tone of voice, that can come across as a compliment, or a sarcastic insult."
These childhood lessons from my parents have carried well into my adult years. The older I get, the more care I take in my wording when meeting a new person; doing so has brought good returns.
My wife and I enjoy taking our Scamp to Canada in the fall. Near the end of the season, when it's cooler, the campgrounds are quiet; sparsely populated. Still, we've met some wonderful people there.
One morning while camping at Sleeping Giant, I was talking to a man at a nearby campsite. "This might sound crazy," I prefaced my question (in case it sounded crazy). "But did you hear music this morning? Maybe a harp?"
The man smiled, "That was my wife, Sally. She brings her harp along when we travel. I hope she didn't disturb you."
"Disturb me," I questioned? "It was beautiful. I thought I was being serenaded by angels sent from heaven." Good first impressions were made both ways, and my wife and I have stayed in touch with Al and Sally ever since.
Last week, we set out to enjoy the fall colors on the far east side of Lake Superior. The bright red and gold maple, birch, and aspen leaves are spectacular! To break up the ten-hour drive from our home to Lake Superior Provincial Park, we stopped at Sleeping Giant to camp the first night.
Being the last week of camping in Canada, all the stores and gas stations were sold-out of firewood, and we arrived after the park office was closed. "I guess we won't have a campfire tonight," I told my wife.
While I set up camp, Melissa spoke with the neighbor asking if he knew where we could buy firewood. "I bought two bundles at the office," he told her, "I'm only going to use one tonight, so I can sell you the other." That was very generous of him. So Melissa returned with a bundle of firewood. But we still didn't have a fire.
The wood wasn't very well seasoned and needed a good bed of hot coals under it. Without dry wood, I had no way to create a bed of coals. Unsuccessfully, I tried to light the fire several times, then finally gave up. "Oh well, that's how it sometimes goes," I told my wife. We had six more hours of driving to get to our next destination, so we headed to bed for a good night's rest.
The drive through the Canadian countryside was gorgeous. The hills, the trees, the lake; everything added to the beautiful scenery.
We arrived and set up camp just in time to walk the beach, collect a few rocks, and watch the sunset over Agawa Bay on Lake Superior. We wanted to close the night with a glass of wine at a campfire, but the only wood we had was that bag of fire-retardant greenwood.
I walked the campground, searching empty campsites for any firewood that might have been left by another camper. Instead, I found a campsite that was left a total mess!
Beer cans, empty liquor bottles, and trash were scattered all about. A brand-new tarp wadded up and shoved into the fork of a birch tree. The tarp wrapper, and a couple of plastic sacks, had blown across the road, getting caught in a bush. Even the fire pit was a disgusting mess.
It looked like the people tried to start their fire using a blue koozie as kindling. The koozie melted and left a few burn marks on the wood, but it did not ignite. So I gathered the wood from the fire ring and saved it for our fire.
I used the shopping bags to collect the trash, empty cans, and bottles. I kept the green tarp; I could use it to cover my wood piles at home. I also kept the full bag of well-seasoned firewood they left behind. Score! The wood and the tarp were my rewards for cleaning up the mess they left behind.
The recovered wood made a nice, warm fire, creating a good bed of hot coals. That allowed me to mix in some of the green wood, while savings some dry wood for the next night. We enjoyed wine by the fireside while listening to the rhythmic waves lapping the shore of Lake Superior on a chilly fall evening in Canada. Life is good. Really good and would get even better. Sleeping Giant was not the only Canadian campground where an American could hear sweet music in the morning.
As Nova Mae and I strolled along, I heard a beautiful voice floating through the crisp morning air. The singer would stop for a moment, then sing out again. It was as if she was singing a duet with a silent partner. The sound was terrific, but I couldn't locate the source.
The scenario reminded me of the movie; The Little Mermaid. Call me crazy, but I wondered if Ariel (the mermaid with a beautiful voice) had relocated to the north for a moment. As I looked out on Lake Superior, expecting to see a mermaid appear, I was distracted by a woman walking down the road.
The young lady with long dark hair was coming our way. I also thought about walking to the road to ask if she had heard the music. But, just then, she started singing. She strolled with casual confidence, perfectly content singing to the trees, wildlife, or anyone else who might be listening. I was mesmerized by her angelic voice and watched as she passed by.
The girl stopped to talk to a lady sitting in a car at a site across the road. Perhaps to tell her, "I'm going to take one more stroll around the loop before we go." Then she continued walking, singing her song. I couldn't help myself. I had to go talk to the lady in the car.
"Your friend has a beautiful voice," I said.
The lady humbly replied, "Thank you. That's my daughter, and yes, she does."
"I sure hope she sings on stage or in the theater," I said. "Her voice is a gift that should be shared." Her mom and I had a brief conversation. They were packed up, ready to head to the UP of Michigan. "The UP colors should be at their peak now," I commented.
Always on the lookout, I noticed a partial bag of firewood by their picnic table. Although the thought had entered my mind, to ask would be rude. "Well, I sure enjoyed your daughter's music," I said. "Her song made my morning extra special." We said our farewells, then I went back to our Scamp. The morning serenade wasn't the only unexpected blessing that day.
The weather forecast called for overcast skies, an 80% chance of rain all day, and colder temperatures. Fortunately, the weatherman was wrong. It was a day of sunshine, mild temperatures, and brilliant fall colors. Melissa, Nova Mae, and I took advantage of this bonus day; we set out to hike the trails along the Sand River.
The views were breathtaking! The Sand River is a canoeing trail with many portages for paddlers to get around the many waterfalls and rapids. And yet, father upstream, the water was perfectly calm ahead of the falls. A bright red maple tree reflected like a mirror on the smooth water's surface. Looking up and down the river, I commented, "It's amazing how calm and serene water can so quickly become turbulent and dangerous." We finished hiking the trail, then returned to our van.
We debated stopping for another bundle of firewood on the way back to our Scamp. "The clouds are moving in; we're leaving tomorrow and can't take any wood across the border home. So I think we should hold off," Melissa suggested.
I agreed, "Besides, we still have a half bundle of dry wood and a few pieces of the green wood for a fire – if the rain holds off."
As I backed the van into our campsite, I glanced at the picnic table across the way – just in case. "Someone else grabbed the rest of that firewood," I said to my wife. She wasn't surprised.
After parking the van, Melissa and I walked down to the beach. This part of Lake Superior has different rocks than ours, so we gathered some pretty stones for our granddaughters to polish in their rock tumbler.
Next, I walked around the Scamp to build a fire. "Would you look at that," I said to my wife. "Remember the lady with the daughter singing this morning, and I went over to tell her what a pretty voice her daughter has? Remember she had some left-over firewood?"
"You didn't ask her for it, did you," my wife queried.
"No, but she brought the wood over and set it next to our fire ring while we were gone," I said. That was very cool! We enjoyed a nice fire on our last night camping using the wood she gave us mixed with the last couple of pieces of our greenwood. We still had the other half bundle of dry wood.
The following morning, we packed up for home. On the way out of the campground, we saw an old Boler camper, the predecessor to the Scamp. I stopped to chat and offered them the rest of our wood. "We don't want to take your wood," the man politely declined.
"We're headed back to Minnesota today," I said. "We can't take the wood over the border; we'd like you to have it." The couple graciously accepted our gift. I drove away feeling good about the whole experience.
I reflected on my conversation with Mom years ago; sticks, being sticks of firewood; stones, being rocks from the beach. Then, adding Dad's advice, I concluded: Sticks and stones can be really good if you 'Choose your words carefully, use the right tone of voice, and make a good first impression. 
Life is good.

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My Ship

10/5/2022

 
​The moon was not up yet, and the road was dark. I drove along highway 61, coming home from Duluth. The road runs parallel to the shore of Lake Superior. Broken yellow lines dashed by in my left peripheral vision as I drove along. I kept looking toward the dark waters of the lake. I was hoping to see a ship at night.
To avoid the stronger, seasonal winds, big iron ore and freight ships may travel closer to shore. Headwinds are not their friend; traveling closer to the shore allows the natural terrain to work as a wind block. So, there it was. The ship I was hoping to see.
Lights from the crew's sleeping rooms, the workrooms, and other areas glow at night. The bridge sits on top of the other rooms. The pilot house is lit up like a small town five or six stories tall. Lights line the deck from bow to stern marking the walkways looking like light strings of Christmas lights. Soon, I spotted another boat, and then a third.
During the one-hour drive between Duluth and Silver Bay, I saw five ships in all. The vessels travel quietly under a black sky littered with stars too numerous to count. It was truly a beautiful sight, one that could easily go unnoticed.
The boats could have been fifteen or twenty miles out at sea through most of the shipping season. A distance where most people would not see them because of the earth's curvature. But whether I see them or not, the ships are there, silently doing their work.
They are there moving tons and tons of iron ore. Ore will be turned into steel, eventually becoming products we use daily. Items generally taken for granted, never giving thought to the ship hands that labored to bring us the steal.
Most of us relate to a higher power in our own ways. So, I began to correlate the ships to my faith. There are times when my faith is close. It is easy to see, close enough to grasp when I need it. Yet, other times, I am guilty of taking for granted all the goodness that comes to me through my faith.
Sometimes I fail to give credit where credit is due. I foolishly believe the good I produce is from my own hands, of my own making. As a result, I find false satisfaction, thinking I am in control when there is always a greater power behind me. A force that guides me, steering the ship on which I am traveling.
It was good to see the ships tonight. They offered more than just a pleasing, tranquil sight; they gave me a much-needed nudge.   A reminder that I need to recognize the source of my blessing.   I need to acknowledge that my good deeds result from the guidance that comes from above. 
My evil deeds result from turning away from the word and the voice, thinking I can handle things on my own.
Jesus is my higher power, my source of strength. He is the light in my day. Even when I fail to see Him, he is still there protecting me. He is the ship that travels quietly on course through the night, whether I see it or not.
I am grateful for His presence in my life.   I am blessed to be shown the way and to have accepted Him. I wish I were always mindful of Him, but sometimes I fail. 
I love how He shows up in the most unexpected places when He needs to correct my course; set me straight. Times when He will touch my shoulder, saying, "Come this way. Follow me." He keeps me on the intended line where I am meant to be, and brings me back should the winds blow me off course.
Late fall is a fantastic time to drive the shoreline of Lake Superior. Seeing five ships in one night was not a coincidence. I look forward to seeing where I will find the vessel tomorrow. I pray that you, too, will see the beauty of a ship when it is close by and know in your heart that it is there even when you cannot see it.
Peace, my friend. May the wind always be at your back. I wish you smooth sailing today in calm waters.
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Horsing Around

9/28/2022

 

Over the years I've seen cops do many things that I doubt are in their job description. For example, I was following a cop a couple of weeks ago. He turned his lights on and pulled over behind a car stopped on the side of the road. A younger person was standing in the rain next to the vehicle. It looked like they had a flat tire.
I supposed the cop would stay behind the car with his amber lights on, protecting the young driver from traffic while the driver changed their tire.
It didn't take me long to run my errand, and I was headed back in the other direction. The squad car was still behind the stranded vehicle. It warmed my heart as I drove by, and the cop was changing the tire in the rain while the young driver looked on. The scenario reminded me of an incident years ago.
I missed a call from my daughter at 6:30 in the morning. Of course, such a call is something that immediately puts any dad on edge. Annie was a student at Winona State University, doing her student teaching in Caledonia, Minnesota – a fifty-minute drive from her home.
She was on the side of the road with a blown-out tire. When I say blown out, I mean the whole tire was shredded and mostly gone from the rim. I asked a barrage of dad questions: "Are you alright? Is your car off the road? Do you have your flashers on? Is the car hurt? Does your spare tire have air in it?" She was, they were, she did, it wasn't, and she didn't know.
It was still dark outside and bitterly cold; twelve degrees below zero with a windchill factor in the minus twenties. I didn't want my daughter trying to change a tire in those conditions on the side of a busy four-lane highway. "I'm going to call Triple-A; they'll send someone to change the tire for you," I told her.
"And how much is that going to cost me," she worried.
"It won't cost you anything," I assured her. "It's part of the service we pay for with our membership." However, she was worried about more than just the money. The college really frowns upon students being late for their student teaching assignments. "Annie, there's a big difference between being late with a weak excuse and being late for a legitimate reason. They'll understand."
My daughter was stressed. "Dad, all these cars are just speeding by. Nobody is stopping to see if I need help," she said. "What's wrong with people?"
I remained calm to help put my kid at ease. "Sweetie, just stay calm, and we'll get through this," I told her. Then it was time for more dad questions: "Are you back in your car? Is your heater working well? Do you have a hat and warm gloves? Is your phone fully charged?" She was, it was, she did, and yes, it was. So I asked what every parent of a college student, who is paying most of their own way, worries about: "Annie, do you have enough gas?"
"A little over a half tank," She replied. I felt relieved. Knowing it might take a while for a tow truck to arrive, at least she had enough fuel to keep the car running to stay warm.
A few minutes later, a representative from Triple-A called, "Speltz Towing Service will change the tire. They have two calls ahead of you, so it will be about an hour and twenty minutes." But that's not what Annie would want to hear.
Before I could call Annie with an update, she called me. "The tire is changed; I don't need the tow truck." She explained that a Sheriff's Deputy stopped to see if she was okay and then changed the tire for her! I'll bet that's not in his job description.
The Winona County deputy did much more than changing a tire. He put a very stressed twenty-one-year-old college student at ease and helped her feel safe. He restored the faith of a girl who had just asked, 'What's wrong with people.' He also put that girl's dad at ease. I will always be grateful to him for going above and beyond his call of duty. In my travels around the country, I see cops doing this frequently, near and far.
One night last week, I rode my motorcycle into the gas station to get a gallon of milk. Although I recently had the bike serviced for an electrical issue, the problem apparently isn't fixed yet. The battery was so low, if I turned on the headlight at idle speed, the engine died.
A Sheriff's Deputy was sitting in a parking lot alongside the road; I suppose running radar. He flashed his headlights at me to let me know my light wasn't on. I turned around and drove back toward his vehicle. I took my helmet off and said, "Man, am I glad to see you! But, first, I'm not drunk!" I quickly explained my electrical issue, then asked, "Can I get a light."
"Can you get a what," he asked, quite puzzled.
"I was wondering if you would follow me home," I asked. "I could use your headlights in case mine goes out completely." The deputy asked where I lived, then told me he would follow me.
On the way home, he kept his headlights on high beam so long as there was no on-coming traffic. He had great lights on his vehicle, lighting the road far better than the light on my motorcycle, even when it was working correctly. At one point, a wolf trotted across the highway about thirty-five yards in front of me. I would never have seen that animal with my headlight.
The deputy used his hand-controlled spot lamp to light the corner as I turned off the highway. He followed me all the way to the end of my driveway to make sure I arrived safely.
I climbed off my bike and thanked him again. "I sure appreciate your help, sir. Since I quit smoking thirteen years ago, I haven't had to ask anyone for a light." We shared a good laugh about that.
"Not a problem," the deputy said. "We're here to help." Then he went on his way.
As he drove away, I thought, "Yes, here to help – but I'll bet that is not in your job description." Again, an officer went far beyond the call of duty. I had never seen an officer do that before, so now I guessed I had seen it all, as far as cops go. No. I hadn't.
Just a few days later, I was driving to southern Minnesota. I normally take exit 56 for my destination, but traffic slowed down to a crawl a few miles before my exit. If I took exit 59, I could cut through Faribault and avoid interstate congestion. There was a Minnesota State Patrol vehicle on the right shoulder; thus, everyone was merging left. There wasn't a cop in the car; it was just sitting there with its lights on. "They must be moving traffic over for an accident ahead," I said to myself. Just past the trooper's vehicle, a few cars turned down the exit. I followed them, "Oh, great!" Another Highway Patrol car had its lights on near the bottom of the exit ramp.
Here I thought I was being so clever to bypass the highway traffic, and I just turned into whatever the problem was. It was strange. There was no traffic build-up behind the second trooper.
The trooper was moving slowly on the shoulder; traffic was going around them wide and to the left. "What's that in front of the patrol car?" I squinted my eyes and looked closely. "Someone is walking a horse?" As I got closer, I saw a Minnesota State Trooper walking the horse with a patrol escort.
As I got closer yet, I could see the horse was unbridled. The trooper on foot had a blue rope high around the horse's neck, near the head.
As an old radio news guy, I started putting two and two together: The horse was loose on I-35. One trooper stopped to lasso the steed. With a rope looped around its neck, the trooper led the horse down the shoulder of the off-ramp at exit 59. (Thus, explaining the abandoned squad car on I-35.) The second trooper came along to provide an escort for his comrade with the stallion in tow. Wow. Now I've seen everything with cops? I doubt it.
I thought more about the scenario. A loose horse on the interstate would be very anxious and scared, unpredictable, and possibly dangerous. For the trooper to capture the animal, putting the rope high near the horse's head vs. low around the neck, and then calming the beast, earning her trust to lead the horse down the roadside, the trooper must have had some good horse sense. (No pun intended.)
Again, I would bet this task is not in the Minnesota Highway Patrol's handbook. It was likely one of Marshall Matt Dillon's duties, but this isn't the old west, and we weren't even near Dodge City, Kansas. Again, officers are going above and beyond the call of duty.
Was my synopsis correct? I have no idea. I didn't follow up to see an incident report from the Highway Patrol, Rice County Sheriff's office, or the Faribault Police Department. But I would bet I'm not far off.
I know a lot of cops, professionally and personally. Behind every badge on every law enforcement officer is a real human being. Just like all people, some cops are real characters themselves. For all I know, these two troopers may have just been horsing around on the job. (Pun intended.)
Thank you to all law enforcement officers for their work – especially when they go above and beyond the call of duty, for people, animals – everyone.

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Eggs Benedict

9/21/2022

 
The air felt cold when I stepped outside in the early morning; it was forty-nine degrees. A chill ran up my back as I walked the dog in my pajama pants and a short sleeve T-shirt. I noticed the tarp covering my motorcycle in the driveway had blown off overnight. Hence, Nova Mae and I replaced it. Before returning to the house, I turned around, removing the tarp again. "Why'd you take it back off, Dad," my dog asked.
"I have to leave soon for a dentist appointment in Duluth. I'm going to ride my bike into town," I told her. The dog looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "I know. It's a bit cold now, but when the sun rises; it will be a nice day." Nova was not convinced this was a good idea. "Look, I've ridden longer distances in much colder temperatures than this," I assured her.
"But weren't you in your twenties then," she tried to reason. I gave her a scathing look.
"I'll be fine," I told her, then gave her a rub on the head. "Let's go inside and get breakfast."
I fed the dog, then poured a bowl of Cheerios for myself. I had already brushed and flossed my teeth. I didn't want to mess them up before the dentist appointment, so I poured the Cheerios back into the box. "I'll go get breakfast after the appointment." I got dressed.
Nova met me at the front door as I put on my riding gear. I was struggling with the zipper on my chaps. "Are you sure this is a good idea," she asked again.
"I'm sure," I replied. "When I was younger, I didn't even have chaps." I finally got the zipper closed on my right leg, then fastened the snaps by my ankle. Next, I started working on the other leg. Cautiously, I confided in my trusty canine, "I'm going to have to lose some weight or get different chaps. Good Lord!" (The chaps were too tight when I bought them.)
With my chaps secured, I pulled on my leather motorcycle jacket. I zipped the zippers, snapped the snaps, and buckled the buckles. Finally, I put on my helmet and was ready to go. "Darn it," I blurted out. Nova looked at me, wondering what the matter was. "The keys to the bike are in my front pocket."
I felt like the little kid whose mom just got him all bundled up in a snowsuit to go sledding, then announced, "I have to go to the bathroom." I unfastened the belt on my chaps and lowered them just enough to reach into my pocket for the keys. I had to reconnect the buckle by feeling because I could not see my waist below my jacket with my helmet on.
I was fully dressed again, with the keys in my hand. I tried to bend over to give Nova a rub on the head. But now I felt like Ralphie's little brother in the Christmas story. I could barely move my arms and worried that if I tried to bend down, I might fall over. If that happened, there was a real possibility of being unable to get back up. I lifted the face shield on my helmet, "I'll see you later this afternoon, Nova Mae. Be good."
I decided to chance giving her a rub, but Nova backed away. She doesn't really know what to think of me when I'm in full black leather with a full-faced black helmet. I must have looked like a space alien or a swamp creature to her. "Okay, be that way," I said, lowering my face mask and walking out the front door.
Walking down the path to the driveway, I could see Nova Mae watching me in the bay window. I waved to her, "You should have taken the loving when you had the chance, kid!" In the driveway, I straddled the motorcycle. Without being covered overnight, dew gathered in the stitching on the seat. The moisture quickly soaked into the seat of my jeans. "That's cold," I said with a shiver, then put the key in the ignition.
The motor fired right up. The bike's sound, the exhaust, and steam from the tail pipes, took me right back to my junior year of high school in my parent's driveway; on a chilly fall morning, heading for school. I felt very warm again. It's funny how sounds and smells can be such a powerful memory trigger. I put the kickstand up, pulled the clutch, and shifted the bike into first gear. I rode out of the driveway giving Nova Mae two toots on the horn.
I was perfectly warm riding down Highway 61 at sixty miles per hour. The sun was shining, and I felt very alive. Twenty miles down the road, my hands started getting a little cold. "I need warmer gloves," I said to myself. I raised up on my foot pegs and placed my left hand between my legs and the seat to warm my hand. "Only forty-five more miles to the dentist. I'll be fine."
Another twenty miles down the road, my body and legs were warm, and my left hand was doing okay, but my right hand was cold on the throttle. When I got to the dentist's office, it was really cold.
I took off my helmet and chaps in the parking lot, leaving them on the bike; I wore my jacket inside. After checking in at the desk, I sat on my cold hands in a chair. I had to unzip my coat a little more as I was getting too warm. Just then, a bulb lit up over my head. "My chest is warm." I crossed my arms, tucking my hands deep inside my coat and under my arms. "Ah, that's nice."
After about fifteen minutes, the dental hygienist came to get me in the waiting area. My hands were still cold but not nearly as bad as when I arrived. "Did you ride your motorcycle today," she asked. I told her I did. "Wasn't it cold," she wondered.
"My body was plenty warm inside all the leather," I told her, "But my hands got a little cold. I need to get warmer gloves for riding in this weather."
After my appointment, I stood outside beside my bike, thinking what a spectacle it would create if I tried to put on my chaps in front of the big lobby windows. So instead, I ran my next few errands without wearing the chaps. It was still cold outside, so finally, I pulled into a parking lot to put my chaps on. "I'm sure a guy putting on chaps that are too small will not be the oddest thing seen in a Walmart parking lot today." I had a good laugh about that, then struggled with the zippers until I was inside my warm leather leggings. People stared as they walked by me.
It was noon, and I still hadn't eaten anything all day. I was hungry and wanted my breakfast. So, I rode across town to the Perkins on London Road. I went inside still wearing my chaps to avoid another struggle.
Kelly escorted me to a booth. "Did you ride your motorcycle today," she asked. I told her I did. "Wasn't it cold?" I said my hands got a little chilly. Then she told me about the bike she bought, a Suzuki 650. "I taught myself to ride it," she said. We swapped some stories then she said, "I'll go get your coffee. Erin will be along to take your order."
I looked at the menu. Eggs Benedict. They always interest me, but I have never had them and wasn't going to try them today. So, I skipped right over them. Maybe an Everything Omelet. It's a Denver omelet with mushrooms and tomatoes. Add some salsa and sour cream, and voilà. We're talking breakfast! But wait…
I scanned over the Eggs Benedict again to get to the Hearty Man Combo. Mmm, I was hungry – but what is this over here? “The Triple Egg Dare Ya: Three eggs, three bacon, three sausages, two pancakes, 2 French toast, and hash browns. Man, that breakfast is big enough for two, but I could easily eat all that by myself today!" Just as I was about to decide on the Triple Egg Dare Ya, I started thinking about my tight chaps. Of course, I was already wearing them, so I wouldn't have to squeeze into them again. But after a meal that big, I might just blow them out.
Erin came to the table (for the fourth time). "Have you had enough time to decide yet?"
"You know, Eggs Benedict always interest me," I told the waitress, "But I have never had them, have you?"
"I like Eggs Benedict," she replied.
I was still skeptical. "I think I'll have the Triple Egg Dare Ya," I said.
Suddenly, a little four-inch-tall Nova Mae was sitting on my right shoulder. "You're going to have to lose weight or buy bigger chaps," she reminded me. I gave her a glaring look.
"Wait a minute," I stopped Erin. "Let's switch that to Eggs Benedict. What kind of toast does that come with?"
Erin smiled, "Eggs Benedict is served over English Muffins. Unfortunately, it doesn’t come with toast."
"Oh, I didn't know that. I've never had them," I said. "Let's skip the toast. Instead, I'll have one pancake on the side." Erin repeated my order, then asked if that would be all.
I was considering changing my order to two pancakes on the side. Just then, four-inch Nova Mae reappeared. "Bigger chaps, Dad," she taunted.
"Go to your kennel," I muttered.
"Pardon me," Erin said.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was saying, yes, that will be all. Thank you."
After breakfast, on my way to the front door, I stopped by the waitress station to thank Erin for her excellent service."
"How did you like the Eggs Benedict," she asked.
"They were okay," I answered.
"Will you order them again," Erin inquired.
Being honest, I said, "Probably not." I paused, then confessed. "It's the name, Benedict. I think of Benedict Arnold every time I see them on a menu. The color of the hollandaise sauce reminds me of what a yellow-bellied turncoat he turned out to be. Now that I've tried them, I feel like a traitor who's betrayed my beloved big breakfast of eggs, meat, toast, and pancakes." We shared a good laugh about that. I finally admitted, "They were okay, but there are entrees I like better that I would order instead." We said our farewells, and I was on my way.
Passing through Two Harbors, going home, my hands started to feel cold again. "I've got to get warmer gloves for riding this fall."
Nova can hear my motorcycle coming when I'm still a half mile away from home. She greets me when I walk through the front door. I took off all my riding leathers, then gave hugs and love to my dog. She was excited to see me, but when I rubbed her warm tummy with my icy-cold hands, she jumped up on the couch, curling up next to her mom.
"Come back here, Nova," I said.
"No way," the dog answered. "Your hands are freezing!"
"You’re dissing me for having cold hands? Okay fine, dog. But you're acting like my eggs, Benedict!"
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The Best of the Wurst

8/24/2022

 

Mom had a hand-operated meat grinder for as long as I can remember. It was a cast aluminum device that could be mounted on the edge of a work table or countertop. A threaded bolt was clamped to the underside of the work surface to hold the grinder firmly in place. It had an aluminum crank with a wooden handle to turn the auger. A small hopper was on the top to feed meat, or whatever you were grinding, to the auger. Mom could grind anything with that gadget.
 
I first remember Mom using the grinder at Thanksgiving. After boiling the turkey neck and giblets with onion, celery, herbs, and spices, Mom would have one of the kids pick the meat from the neck. Then she would run it and the other giblets through the grinder, preparing them to go in the dressing. After that, Mom would put a slice of bread through to push all the meat from the auger. Mom's dressing was always outstanding. She used the grinder for more than just turkey stuffing. 
 
She would also use this kitchen tool to pour a bag of fresh cranberries, a quartered apple, and an orange (with the rind) into the hopper. After grinding the fresh fruits and adding a little sugar, she had the best fresh cranberry relish in the world. Mom always made the relish the day before Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Easter so that the flavors would have time to blend together.
 
After a big holiday meal, Mom would gather leftover scraps of ham or turkey and run them through the grinder. Then she would add diced onion, celery, garlic, and other seasonings and stir in mayonnaise or Miracle Whip. Oh, and dill pickle relish – a ham salad sandwich wouldn't be complete without dill relish…and maybe some diced hard-boiled eggs, too. Mmm. I swear Mom made the best ham salad sandwich ever!
 
Mom usually used scraps and leftovers in the grinder, but I remember one time she cooked whole chicken breasts just to run them through the gadget. Then, she added her veggies, seasoning, and mayo. Next, she added pecan pieces, sliced green grapes, and dried cranberries to the mixture. "Why did you put all that in there," I asked?
 
"I'm taking this to a luncheon with my women's group," she said. "Hand me that loaf of bread, please." I handed her the bread. Mom cut the crust away and saved them to use later. Then she spread the chicken salad on the wheat bread. She topped them with leaves of lettuce, then cut the sandwiches into fancy triangles.
 
I offered my unsolicited opinion: "I'll bet the women in your group aren't going to like it with all that extra stuff in there." Mom didn't reply, so I offered some advice. "Maybe you should have put it on white bread." She finished neatly stacking the triangle sandwiches on a decorative plate. There were a few extra pieces, so Mom handed me one and took one for herself.
 
I must admit, they were very delicious – even with the extra nuts and fruits that didn't seem like they should be on a sandwich. I gobbled the morsel right up, grabbed the last piece from the cutting board, and ate it. I reached for another triangle from the plate Mom had prepared, but she slapped my hand away. "Don't even think about it," she warned.
 
"Come on, Mom. I only had two pieces," I pleaded. "That's only half a sandwich. I'm still hungry."
 
Mom set the plate in a round, shallow Tupperware container. She pressed on the top, then 'burped' the lid. "And," Mom added, "that half sandwich may be your last meal if any pieces are missing when I come back downstairs." Mom turned to go upstairs to get dressed for her luncheon. She paused at the first step, "I'm not kidding, Thomas. Leave them alone."
 
Because she used my formal first name, I knew she meant what she said. However, since she didn't use my middle name with it, I figured there might be a little wiggle room.
 
When Mom was out of sight, I opened the Tupperware to peek inside. Then I calculated, "If I carefully removed a few top pieces, I could grab one or two from the bottom, replace the top sandwiches, and she would never know the difference."
 
A little voice of logic spoke to me, "She will know." So, considering the inevitable consequences, I decided to replace the lid, leaving well enough alone. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to sneak a piece from Mom's platter of fancy sandwiches. I mean, there was even a doily on the green glass plate under them. But not all the sandwiches Mom made with the grinder were fancy.
 
When money was tight, as it often was in a large family, Mom would go to the grocery store to buy two or three pounds of bulk bologna from the meat counter. Then, at home, she would cube the processed meat and turn it through the grinder. Then Mom added diced onion, celery, and such. On a summer's day picnic, those bologna salad sandwiches were as delicious as the fancy sandwiches she made for the women's club. I still like some of Mom's 'budget' sandwiches the best.
 
Lately, I have been craving liverwurst. I'm the only one in my house who likes it, so I went to the store and bought a small piece of liverwurst in the mustard yellow colored wrapper. I sliced the Braunschweiger thick at home and put it on bread with a liberal amount of Miracle Whip. It made for a quick sandwich, and the distinct flavor was very satisfying. Unfortunately, it seems people either love liverwurst or hate it.
 
A friend once said, "Liverwurst is one of those foods that looks bad and smells bad, but I eat it anyway." So it's kind of like canned cat foot: it looks and smells terrible, but cats eat it, so it must be good, right?
 
The liverwurst brought back memories. You probably guessed it: Mom would run liverwurst through the meat grinder. Then, add some onion, dill pickle relish, seasoning, and Miracle Whip, and oh, what a sandwich it made.
 
I wonder what ever happened to that old meat grinder with the hand crank? With that grinder, Mom could even make liverwurst delicious. One might say she made the best or the wurst.

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New Pie Tricks

8/17/2022

 
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​As a kid, I grew up with a lot of trees in our yard and an apple orchard on the back of our little five-acre farm; I suppose there were around a dozen apple trees. We also had two cherry trees and a crabapple tree, along with the walnut, maple, oak, cottonwood, and other trees in the yard. I grew up climbing trees and playing with my siblings. The trees offered endless summer entertainment hours, especially the big maple tree where we built our tree fort by the barn. But the trees were for more than just playing.
Mom would send the kids to work when the apples and cherries were ready to harvest. Some picked apples, some picked cherries, and others gathered walnuts. I preferred to pick apples or cherries because the walnuts made your hands smell for the next couple of days. Then, of course, there were also the vegetables from the garden.
Once we brought the crop in, Mom and some of the older kids went to work canning. In addition to canning, Mom also made pies and cobblers to keep in the deep freezer for colder days ahead. I got to help make the pies, and I always enjoyed that.
It was at Horace Mann Elementary School when my friend Barry informed me there were many kinds of pie other than apple and cherry. For example, hostess snack cakes offered chocolate, lemon, blueberry, and peach pie. Sometimes, Barry would share a piece of his Hostess pie with me at lunch - peach was his favorite, but I didn't think much of it. I liked the Hostess apple and cherry pies – they had a lot of sugary glazing, which was essential to an elementary school-age kid.
Through my adolescent years, I had far more important things to focus my attention on than pies – like motorcycles, cars, and girls. As I grew, I took more interest in baking, especially apple pies. Like most men, love can cause them to do things they usually would not do.
When I met my wife, Melissa, she liked peach pie. So, we might pick up an occasional Hostess peach pie to share while dating. It amazed me how much better it tasted when she offered it than Barry, but I still preferred apple or cherry.
One night, Melissa invited me to her place for dinner. She made meatloaf with sides, which was very good. Then, after dinner, she surprised me with a homemade apple pie. Two things happened: I fell in love, and I felt like I had to show her what I could do in the kitchen, especially with pie, to win her love as well. It was more than just the pie; we fell in love.
About a year after Melissa and I were dating, she presented me with a copy of her Grandma Lucille's peach pie recipe, "Can you make this?" So, of course, I looked the recipe over. I had never made a peach pie in my life, but I was in love and willing to try anything.
"The recipe uses canned peaches," I questioned. I had never made a peach pie, but I assumed they were made with fresh peaches. Melissa quickly put me in my place.
"My Grandma Lucille's peach pie was the best ever, and she used canned peaches." I was treading on sacred ground. But, of course, the pie can be made with canned peaches; how else would they make them when peaches are not in season?
"I've never made a peach pie, so I don't know what they're made with. Well, I mean, of course, they're made from peaches, but I didn't know, well, you know…." I said, talking myself into a corner. Finally, I sighed, smiled at the love of my life, and said, "Of course, I will try it for you."
I made the peach pie exactly as Grandma Lucille had written the recipe. I was amazed at how much better it was than a Hostess peach pie. The recipe soon became a staple in my kitchen, as was my Granny Smith apple pie. I changed some things in the pie recipe over time to make it my own, but I still credit the recipe to Melissa's Grandma Lucille. I've been making it for about fifteen years now.
Recently, Melissa and I planned a trip to Lake City, Colorado, where we had met our friends, Jon, and Lynne, through her uncle Kenny (Funcle) and auntie Gail. Kenny and Gail would be meeting us in Lake City. Whenever we get together with Kenny, there is always peach pie; Grandmas Lucille was his mother.
"Lynne said the Palisade Colorado peaches will be in season when we get there," Melissa said. "She wants you to make a pie with fresh peaches."
I instantly dropped the box I was holding, "WHAT? You need to call Lynne and inform her Grandma Lucille's peach pie is made with canned peaches. What is she trying to start here anyway?"
My wife looked at me as if I was being ridiculous, "It's not going to kill you to make a pie with fresh peaches, and besides, Funcle will understand – it's peach season in Colorado."
I was stunned as Melissa walked away. I asked myself, "Who is this woman? And, what is the world coming to when one tampers with a sacred recipe?" The very thought of it made me nervous. I had never blanched a peach, let alone baked a pie with fresh peaches. On top of these changes, I would be experimenting at high altitudes – Lake City, Colorado, is nestled in the San Juan Mountains, 8,700 feet above sea level. That elevation changes the rules of baking!
As with so many things in life, my concerns were unnecessary, unrealistic, and unwarranted.
We went to a local produce stand and bought fresh, ripe Palisade Peaches and other locally grown fruits and vegetables. Blanching the peaches was easy. I liked slicing the fresh peaches thinner (canned peaches are always thick sliced), and the fresh peaches were in natural juices vs. sugar water from the cans. The peach pie turned out fantastic!
Grandma Lucille was raised in Coatsville, Missouri. Missouri produces amazing peaches of its own. Somehow, I have a hunch that Melissa's grandmother baked pie with fresh peaches when they were in season. When peaches were not in season, she probably used peaches she canned herself from their family farm. Therefore, I felt that Grandma Lucille would be okay with me using the fresh Palisade Peaches.
While in Lake City, I baked a peach pie, buttermilk biscuits for breakfast, and dinner rolls. The peach pie was so good that Lynne came up with an idea. "I'll bet that peach pie would be delicious if we drizzled a little bourbon into the mixture." And so, we went back to the local produce stand. Then, I baked another pie with fresh peaches and drizzled bourbon over the pie before baking. Yum!
Everyone kicked in on the cooking with their own dishes. Special kudos to Funcle (baby back ribs) and John on the grill. John prepared Olathe Colorado, sweet corn in the husks on the grill. I swear it was the best I've ever tasted, and that's saying a lot coming from a guy who grew up in southern Iowa. (John told me his technique, but I'm not at liberty to share)
I learned some new things this time around in Lake City: 1) You can teach an established (old) pie maker new tricks. 2) Lynne is a rebel.
Not only did she encourage an impressionable youth, such as myself, to make my first pie ever with fresh peaches, but I also made another peach pie adding a little bourbon from her suggestion. Oh, and let us not forget Lynne asking me, "Have you ever made a coconut cream pie?" Nobody asks me if I can make a coconut cream pie and gets away with it.
Indeed, I can and did make a coconut cream pie from scratch, with real whipping cream on top – none of that frozen stuff for me. Although I will admit, we may have created a monster with auntie Gail and the coconut cream pie – but that's another story.
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Biscuits and Honey

8/10/2022

 

​In the early days, people had a wood stove in the kitchen to cook meals. Because of this, the kitchen was the warmest room in the house on cool and cold days. Thus, the kitchen became a favorite place for gathering with family or visiting a friend or neighbor who stopped by for coffee. The gas or electric range has replaced the wood stove, but the concept is the same. The kitchen is still my favorite room in the house when it comes to making memories, not just my kitchen.
I'll never forget the day my granddaughter came into the kitchen and asked, "Mom, why does our house smell like Papa's house." I had baked an apple pie at my daughter's place. And the first time, I made biscuits with my then three-year-old granddaughter in Waterloo, Iowa. Oh, the memories that come from the kitchen.                                                                   
Our granddaughters came to spend last weekend with us. It warmed my heart to learn that Addison asked, "Nana Mac, will Papa be making biscuits." Addison and Evelyn helped; they love pressing the biscuit cutter into the rolled-out dough to make perfectly round biscuits; and sneaking a pinch of dough when they think I’m not looking. We were not just making biscuits; we were making memories they will hold on to long after I am gone.
The plate was piled high with fresh from the oven, warm buttermilk biscuits. I set the plate on the kitchen table. I made a sausage gravy to go with them, but both kids (total carb queens) prefer to eat their biscuits plain. After biscuits and gravy, Melissa and I love having a biscuit with honey, a breakfast dessert.
"Where is the honey," I inquired.
"Where it always is, in the cupboard next to the stove," Melissa replied, as though the answer was obvious.
I was looking in the cupboard, "It's not here!" I wasn't looking for just ordinary honey. This honey came from our Virginia friends, Pete, and Karen. They have bee hives and produce their own home-grown honey. "You used the last of the honey and didn't tell me," I accused my spouse.
"We ate the rest of that honey," she said. "They sent us another jar; it's in there."
"That WAS the other jar," I said with alarm! So there we were, with a plate full of homemade buttermilk biscuits but no honey.
This offense was far worse than drinking the last of the milk and leaving a jug with a few drops in the fridge. The crime was more severe than taking the last roll of toilet paper from the closet and not saying anything about doing so. We're talking about honey, a prized possession of pure liquid gold!
The weekend passed, and all survived despite our honey deprivation. Sunday afternoon, we sent the leftover biscuits home with Addison and Evelyn. Afterall, what's the sense in having biscuits with no honey?
I walked our dog, Nova Mae, down the road on Monday morning. I waved at the mail lady as she pulled away from our mailbox. The door on the mailbox was hanging open, with a package sticking out. "I hope that's a box of dog treats," Nova said with anticipation.
"Probably not," I said to my hopeful canine. I pulled the package from the mailbox. It was heavy, and I knew I hadn't ordered anything that would weigh that much. "What did your mom buy this time? Bricks?" Nova Mae and I shared a good laugh about that. I didn't have my glasses, so I couldn't read the small return address label, but I could read the big black and white label on the sides: FRAGILE.
I put on my glasses in the kitchen, read the return address, and smiled. "Who is that from," Melissa wanted to know.
"This is none of your concern, woman," I said, "just go about your business." With such a response, she naturally stood looking over my shoulder as I opened the package. I smiled even bigger as I pulled from the box not one but two jars of honey!
"You just gotta love Pete and Karen," I said, "Just when we thought we were all out, they sent us 'his and hers' jars of honey! Obviously, mine is the bigger jar." Melissa denied they were 'his and hers' jars, claiming they had sent US two jars of honey. (I think she was eyeballing the bigger jar as well.)
Inside they included a card that read, "As promised, here's some of this year's Bee Puke." We shared a good laugh about that.
I learned a valuable lesson from our lack of honey this past weekend. To avert such a honey shortage in the future, I fully intend to hide one jar the honey in the back of my sock drawer, where Melissa won't find it. Hopefully, I will remember where I put it; many dogs have buried bones never to be found again.
I think I'll make a fresh batch, and we'll have buttermilk biscuits and honey for dinner.

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