​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.

​I love a parade, but I would rather be in it than sit on the sidewalk watching as it goes by.
There were two annual parades in Ottumwa: Saint Patrick's Day and Oktoberfest. Oktoberfest is the biggie. Our radio station staff had a ball and participated in both.
When Dad owned the radio stations, I had an idea for the fall parade, but he said no. "It would be too expensive, impractical, and unsafe," was his reasoning. So, we hung some station banners, put balloons on the motorhome, and drove through tossing out the same boring candy as the rest of the parade floats.
My brother Steve livened up the same float the following year by adding a sound system that pumped out "97.7 Today's Best Music." Between songs, the DJ talked to the crowd over the airwaves. People liked that, but we still tossed out the same boring candy. Several years later, I bought the radio stations. That October, I implemented my plan into action.
The staff and I gathered in the meeting room at 8:30 to prepare for the 10 am parade. First, we put the meat on the buns, added a ketchup and mustard packet, then wrapped the hotdogs individually in sheets of deli waxed paper. Finally, we tossed the hotdogs out to the crowd during the parade - 250 of them. It seemed like a good idea, but Dad's skepticism may have had some validity,
When we threw the hotdogs, the waxed paper came loose midair. The single unit flew apart, becoming four individual projectiles – sometimes five if the bun broke in half. We had littered the streets with hotdog debris.
Little kids found entertainment in stomping condiment packages on the ground, which shot ketchup and mustard on the legs of folks who didn't want to wear the Iowa State University colors that day. Teenagers picked up the links and threw them at friends – frankfurters and buns were flying everywhere. It was all fun and games until Grandma Sharon got beaned in the forehead with a weenie, then it was nearly an all-out food fight on Main Street!
Dad was right. Tossing hotdogs instead of candy was impractical and possibly unsafe, at least as I had initially planned. I wasn't ready to throw in the towel, but my plan definitely required some re-thinking.
The following year we increased the quantity to 300 and added a piece of tape on each wrapped sandwich; they still came apart. So the year after that, we wrapped 350 hotdogs in those square foil sheets like the restaurants. They held together better than in waxed paper, but sandwiches from restaurants aren't meant to be thrown through the air. We needed a more rigid foil.
In the fourth year, we wrapped the hotdogs in regular aluminum foil. We cut the pieces of foil about fifteen inches; three inches longer than the restaurant foil squares. Finally, we had the magical wrapper that allowed us to launch a hotdog like a precision-guided missile and hold the contents together. The tin foil also kept the hotdogs warmer than the paper wrappers. (Of course, if you hit someone directly in the head, I would imagine it still hurt a little bit.) The hot dogs were a hit and became an annual tradition.
People would see the TOM-FM truck in the parade line and press toward the street. Often calling their favorite DJs by name, "Hey! Throw me a hotdog!" By the time I finished my career in radio, some twenty-two years later, we were up to 3,500 hotdogs for the parade. The hotdogs were something people looked forward to annually.
People still talk about the hotdogs today, but nobody ever asked me, "Do you remember when you used to toss out the same candy as everyone else in the parade?" I do love a parade.
Not long ago, I was in Faribault, Minnesota, filling my car with gas. An old car driving down the street caught my attention. It was an Amphicar.
The amphibious German-built Amphicar could travel on the road, and maneuver like a boat by simply driving into a lake. When my dad was the manager of KTVO television in the 1960's they covered an Amphicar with ABC stickers. Whoever guessed the number of decals would win the car!
The TV station promoted the contest by displaying the car at different businesses; of course, it was in every parade possible. On several occasions, Dad would take some of my siblings and me for a ride in the Amphicar. Then he would drive into the water at the marina, where we would putt around for a bit before returning to shore. It was cool and always drew a crowd to watch!
The Germans only built the Amphicar for about five years, and there aren't many of them still around. So you can imagine how seeing that car in Faribault caught my attention. I quickly topped off my tank as I watched to see which way the old car went; he turned right off highway 60.
At the end of the street, I could see the lights of a police car flashing by the traffic lights. It looked as though they were directing traffic. Maybe there was an accident. I jumped in the car and headed that way. The cop was directing westbound traffic from Highway 60 to turn north (right) onto a city street, the same road the Amphicar took. I pulled in behind a newer, hopped-up Mustang and followed the line. The driver kept revving his engine to impress people, I guess.
A few blocks away, a city park has a reservoir on the river. Maybe the Amphicar would be there – in the water. I looked as I passed by; no such luck, so I continued to follow the traffic ahead. We passed another cop and then a third and a fourth, all directing traffic. Finally, the line of cars had left the city and detoured along a county road. It wasn't long until we saw a sheriff's deputy directing traffic to turn right at an intersection.
Farmers and neighbors in the country were sitting at the end of their driveways, watching traffic. They were friendly and all seemed to wave, so I waved back at them. I figured it must have been a bad accident; these country folks were probably not accustomed to seeing so much traffic on their road.
The Mustang ahead of me would slow down a little before each group of people he passed. He would drop down one gear, then accelerate as he passed the people so they could hear the roar of his car's loud, powerful engine. In front of the Mustang, I noticed a 60's model red Chevy Impala. A teal 40's Ford coupe was in front of him, and a powder blue Plymouth Fury was in front of the Ford.
A few minutes later, I also noticed several classic cars in my rearview mirror. "They must be on their way to a car show, and all got diverted by the accident," I said, talking to myself. People kept waving as we drove by. "I wonder how so many neighbors heard about the old cars being sent down their road because of an accident?" Then, suddenly, a light bulb lit up over my head. I immediately called my wife and told her what was happening.
"They're doing what?" She was as puzzled as I was at first.
I repeated what was going on. "Honey, I accidentally got myself into a parade of old, classic cars," I reported with excitement!
"Oh, my Lord," she said in disbelief. "Only you, Tom Palen. Only you." Then she asked the obvious question, "I assume you pulled off to get out of their parade."
"Are you kidding me," I replied. "Heck no!" I honked, waved, and hollered "Hello," as I passed another group of people. They enthusiastically waved back, returning my salutations. "Honey, I'm having an absolute blast!"
"Turn off on the next street and get out of their parade," she said.
"Honey, you're breaking up. I must have a bad signal. I'll call you later," I said even though I had excellent reception.
I saw thick smoke ahead of me on the road, and the parade slowed as we came back into town. (I assumed it was Faribault.) "I hope one of the cars didn't catch fire," I said with concern. Then the Mustang stopped on the road as the smoke cleared. Another man directed me to stop well behind the Stang. A man sprayed the rear tires on the muscle car in front of me. "Oh my gosh! This is a burnout contest area!" I was excited to see what the Mustang could do.
Though he gave it his best shot, the driver couldn't get the tires to spin. He stopped and tried again, barely squeaking the tires. A man on the right side of the road waved for the Mustang to move along. That had to be embarrassing for the driver. The first man holding the spray bottle waved his wand at me as if to ask if I wanted my tires sprayed with bleach for the burnout contest. I thought about it, then shook my head, indicating I would pass.
As we returned to Faribault, even more people watched as the classic cars returned to town. I wanted to follow up to see where they were gathering; maybe I would find the Amphicar and check it out. But instead, I decided I better start heading home.
I turned into a parking lot and googled, "vintage car show, Faribault Mn." The reply popped up, "Downtown Faribault Car Cruise Night." Apparently, this wasn’t an impromptu thing. They have a car cruise on the third Friday of every month from May to September. So I called my wife, "Are we home the third weekend in August?"
"I think so; why," she questioned.
I told her what I found out. "Next month, I want to come to Faribault with Willie." (Willie is our 1971 green Ford F-250 Camper Special, with a classic 1970 Alaskan camper in the bed.) "We can go to the car show and drive Willie through the parade." There was a long pause; she didn't say anything. "Come on, Honey, it will be a blast. You know I love parades."
She finally answered, "We'll talk about it when you get home."
Well, I don't know if we'll be going to Faribault with Willie in August. But one thing I know for sure: on the third Friday in July of this year, I had to be driving the coolest kid-hauling, grocery-getting 2017 Subaru Forester that participated in the Downtown Faribault Car Cruise Night parade. If only I'd known about it in advance, I would have taken hotdogs to throw out to the people gathered to watch the classic cars. I do love a parade.

The alarm went off at 6:45 on a beautiful summer morning. The air was cool, so I had the windows open rather than running the conditioner. I wanted to stay in bed to sleep longer but forced myself up for Nova Mae.

Our young dog, Nova Mae, slept by my side. I shook her gently, "Come on, Nova, we have to get up." She wanted to sleep longer, too. Finally, after a series of yawns and stretches, she lumbered off the bed and went to the door. When she came in from her morning walk in the yard, she followed me into the bathroom and sat by my feet while I got ready. I put on my T-shirt and began to feel uneasy, and I didn't know why.
"Dad, did you forget to put breakfast in my bowl," the young canine inquired?
"I didn't forget," I assured her, "we're going to eat later." Something just felt strange about the morning.     
"Come on, baby girl," I said as I opened the sliding door on the van. Nova Mae eagerly jumped into the van, then hopped up into the driver seat. I walked around the van and opened my door. Nova sat, looking forward through the windshield as if she didn't see me there. "Move it, sister. You know the routine; I'm driving." She crossed over into the passenger's seat, and we set out for our destination. The conversation in the van was like talking to a young child.
Nova opened the conversation, "Why didn't we eat breakfast, Dad?"
"We'll eat after your appointment," I replied.
"What's an appointment," she asked.
"It's when you set a time to meet with someone," I explained.
"Who am I going to meet," Nova wondered?
"You have an appointment with Dr. Kylee today," I told her.
Nova was puzzled. "But we were just there a few weeks ago; why are we going again?"
"That was for your rabies shot," I explained. "Today, you're going to be spayed." So naturally, Nova had to ask what it meant to be spayed. "It means Dr. Kylee is going to discombobulate your baby maker."
Nova looked around the van, noticing that Edgar Allen, our cat, wasn't with us. "Why isn't Edgar going with us? He should get spayed, too." Nova said.
I chuckled. "Edgar is a boy. Boys don't get spayed."
"Why not," the dog wanted to know?
"Because boys don't have baby makers, only girls do." I was still feeling uneasy about the day, and this conversation wasn't helping.
Then Nova Mae asked, "Dad, where do puppies come from."
Nova wore me down with all of her questions, and I wasn't prepared to have 'the talk' with our little girl. As I turned into the driveway at the vet's clinic, I sighed with exasperation, "Nova, you're going to see Dr. Kylee to get treats, okay? You'll spend the day with her, and then she'll give you treats." Nova seemed content with that; she likes treats. But, I still had an uneasy feeling.
Inside the office, Ashton greeted us from behind the counter, then looked at our file. "Nova Mae is here for spaying and dewclaws?"
"No," I said, giving the receptionist two hard winks with my right eye. "She's just here for treats." We shared a good laugh about that, although Nova didn't understand why we were laughing.
I don't know why I had such an uneasy feeling. Nova's procedures were routine, and I had every confidence in the doctor and her staff. Still, I felt a light pressure on my throat, and my shoulders felt weird like they were being pushed back.
Ashton came through the side door to take Nova back for her surgery. "You can come back for her between three-thirty and four," she said, then escorted Nova away.
My wife called me around nine. "Have you heard from Kylee?"
"Not yet," I said, then explained, "I'm sure everything went fine. Kylee is probably busy, and besides, she would have called right away if anything went wrong. Sometimes not hearing from the doctor right away is a good thing." As I was hanging up the phone, I noticed I had missed a call from Thomas Veterinary Clinic.
My uneasiness intensified, and my T-shirt worked up on my neck, trying to choke me. I put my fingers inside my collar as if to loosen it and called the clinic. They put me on hold.
A moment later, Dr. Kylee came on the phone, "Hi Tom. I was just calling to let you know everything went fine with Nova's surgery. She's resting in recovery now, and you can come to get her after three-thirty." Whew! The doctor's report was comforting, but I still had the pressure around my neck and shoulders. I thought I might know what the uneasy feeling was.
I don't like trimming a dog's nails, and I knew Nova's needed attention. "Kylee, I forgot to ask if you could trim her claws while she was sedated." The doctor laughed; she knows I struggle with this.
"I took care of that for you," she assured. That should have brought me relief, but it didn't. Instead, the pressure lingered throughout the day, and I couldn't figure out why. The pressure wasn't intense, just annoying. Maybe I'd settle down and feel better when Nova was back with me.
I returned to the clinic a little before four. While Ashton explained the meds and care following Nova's procedure, I felt uneasy again. When she handed me my bill, I felt the pressure on my neck and shoulders. I didn't understand why; the bill was the exact amount they said it would be.
Once again, I attempted to loosen the tight collar around my neck with my index and middle finger. Then, for some reason, I pulled the collar forward to look inside my shirt. "Oh, my Lord," I exclaimed.
I told Ashton about the uneasy feeling I'd had all day, the pressure on my neck and shoulders, and how I felt like my collar was trying to choke me. I laughed nervously, feeling like a fool as I confessed, "I put my T-shirt on backward! No wonder the collar has been riding up my neck all day." We had a good laugh about that. It was even more awkward knowing that no one mentioned the pocket on my back all day. Surely someone had noticed!
Then they brought Nova out to me. I looked at her and acted shocked. "Nova, what happened to you," I asked with alarm.
Nova's eyes weren't big and bright as usual; they were glassy and not fully open. The poor dog looked pitiful, but I think all dogs look pitiful when wearing a lamp shade around their neck.
In addition to the transparent lampshade, Nova's front paws were wrapped with yellowish-green tape over the gauze to protect the incisions from her dewclaws. Then, a white band of tape was wrapped above; I suppose to keep the bandages secure. "You're not funny," she said, looking at me through the slits that were her eyes, but I played dumb. Finally, Nova leveled an accusation, "You knew what they were going to do when you brought me here."
"Nova, you were standing right here this morning when I told them you were just here for treats," I defended. "There must have been a little misunderstanding," I said as I gave the receptionist two obvious winks with my left eye. Then, I put my hand inside the funnel-shaped collar, giving Nova a rub on the head. 
After a nice dinner, Nova Mae used her back leg to scratch vigorously at the lampshade around her head. "Dad, have you ever had an uneasy feeling where it seems like your collar is riding up on your neck, trying to choke you?"
"As a matter of fact, I have had that feeling, Nova," I answered. Then, to give her some relief, I scratched her neck under the base of the plastic cone. "Don't let it bother you, Nova Mae; that feeling will go away in about ten days."

I was driving west on I-90 across North Dakota, headed for Boise, Idaho, a twenty-two-hour drive from my home on the north
shore. Driving has always been therapeutic for me as it gives me a lot of alone time and time to think. On this trip, I was thinking about two guys in my graduating class at school.
After moving to Iowa in the middle of my eighth-grade year – I was the "new kid" at Washington Junior High. That's where I met Brett and Bart Culver; twin brothers in my grade. They were always nice when I saw them, which was cool. Most students didn't pay attention to a new kid, but a few went out of their way to give me a hard time. I didn't like that at all.
Brett and Bart were always friendly to me, even though we didn't hang out together. I knew their dad was a minister, and they had a younger brother, Scott. The twins were tough as oxen. I'd bet if you could get them into a harness, they could easily pull an eight-bottom plow through a farm field. The two were not only strong,they were also fair.
Although they had been in their share of scraps, these two never picked on anyone. I never knew them to start trouble, but if you wanted to go the rounds, they never backed down either. A good clean fight seemed to be a sport to them.
I respected Brett and Bart for their upstanding values; it might also have been because they were strong. I, on the other hand, was not. While I was in junior high and senior high school, the word scrawny would best describe my build. I didn't grow up (physically) until after I graduated. Scrawny kids didn't go looking for trouble; we avoided it. Because of this, we often got picked on – today, the term is bullied.
As I drove across I-90, I thought more about these two guys. Brett lived in Boise, which was my destination. Maybe we could get together to visit on my way through town.
I called to see if Brett could meet for dinner Thursday. "I'd love to meet up," he said, "but I'm out of town on a business trip until late Friday. How long will you be in town?" Unfortunately, early Friday morning, I had to be on the road home. We talked for a while, then Brett said, "I'm sorry it didn't work out. Make sure you call me next time you're going to be in town."
Over the next several months, I would pass through Boise a few times. Again, I called Brett, but he was traveling for work each time. So maybe it just wouldn't work for us to meet up.
Then one time, I was making a trip to Mc Call, Idaho. It was 120 miles from Brett's house, but I thought I'd check in. When I called, Brett said he would be home Friday night; I would get to Boise Saturday morning. So, finally, we were going to get together.
"Can I borrow your kitchen when I get there," I asked Brett? The question caught him off guard. "I want to bake a pie for you while I'm there."
"You don't have to do that, buddy," Brett said.
"I know I don't have to, but I want to do this," I told him. "What's your favorite kind of pie?"

"Well, if you insist, I’m not going to turn you down. I would love one of those cherry pies you're always writing about."
Brett and his wife Karen stood in the kitchen while I made the pie. We enjoyed catching up on where we'd been and what we've been doing since high school. Finally, I finished weaving the lattice top and put the pie in the oven. While the pie was baking, I leaned against the counter and told Brett a story:
In our senior year of high school, my dad's radio station sponsored a Lion's Club Donkey Basketball fundraiser. A big crowd gathered in the Evans Middle School gym. The people wanted to see the radio station disc-jockeys beat the Ottumwa Police Department's officers. I was skeptical of the outcome. Disc jockeys are known more for their ability to run off at the mouth than their athleticism.
At the event, Geoff B. approached me aggressively in the hallway outside the gym and wanted to fight. I tried to blow him off by telling him I would not fight anyone at the fundraiser my dad was sponsoring.
Brett asked, "What was the fight about."
"The same thing that causes all fist fights between high school boys; a girl, of course, and I don't even remember her name." We shared a good laugh about that.
Anyway, I wasn't going to fight Geoff. Not just because we were at an event Dad sponsored, but Geoff was also a lot taller than me and probably fifty pounds heavier. He would have killed me!
When I tried to walk away, two guys grabbed me, one on each arm, and drug me backwards up the staircase to a dark, secluded landing. Geoff and one other guy followed. Geoff said, "We're going to settle this right now." I told him again that I wasn't going to fight him and started to walk away. The third guy moved to block my escape. The other two guys grabbed me by the arms again, slamming me into the brick wall. Then they lifted me off my feet, holding me against the wall. I was scared to death.
Geoff punched me once in the gut, nearly knocking the wind out of me. They had me pinned to the wall, with my feet dangling off the floor. I tried to kick him away, but the next punch came faster and harder. Finally, hitting me in the chest, Geoff took the rest of my breath away. Yelling for help felt like a cowardly thing to do, but I was in trouble. I tried to call for help, but with no wind, no sound came out; besides, no one would have heard me over the noise from the gym.
The next punch Geoff threw was coming right for my face. I dodged my head to the left, and he punched the brick wall – hard. Geoff cussed, then threw another punch at my face; this time, I leaned my head to the right. He grazed my left cheekbone hard enough to leave me with a scrape and a shiner, but still, most of that punch landed on the bricks, too.
Geoff cussed some more, then landed two more direct hits to my stomach. I wasn't sure if I could keep from throwing up, but one thing was sure: I wouldn't let him see me cry, regardless of how scared I was.
Geoff stared at me with anger but an evil grin on his face; I could tell he was enjoying this. Meanwhile, I couldn't stop my shaking. I was sure he would punch me in the nose or the mouth. I wanted to close my eyes tightly and pretend this wasn't happening, but I didn't dare take my eyes off him. Moving my head to avoid getting hit was my only defense as his two thug buddies continued to hold me. Finally, I remember thinking, 'Maybe if he draws blood, he'll leave me alone. If I could just take one more punch.
Just as Geoff cocked his fist, two people came up on the landing. "What's going on here, men," one of them asked with an authoritative tone of voice?
Geoff was startled by the voice and turned to see who it was. "Just teaching Palen a lesson; teaching him to mind his own business," he said.
When Geoff turned away, I also glanced over to see it was. Oh, my Lord. It's Brett and Bart Culver.
Their presence didn't relieve me because I wasn't sure if they were friends of Geoff until Bart said, "Well, boys, four against one doesn't seem very fair, but four against three sounds okay." When he said this, I immediately looked to the steps expecting to see their younger brother Scott. However, when Scott didn't appear, it occurred to me that I was the third person in the trio. 
Being one of the three only raised my anxiety again. I wasn't big enough to take any one of my assailants. Suddenly, I realized that Bart spoke metaphorically when he said, "four against three." They certainly did not need my help.
With a grin and a glimmer in his eye, Brett looked as if he was ready to have some fun. He raised his arms and clenched his fists, taking a stance, ready to fight. "Well, come on, boys. Let's get it on," he said, dancing a couple of steps forward. Finally, I felt relieved. I knew that I had just been saved the moment he spoke those words!
The thug guarding the stairs turned and ran down the steps like a chicken. The two holding me up against the wall, still with my feet off the ground, immediately turned me loose and fled to save their skin in a consistent cowardly fashion. As soon as they released their grip, I dropped maybe four or five inches. I had to focus on keeping my knees from buckling and falling all the way down on the floor.
I remember looking at Geoff. With his hands held open, he slowly backed away from the twins, pleading, "Come, Brett; Bart. This doesn't involve you." The three exchanged words, but no punches; I don't know what they said; I was trying to compose myself and hide my embarrassment.
Geoff disappeared down the steps. Bart asked, "Are you all right, Palen." I told them I was okay.
"They aren't going to bother anymore," Brett assured. Then the duo sailed down the steps taking them two at a time, like Batman and Robin, after saving the day. "They don't even have capes," I muttered while following somberly. Finally, Brett and Bart turned and disappeared into the crowded gym.
The audience was cheering as one of our guys finally made a basket from his mule. Through the double doors, I saw the scoreboard on the far end of the basketball court. The police were beating the pants off our DJs. Dad looked my way from behind the scorekeeper's table; I was hoping he couldn't see the raspberry under my eye. I walked through the front door of the school building and out to my car. I just wanted to go home.
I finished telling my story while the pie was in the oven. "I don't remember any of that, Tom," Brett said, not surprising me.
I've discovered that bullies seldom remember their actions as the years' pass, but the bullied never forget. As for people like Brett and Bart, that night may not stand out in their memory because doing the right thing was normal to them, but I felt they were heroic.
I moved the pie from the oven to a cooling rack. The piping hot steam filled the air with its sweet amaretto fragrance. "Let this cool a few hours before you cut it," I said.
Brett handed me a very cool camouflage bucket hat he got while serving in the US Army, "I want you to have this," he said. I felt honored to accept his gift, so I put it on my head, and we stood together. While Karen took our photo, I was on my tippy-toes to ensure I was taller than Brett. We shared a good laugh about that; then I told my friends I had to get going.
"You're not staying to share the pie with us," Brett questioned?
"The pie is for you, Brett," I replied.
Brett pointed out the obvious, "You sure drove a long way just to make a pie."
"I never did thank you or Bart on that night at Evans," I explained, "And, you're right. One hundred nineteen miles out of my way would be a long way just to make a pie. But, to finally tell a friend in person, 'Thank you for saving my butt when I was in deep trouble,' even if I was almost forty years late - well, that makes the 120th mile well worth the drive.
With the pie cooling on the counter, we said our farewells. I asked Brett, "Can you send a slice of that pie to Bart, and please, tell him I said, 'Thank you!'"

​It was a lazy Monday morning, Memorial Day, to be specific. I enjoyed a morning cup of coffee with my wife, my brother Dan and his wife, Petrina.
 
We were on the deck at their home in the Ozarks, overlooking the boat dock and water in the cove. We watched the fish and turtles in the water, coming near the banks to catch their breakfast.
 
Petrina went into the house for a refill of coffee. My wife pointed out my pasty white skin with a smile, suggesting I should wear shorts to catch some sun - maybe get a little color. I questioned her thought process as we were sitting in a heavily shaded area.
 
Heeding her advice and being somewhat of a prankster, I dropped my pajama pants to the deck and sat back in my chair, wearing my boxer shorts, a TOM-FM t-shirt, and a grin that went from ear to ear. "Is this better?" I asked of her. She rolled her eyes.
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Petrina came out, laughing at my attire, while my wife demanded I pull my pajama pants back up. And so, following her instruction, I did. But, little did she know, I was seizing the opportunity to set the stage for my next display of obnoxious Tomfoolery.
 
Grabbing the elastic waistband of my flannel pajama pants, I pulled them up. All the way up, past my waistline, over my belly, stretching and pulling them up to my chest as high as possible, covering most of my t-shirt. Taking a deep breath, sucking in as much air as my lungs could hold, I then pushed my stomach out as far as possible. 
 
I call this my Old Man Pants look. My wife, who finds it less than flattering, made some comments, expressing shame and embarrassment on my behalf. "Oh my gosh!" Petrina blurted out, "Dan does that all the time, pulling his pants up to his armpits, then struts around."
 
Hmm. I thought I was the only one who did this. But, of course, Dan is my brother; maybe it's genetic. I should have applied for a patent or copyright when I originated this look.
 
Although it was fun acting silly on the deck, it's essential to remember the solemnity and purpose of Memorial Day - paying tribute to those who gave their lives for our country, to whom I am grateful.
 
Memorial Day is also a time when I reflect on those who have passed before me, specifically, people who positively impacted my life. I am thankful for them doing so. One such person was a lady named Linda Akers.
 
Linda Akers was the organist at St. Patrick's Church. She accompanied me on several occasions when I was singing for a wedding or funeral. Linda often inquired, "When are you going to become a cantor at mass?"
 
"It makes me nervous," I'd tell her.
 
"You're a radioman; you should be used to talking in front of people," she reasoned.
 
"Linda, there's a difference between talking into a microphone in a room where people aren't watching me and talking in front of many people staring at me," I reasoned. "Besides, cantors don't talk; they sing."
 
Linda wasn't going to give up. "So tell me," she said, "what's the difference between singing in front of a church full of people at a wedding and a church full of people on Sunday morning?"
 
"Okay," I gave in, "I will in a few weeks when I get done with..." I always found a reason.
 
I've always enjoyed singing, so I don't know why I kept putting her off. I guess the idea made me nervous. The weeks turned to months, the months to years.
 
One day, the phone rang. "Are you in town this weekend?"
 
Not recognizing the voice on the other end of the line, I replied, "Yes, I am. What's up?"
 
"My cantor for the ten a.m. mass can't make it. Can you fill in for him?" Then, suddenly, I recognized the voice.
 
She had me cornered. I had already told her I was going to be in town. Backpedaling, I said, "I might have to do something else." I was trying to wiggle free.
 
"Why don't you do that in the afternoon and sing for me at ten?" It seemed she had all exits blocked; I had nowhere to run. "We can practice Wednesday at four?"
 
"Okay, I'll see you then," I told her. Then, after I hung up the phone, I asked myself, "What did you just do?"
 
Many people fear public speaking; fortunately, I do not – but this is different; I would be singing. What if I mess up? People will laugh at me. I would be embarrassed, possibly humiliated, to the point I would never be able to show my face in public again. Would I be forced to leave town to start a new life with a new identity in a faraway land? Like most fears, mine was unrealistic and unwarranted.
 
During practice, Linda assured me if I made a mistake, it would be no problem. "Just keep singing. No one will say anything about it." She assured me. "If you make a mistake, which you won't, but if you do, and anyone says anything to you, hand them the cantor's book and say, 'If you think you can do better, have at it.'" We shared a good laugh about that.
 
Sunday came, and I sang. I enjoyed singing at mass. Not only was it fun, but I also found it very rewarding. Why had I put this off for so long? I came up with so many excuses all those years, but never good reasons. I was on Linda's regular rotation schedule for the next fourteen years.
 
One day, Linda decided she needed to lighten her schedule. She would only play for the five p.m. mass on Saturdays; someone else would play the organ on Sunday mornings. After so many years, it was different singing with other accompanists.
 
Not long after this change, I sold my radio stations. My wife and I planned to move to Minnesota. For weeks I said I wanted to sing with Linda at least one more time before our move, a move that was coming soon. I could sing with Linda the next week, or maybe the first of next month. I would ask Linda to schedule me to sing on a Saturday night.
 
I finally called Linda to tell her I wanted to sing with her again before we moved. She told me she had not been feeling well, but we would do it when she was feeling better. "I would like that," she assured, "We'll have fun."
 
A week or so later, Linda wasn't feeling any better and went to the Emergency room. They took her from the hospital to the Hospice House. She didn't even know she had cancer, but Linda's cancer had grown and spread so rapidly that there was nothing the doctors could do for her.
 
When I heard the news, I went right out to visit her. Linda was resting peacefully. Her husband, Frank and daughter, Molly, were in the room with her. We chatted for a while; they caught me up on her medical situation.
 
They told me how Linda enjoyed playing the organ so much. "She just loved playing at mass." Frank added, "She loved playing for weddings and funerals too." Frank said, "Do you know she never took money for playing a wedding or funeral? They always offered, but she wouldn't take it. She just liked to play."
 
It got me when Frank said, "She especially liked playing when you would sing. She enjoyed that." I turned away a bit as Frank was sitting to my right, but Molly was seated to my left. I looked straight forward, acting like I had something in my eye to avoid getting caught as I brushed a tear away.
 
No matter who was singing, Linda always made them feel special. "I truly enjoyed singing with her, too," I said.
 
Linda didn't go back to her house. Instead, she went home.
 
I just wanted to sing with her one more time before we moved. That didn't seem like too much to ask. How was I to know that she would move on before I did?
 
We don't know. We never know what today will bring. Still, things get put off until tomorrow, as if there is no limit to the time available.
 
Along with several other cantors, I sang for Linda one more time. I was one of several soloists that sing at her funeral. Honestly, I was a bit nervous, but didn't worry too much. Instead, I smiled as I recalled Lind's advice; If I should make a mistake, I'll just keep singing. If anyone says anything about it, I'll hand them the cantor's book saying, "If you think you can do better, have at it."
 
I spent a lot of time on Memorial Day weekend thinking about Linda Akers, a beautiful soul who impacted my life.
 
I never got to tell her in person, but thank you, Linda, for recognizing a gift within me that I didn't see myself. Thank you for being persistent until you finally convinced me to share that gift. Thank you for encouraging me.
 
One Sunday morning after we moved, I climbed the stairs to the choir loft. First, I introduced myself. Then, with the courage Linda instilled in me, I asked Lana if she could add me to the rotation of cantors at St. Mary's Church in Silver Bay. She did, and to this day I still enjoy singing at Mass.
 
As for Linda, I know she continues to play. Now she plays as a chorus of angels sing along. (She's that good.)
 

​Last November, my wife drove down to visit her parents for a week in Gulf Shores, Alabama. She returned with a white Styrofoam cooler with red letters across the front, “Rouses Market.” Melissa presented the cooler to me. “Happy birthday, honey!”
 
My first thought was, “You bought me a disposable cooler for my birthday? Um, how nice.” When I took the cooler from her, it was fairly heavy. Much to my surprise, inside the cooler was three pounds of fresh Gulf shrimp on ice. “Wow! This is awesome, babe. Thank you.”
 
Now, if you want the best walleye, northern pike, or lake trout, y’all from the south need to come to the north shore, eh? Our coldwater lakes have the best freshwater fish. But clearly the best shrimp I’ve ever tasted, comes from the southern states along the Gulf of Mexico.
 
I didn’t care if it was mid-November in northern Minnesota. I cleared the snow from the deck, pulled out the Weber and began the feast. Imagine, fresh gulf shrimp, in Minnesota’s winter weather. Now that’s a northerner’s delight!
 
Just five months later, Melissa and I were going to Picayune, Mississippi, to get our new puppy, Nova Mae - less than thirty minutes from the Gulf. After that we would travel 120 miles along the coast. Coincidentally, I brought a cooler with us. There would be plenty of opportunities for me to stock the cooler with fresh Gulf shrimp to bring home.
 
Our trip would include a five-day visit to her parents’ house in South Carolina. We were still over a week from home and that’s a long time to keep fresh shrimp on ice. I was afraid it wouldn’t survive the trip and I gave up on the idea of taking more fresh shrimp home.
 
Instead, we stopped at a restaurant in Pascagoula, Mississippi. Melissa had blackened fish tacos, I had the large shrimp boil, with fresh gulf shrimp, spicy sausage, corn on the cob and boiled red potatoes. This is a common meal in the south, but to a northerner, this was a real delight.
 
After visiting in South Carolina, we started the long drive home to Minnesota. The weather in Greer was cool, by southern folk’s standards, but to a couple of Minnesotans, temperatures in the upper sixties were just right. We had been watching the weather at home, and knew we had twelve more inches of snow while we were away.
 
Less than twenty minutes into our journey, I started seeing signs for fresh strawberries. The middle of April seemed way too early for fresh fruit. “Surely someone leaves those signs up year-round,” I said, not seeing any produce stands. Not long after, I saw newer signs, “Fresh Strawberries. Open Now.” I took my foot off the gas and started to slow down – just in case.
 
“What are you doing,” Melissa asked.
 
“There’s a strawberry stand ahead,” I answered. I’m sure my eyes were bulging out of my head when I saw those tables topped with white buckets, filled to the brim with strawberries; each with an American flag, as I turned into the farmer’s driveway. There was a truck full of more strawberries under a shelter.
 
“Hello,” the farmer greeted me. He glanced at my license plate, “Are you really from Minnesota?” I assured him we were. “What brings you all the way down to South Carolina,” he asked.
 
I smiled, “Strawberries. Oh, and to visit my in-laws, too.” We shared a good laugh about that as I selected a quart container. It wasn’t an easy choice. The tables were full of square green quart containers, and white gallon pails of perfectly bright red berries.
 
“These are special strawberries,” he told me. “Most farmers don’t want to mess with them because they’re harder to grow; they more finicky. I have to charge a little more for them, but I think it’s worth it because they have about twenty-percent more natural sugars than other varieties. Go ahead and try one.”
 
“Try one,” I questioned? “Is that a sales pitch?”
 
“No sir, not at all,” replied the farmer as I bit into a big, juicy strawberry. “It’s a sale closer.” As I ate the fruit, I must have been smiling from ear to ear. It was as close to heaven as I’ve ever been in South Carolina. “You can have another if you’d like,” he offered, “but if you’re going to eat a third, I’ll have to charge you for the quart.” We shared a good laugh about that.
 
I questioned the farmer, “How long will these keep in a cooler on ice?”
 
“Well, I spect a couple of days at least. But don’t let them sit directly in water,” he warned. Then told me, “Ripe strawberries are like you and me – they like to drink water. But once they’re picked, the water will draw the natural sugars from the berry.”
 
I set my quart of strawberries back on the counter and picked up a gallon. The farmer smiled, “It was the taste test, wasn’t it?” We shared another good laugh about that. I paid him twenty-dollars for the gallon of berries, and he gave me a plastic bag to put the bucket in. “This will keep them out of the water,” he said.
 
I lifted the end gate to put the berries in the cooler I had intended to use for fresh shrimp. “Why don’t you just bring those up here for now,” Melissa said.
 
I chuckled thinking, “I’ll bet she wouldn’t have said that if this was raw shrimp.”
 
I set the bag on the front seat floor. Melissa opened the bag. “You bought a gallon? What are we going to do with all these?” I had an idea.
 
Our neighbors up the hill, produce a bumper crop of rhubarb each summer, and gracefully share their bounty with us. I still had some of their rhubarb in the freezer. Our other neighbors gave us several quarts of wild raspberries, and we still had some wild blueberries in the freezer. My mouth was watering over the thought of a strawberry-rhubarb pie, and a mixed berry pie. Yum.
 
On the trip home we each ate several strawberries, and I assure you, they tasted much better than raw shrimp would have. I put the pail of strawberries in the back of the car, on ice, so that we wouldn’t eat them all. Each time we stopped, the end gate was opened to grab a few more strawberries.
 
The next day we stopped at a rest area just outside of Indianapolis. I put Nova Mae on her leash and took her out of the kennel. Just as I set her down on the ground, the man parked next to us opened his back door to let out his large black dog. Yikes! I had no idea how the two dogs would react. They sniffed noses, and that was that.
 
The man’s wife came around the car, “Well that’s a real cute puppy you have. He looks pretty young.”
 
I thanked her, then said, “This is Nova Mae. We just got her in Mississippi. She’s about ten weeks old.”
 
“And she likes to travel already,” the lady asked? I told her Nova would be a traveling dog, and so far, everything was going great. “Our dog is getting pretty old, but she still likes to travel,” she said. “She’s made this round trip from Alaska to Indiana with us over twenty times.”
 
We enjoyed some small talk. The man told me they come down in the very early spring, or late fall, “The summers here are just too warm for us.”
 
I went to the back of my car and grabbed a handful of strawberries. “Here, I have a little gift for you. Naturally ripened, fresh strawberries we bought them yesterday from a farmer in South Carolina.”
 
His eyes really lit up, “Wow, this is a real treat. We don’t get fresh strawberries like these in Alaska.” The man gladly accepted my offer and thanked me. When his wife returned, he shared the berries with her. They seemed to enjoy them so much, I went to the back of our car and grabbed another handful.
 
“Would you like some more for the road,” I asked.
 
“Absolutely,” he said, putting his hands out to accept them. He thanked me again, then the man got in the passenger side of the car. His big black dog was in the back seat. He and his wife drove away smiling – eating strawberries. I could only imagine, if these South Carolina berries were such a treat for a couple of Minnesotans, just how good they must taste to a couple of Alaskans? A real northerner’s delight, and I was pleased to share them.
 
When we got home, I cleared the snow from the driveway. A day or two later, after we were settled in, I pulled the rhubarb from the freezer cutting up just a little over two cups to thaw and mix with the strawberries. This pie was going to be awesome! I went to grab the pail of strawberries from the fridge. On the floor of the pail were five bright red strawberries. They looked so lonely after seeing the bucket so full.
 
“Honey,” I called out, “where are the rest of the strawberries? I’m going to make a pie.”
 
“We ate them,” she replied.
 
In disbelief I questioned, “You went through a gallon of strawberries?”
 
“We,” she replied adamantly. “We went through a gallon of strawberries. I saved the last few for you.”
 
Hmm. I drove into Zup’s grocery store to buy a quart of strawberries for my pie. When I got home, I cut them up, mixed in the rhubarb, then put my pie in the oven. I went to the fridge to grab the rest of the South Carolina berries to eat while the pie baked – but the bucket was empty. “Where’d the rest of the strawberries go,” I called out, but got no answer.
 
When the pie had cooled, I cut it up and shared it with two of our neighbors. A strawberry-rhubarb pie made with rhubarb from the neighbor’s patch – a real northerner’s delight.
 
The next time we go south, we’ll do our visiting first. I’ll take two coolers: one for fresh gulf shrimp and another for fresh strawberries. Maybe I’d better take three – the Georgia peaches should be ready by then.

I love hard-boiled eggs, and most generally have them in the refrigerator. I can eat them anytime as a snack, an appetizer, or the main entrée. I’ve even had them for dessert. I love hard-boiled eggs.
 
This morning, I ate the last boiled egg from the fridge while my oatmeal was cooking. Yum.
 
When I had finished breakfast, I put a pan of water on the stove and turned the burned on high. I set the remaining seven eggs from the carton into the water. I smiled, thinking about all the different ways people have for hard boiling eggs: Use fresh eggs, never use fresh eggs. Boil the water first, or, put them in cold water. Cover the pan with a lid, don’t cover the pan. Add vinegar; use salt, not vinegar. So many ways to boil an egg, and they’re all opinions.
 
How hard can it be? Put the eggs in water, boil them, peel them, and eat them. That’s it. But people have specific techniques. I suppose I can understand why; maybe there should be a recipe for hard-boiled eggs.
 
One hot summer day, I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner. We would have chef salads, but I forgot to hard boil the eggs. So, I called my daughter Annie who was about fifteen years old. “Can you boil eight eggs for me?”
 
“I don’t know how,” she replied. “Do you have a recipe?”
 
“Are you serious,” I questioned. Annie told me she had never boiled eggs. “Put eight eggs in a pan, fill it with water, about a half-inch or so over the eggs. Put the lid on the pan, put the pan on the burner, and turn it on high.” I told her to use the burner on the grill outdoors. It was hot outside, and I didn’t want the heat or humidity inside the house.
 
“How long do I boil them,” she asked?
 
“Just turn the burner on high, and I’ll take care of them when I get home.” I would be home in fifteen minutes which would be perfect. I noted the time, but as usual, I ran into someone I knew at the store and got home fifteen minutes late.
 
When I got home, a horrible stench came in through the kitchen window and was wafting through the house. It smelled like something rotten was burning. I worried the eggs may have boiled dry and ran out the back door. There was smoke pouring out the vents on the lid of the pan.
 
I quickly turned off the flame. I removed the lid with a hot pad, nearly gagging on the smell of black smoke billowing out of the pan. “What the heck?” I hollered, “Annie, get out here!” When she came outside, I showed her the charred disaster, “Why did you crack the eggs before putting them in the pan? You’re supposed to leave them IN the shells.”
 
“You didn’t say that,” she justified. “I put the eggs in the pan and added water covering them by a half-inch.”
 
I was perplexed. “Did you smell the eggs burning? Why didn’t you come out and shut the burner off?”
 
“You told me to turn the burner on high and just leave them alone,” she said. “I assumed you knew what you were talking about.” I couldn’t argue with her; she did exactly what I said to do, and I did fail to specify leaving the eggs in the shells. The pan was ruined. I threw the whole mess in the garbage can, got another pan, and boiled more eggs for our salads.
 
I laughed as I thought about that incident while my eggs were boiling. (Although I was not laughing when it happened.) We often remind Annie of the “Hard-Boiled Egg Incident.” She gets defensive every time, “I did exactly what Dad told me to do!”
 
Everyone has their technique for boiling eggs, claiming, “Do it my way, and the shells peel super easy – every time.” Right. The way I boil eggs works (almost) every time for me. But I find eggs have a mind of their own, and some are just plain stubborn!
 
When I cooled my eggs, the shells peeled real smoothly from the first six eggs; one egg’s shell stuck to a small piece of the egg white, leaving a small mark, but it was still plenty pretty to keep with the other eggs. The seventh egg? Not so smooth.
 
I couldn’t seem to get the membrane loose from the egg. Big chunks of egg white ripped away with the shell. The egg white was torn so badly that it exposed the egg yolk in several places. Most people would have chucked the bad egg into the trash – not me.
 
The battle was on; Man vs. Egg. I was determined to win, and I did. However, I’ll admit, when I claimed my victory, I was looking at one of the ugliest eggs I’d ever seen. The egg looked like I peeled it with a weed-whacker, a lawnmower, or maybe a hammer and chisel.
 
I looked at the seven eggs on the plate and remembered my elementary school assignment. “Which one of these doesn’t belong?” I had learned that lesson well.
 
The egg was way too hideous to put in the refrigerator with the other eggs. Some of that ugliness could rub off on the others. I mean, seriously, what if we had company and they went to the fridge for an egg? When they saw the pathetic resemblance of an egg, they would say, “This man can bake a wonderful pie, but he has no idea how to boil eggs.” Some would even claim, “I’ll bet his children can’t hard boil an egg either.”
 
To avoid bringing future shame onto my kin, I did the right thing - I got rid of the evidence. I ate that battle-scarred egg. As ragged as that egg was, it was actually quite tasty (with a bit of salt and pepper.)
 
I pondered the whole situation further. People and eggs have a lot in common. Most people are good eggs, but you’re going to run into a bad or stubborn egg once in a while.
 
When you come across a bad egg, give it the benefit of the doubt. If you take time to look beyond the outer appearance, even a bad egg can turn out to be a good egg – especially with a bit of seasoning.

​

​I remember a song from my childhood; "The bear went over the mountain, the bear went over the mountain, the bear went over the mountain, so see what he could see." The song has a good message that still holds meaning for me. As an adult, I'm still going places to see what I can see.
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Most of the day Sunday, we had clear skies and sunshine, which was exciting! I was hoping those sky conditions would hold on into the night as there would be a total lunar eclipse. For a change, the lunar eclipse would happen at a decent hour so we could stay up and watch it. I intended to go out on my deck and watch the entire spectacle. But then the clouds moved in. Ugh.
 
Still, I walked out onto the deck numerous times, hoping to find a break in the overcast, granting me a sneak peek at the moon. No such luck. I wondered, "Why do we make such a big deal out of seeing the moon blocked by the showdown of Earth? Technically, we can't see it if it's blocked, can we?" I laughed to myself over my analogy, then went to bed.
 
My daughter and her boyfriend watched the eclipse under clear skies in Iowa. With their telescope, they took some excellent photos. I appreciated them sharing their photos, but pictures just aren't the same as seeing it for yourself. It's spiritual for me to experience a lunar eclipse firsthand.
 
Monday, I took Nova Mae out to potty a little after six in the morning. The sun was shining, the skies were blue, and a gentle breeze played a sweet melody on the wind chimes. "Looking at the clear sky," I said. "Where were you last night when I needed you?"
 
I went back into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Two hummingbirds hovered around the red feeder just outside the window over the sink, keeping me well entertained. They fed on nectar from the small (plastic) red flowers. It was a delightful show to see. This same feeder has been the source of much entertainment.
 
Earlier this week, a male Baltimore oriel was hanging around our deck. He also was attracted to the red hummingbird feeder. Several times, I watched him perched on the feeder just outside the window. His bright orange and black feathers, with accents of white, were beautiful, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching him. Then, wanting to encourage him to stay, I researched oriels. They like to eat fruits, nectar, and insects, but they won't eat birdseed.
 
Unfortunately, his beak was too large to draw nectar from the flowers, and there weren't a lot of insects out yet. So, I set up a four-foot ladder on the deck. I put a red lid filled with nectar and two strawberries on the top step. I added a few sunflower seeds, should the bird want to expand his palate by trying something new. The oriel returned a short time later. He enjoyed the strawberries more than the nectar but feasted on both.
 
The Baltimore oriel was perched on the left side of the step. Soon, a rose-breasted grosbeak landed on the right side. With wide-open beaks, the two chattered loudly at one another; the grosbeak had the oriel leaning back away from him.
 
A red-headed woodpecker landed on the end of the step between the two birds. It looked as if the third bird had taken his place, seated at the head of the table. The woodpecker listened to the two other birds present their case like an arbitrator. He'd soon had enough of them squabbling over the buffet and began squawking angrily at both. "Enough! I've heard enough!" Finally, the orange oriel and the rose-breasted grosbeak gave heed to the wood pecker's warning and flew away.
 
Now alone on the ladder, the woodpecker inspected the offerings for himself. "No insects? What kind of restaurant is this?" Then, he, too, flew away, allowing the oriel and grosbeak to return.
 
The bird feeder that sits on the deck was low on seeds. A hungry red squirrel climbed the wooden pillar that supported the house's roof. He was making his way to another feeder hanging from the soffit. The squirrel jumped from the post onto the wind chimes; he was making his way to the hanging feeder. Unfortunately, the smooth metal tubes proved a little too slick for the squirrel, not to mention the vibrations as the clangor struck them again. Sliding down the pipe, the little trapeze artist quickly retreated to the wood post.
 
Meanwhile, the oriel and grosbeak were again disputing rights to the feast on the ladder. The funny thing is each bird was after a different feed; the oriel wanted the strawberries while the grosbeak was after the seeds. The bickering birds were chased away again - this time by the red squirrel who climbed the ladder. The fluffy tail rodent made a quick meal of the sunflower seeds. The squirrel sat and ate them all, leaving empty shells scattered about. After sniffing the other entrees, the disinterested squirrel climbed down the ladder, looking for more seeds.
 
Once the sunflower seeds were gone, the grosbeak joined the other birds at the hanging feeder, leaving the oriel alone on the ladder's top step. But the oriel wasn't alone for long. Soon, he was joined by a female oriel, not as brilliant in color as the male, but still a beautiful bird. Hoping they will stay and nest in our yard, I bought some oranges (another fruit oriels enjoy), and we've kept oranges and strawberries for the birds since. It's a real treat to see so much wildlife gathering on our deck for us to view.
 
There's wildlife nearly everywhere. Sometimes, you have to look a little harder to see the critters.
 
Friday, I was at a Burger King restaurant enjoying a Whopper with my granddaughters. When we had finished our meal, a man in the dining room called us to see something he'd found. A baby turtle was on the quarry tile floor, no bigger around than a quarter.
 
I put the tiny reptile in a water cup. The turtle flipped over onto his back, exposing the beautiful red and black pattern on his tummy. "Cool," Addison exclaimed, "Can we keep him?"
 
Evelyn wanted to know, "Why is he in a Burger King?"
 
"Well," I began to expel my wealth of knowledge, "turtles will eat lettuce, and a Whopper has lettuce. Maybe he stopped in for a sandwich." We shared a good laugh over that.
 
"Papa, I hardly think that little thing could eat a Whopper," Addison said, then asked again, "Can we keep him?"
 
I explained, "The turtle would be a lot happier if we would help him back to the water rather than living in a water cup." So I dropped the girls off at their appointment, then took the turtle to the city park.
 
A man and his two young sons were fishing from the bank. I showed the dad the turtle; he, in turn, called his two young boys over to see the little guy. They were both amused and had a lot of questions. "Is that a snapping turtle? Will he bite me? Where's his mom?" I once again was able to share my vast knowledge of turtles. The boys were thrilled to watch as I released the small turtle at the water's edge. Soon the little fellow took to the water and swam in front of us. The older boy spoke up, "Could we use him for bait?" 
 
I thought to myself, "Swim, little man, swim away!" Then said to the turtle, "You have no idea how lucky you are that I'm the one who brought you to the water."
 
This morning in my kitchen, I looked at photos of last night's lunar eclipse. "Boy, I wish the skies would have been clear. But it is what it is, and it was what is it was." I smiled, thinking about the bear that went over the mountain to see what he could see. I want to see as much as I can.
 
Maybe I didn't get to see this eclipse, but how many people get to see a Baltimore oriel, a rose-breasted grosbeak, and a red-headed woodpecker all sitting on the same ladder, having a discussion? When is the next time I'll get to save a baby turtle? There was certainly something spiritual in watching him swim freely away into the water. And who knows, maybe I'll get to watch baby Baltimore oriels in my yard this summer.
 
I decided I needed to be more thankful for what I get to see and not fret over what I don't. Besides, I read that there's supposed to be another lunar eclipse, visible from my neck of the woods, in 2025. Maybe next time.

​If thirty-five years in radio broadcasting didn’t teach me anything else, I sure learned how to pull pranks and practical jokes. There is a code of ethics in pranking; it’s only funny if no one gets hurt, and if you’re going to dish it out – you have to be able to take it, as well.
 
Mark Denny was our news man at that time. He was a nice guy; well informed, polite, and maybe a little bit bashful in those days. Mark was a bachelor, and I used to give him a bad time for eating out every day. “Don’t you ever eat at home?”
 
“Nope,” Mark replied, taking a bite of his sandwich, “Only if all the restaurants are closed.”
 
Our FM studio and newsroom were separated by a large glass window, double paned to keep sound from transferring. Mark had just finished reading the eight-o-clock news. Bill Bishop was our morning announcer at the time. After the news, I would join Bill from the newsroom desk for our “Morning Show.” The morning show in those days only ran twenty-five minutes.
 
I had a large coffee mug that I made in a ceramics class. It was white with a black lightning bolt on the side. It read, “Mr. Cool,” from the Snoopy cartoons. But I messed up when I painted the cup. Snoopy’s character was “Joe Cool.” Not Mr. Cool.
 
I filled the cup with java, but forgot it by the coffee machine. No problem, I needed to run to my office for some show material, and grabbed the cup while I was there. As I was coming back, Bill started the bumper music for the Morning Show, and I took my seat in the newsroom. I adjusted the microphone and was ready to go. Bill opened the show, “Good morning, everyone…”
 
Bill and I shared a little chit chat, then he rolled into the first story. By now, my coffee had time to cool a bit. I could tell from the feel of my coffee cup, the beverage was the perfect temperature. I took a good size gulp of coffee. HOLY THUNDER BUCKETS! WHAT IS THIS?
 
There was so much salt in my coffee, my mouth was burning. At the same time, I nearly gagged on the sickening amount of sugar that was added into the mix. I desperately needed to cough, but couldn’t with the liquid in my mouth.
 
There was no time to hit the “cough button” that would have cut off my mic. I pressed my lips together as tight as I could. Unsuccessfully trying to suppress the cough, coffee shot out my nose, all over my papers in front of me. I could no longer contain the pressure. A cough and sneeze happened simultaneously. Coffee projected from my face, all over the glass window in front of me.
 
On the other side of the glass, Bill and Mark nearly died, rolling with laughter. Mark literally had tears rolling down his cheeks from behind his glasses. I had been wondering why Mark was hanging out in the FM studio with Bill.
 
The window, the desk, my face and shirt were all covered with a brown spray. It was a mess! After a raging fit of coughing, and trying to clear coffee from my airway, I told Bill we needed to take a break. Through his laughter, he said, “Well, Tom, we’re not scheduled to take a break yet.” He and Mark shared more laughter. Finally, Bill announced, “We’ll be right back after these important messages.”
 
Bill and Mark came to the newsroom, still laughing. “What’s the problem in here,” Bill asked with innocent curiosity? I reached inside Mark’s desk drawer and grabbed some napkins.
 
Mark always had a stash of napkins, plastic tableware, and straws; packets of salt and pepper, parmesan cheese and hot peppers. There was catsup, mustard, and mayo; taco, BBQ, soy sauce, sweet and sour sauce, and every condiment you can imagine, in his desk drawer. I think there may have even been an old hamburger in there. “A man never knows when they’ll forget to put something in your bag at the drive-up,” Mark would reason. With a wad of napkins, I attempted to clean my shirt, the window and desktop.
 
Now this was a good prank; no one got hurt and the coffee stains would probably come out of my shirt in the laundry. Bill adamantly swore he had nothing to do with it. “So, this was all you, Mark?” Mark was too innocent to pull a prank on anyone, let alone his boss.
 
Mark tried to compose himself, then said in a dry tone of voice, “I thought that was funny. Don’t you think that was funny Mr. Palen.”
 
“It was a riot,” I said, dabbing coffee off my shirt. “Now go rinse out my cup and get me a fresh cup of coffee; hold the sugar and salt this time.”
 
Mark refused. “It’s not in my job description to wait on you, or go get your coffee.”
 
“It’s not in you job description to sabotage my coffee either,” I told him. “Now come on, we have to get back on the air, go get me a cup of coffee.”
 
Mark refused, “Why should I go get your coffee?”
 
“Because you ruined my coffee,” I justified. Mark still refused, claiming I had no proof that he did it; at least no proof that would hold up in court.
 
However, Mark was willing to negotiate, “If I go refill your cup, will you buy a Mountain Dew for me?”
 
“No, I’m not going to buy you a bottle of pop. I didn’t do anything to your Dew.” Mark stood firm on his decision.
 
Anyone who has ever worked in radio, knows the importance of having a beverage with you when you’re on the air. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll get my own coffee,” then reminded Mark, “But remember what they say about paybacks!”
 
I went to the back of building, and got a fresh cup of coffee. I noticed more than a dozen empty salt and sugar packets in the trash can. I looked a little closer, “He put five packs of soy sauce in my coffee, too?” Revenge would be mine.
 
The morning show ended at eight-thirty, the same time Mark had to be on the AM station to host the Buy, Sell, and Trade Show. With only thirty minutes to orchestrate my own gag, I had to work fast, and that I did.
 
With just a few minutes left in the show, Bill rushed into the AM studio, giving Mark the time out signal. Mark started a commercial. “Don’t waste anytime wrapping up the show,” Bill said. “There’s a fire at the high school and you need to get up there right away to cover it.”
 
Mark dismissed the incident, “It’s probably just some smart aleck kid that pulled a fire alarm. It happens all the time.”
 
Bill reassured him, “No, it’s real. I checked it out. The fire started in the basement and has already spread to the third floor. The whole building has been evacuated. I’ll have the equipment ready when you wrap up.”
 
Mark quickly closed the Buy, Sell and Trade show. Bill met him in the studio doorway with the cell phone. (An original Motorola bag phone.) “Get going man, we’ll simulcast your reports on both stations.” Mark, took the phone, ran to the newsroom for keys, then out the front door, taking the twenty-seven steps down, two or three at a time. Bill and I ran to the FM studio to watch out the front window.
 
Mark’s truck was parked right outside the front door; a bronze-colored Nissan pickup with a topper on the back. Mark jumped in the truck and started the engine. We could hear him revving his motor, and slipping the clutch, but his truck wouldn’t move. He tried in reverse; no luck. He stepped out of the truck for a moment, then got back in and tried again. Still nothing.
 
An elderly lady was watching the spectacle from across the street. Trying to be helpful, she pointed to the back of his truck. We could easily read her lips as she said, “There’s something under your back wheels.”
 
Mark stepped out to the middle of Main Street, bent down and looked under his truck. He stood up, looking up to the FM studio window where Bill and I (along with the rest of the staff) were watching and busting up laughing. Mark just shook his head. I smiled as I held up my Mr. Cool coffee cup in my right hand, and pointed to it with my left index finger.
 
Mark came back upstairs. “Very funny, Mr. Palen. Now go take my truck off those jack stands.”
 
I could only remind Mark, “You don’t have any proof that I did it – at least no proof that will hold up in court.” I smiled with a vengeful, ornery grin. Then offered, “I’ll take your truck off the jack stands if you’ll go get me a cup of coffee.” Mark refused, and so did I.
 
Mark’s truck sat on the street all day. Marge the meter-maid, started putting parking tickets under his windshield wiper at ten-o-clock; adding another ticket every hour until five-pm. The next morning, Mark’s truck was still there on the jack stands, drawing another ticket each hour from ten to five.
 
The following morning, Mark’s truck was off the stands, and parked on the other side of Main Street. I suppose he parked there to keep watch on his truck in case another vandal, or prankster should return.
 
The jokes had ended, or so I thought. Later that day I asked Mark for the jack stands. “Jack stands,” he replied innocently, “What jack stands?”
 
“Come on Mark,” I explained, “I have to return those to Goodyear.”
 
Mark insisted, “I have no knowledge of any jack stands, but if you buy a Mountain Dew for me, I might do some investigative work to see if I can help you locate your jack stands.”
 
“Never,” I declared!
 
A few days later, I asked Mark again for the jack stands. Once again, he denied knowing their whereabouts, then asked if I wanted to buy a bottle of pop for him. I went to Goodyear, confessing to Gary that I wasn’t going to get the equipment back that I had borrowed for the prank. These were commercial grade jack stands, that cost a hundred bucks a set. I told Gary I would pay for the jack stands out of my next paycheck.
 
When I went in to pay Gary, he asked, “What about the floor jack?” He said Mark had borrowed a two-hundred-dollar floor jack to get his truck off the stands, but never returned the jack.
 
“Man, this prank is getting expensive.” I said, then told Gary I would pay for the floor jack from my next two paychecks. “I would rather buy a new floor jack for you, than to cave in and buy Mark a twenty-five-cent bottle of pop.
 
Gary started laughing as he handed my check back to me. “Mark brought the floor jack and stands back the same day he borrowed them,” Gary admitted. “He asked me to play along with it to see you squirm.” Hmm.
 
The next morning, Mark and I called for a truce. I bought a Mountain Dew for him, and he brought me a cup of coffee. I took a skeptical sip of the coffee. “Just as I suspected,” I said, “That rat fink salted my coffee again!”
 
From the AM studio, I heard Mark coughing, “What the heck? Palen!”
 
As if Mountain Dew didn’t already have enough sugar.