​It was a beautiful Saturday morning. I was doing a live remote, radio broadcast in Ottumwa. I had just finished doing a shot on the air when my cell phone rang. It was Melissa calling.

"Can you do me a really big favor," she asked. "Is there any way you could fly to Houston and bring my Uncle Kenny and Aunt Gail back?" I told her the weather wasn't looking good, but I would do some checking and get back to her shortly.
 
Melissa had recently told me her Grandpa Max had been ill - I knew it had to be serious for her to call me with this request.
 
Between my broadcasts I called the flight service station for a weather briefing. "Flight is not recommended for your route,” the briefer told me. He then went on to give me the full details. It seemed unfair. The weather in both Ottumwa and Houston was beautiful, but everything in between was a mess of violent thunderstorms. My route was littered with tornado boxes.
 
I called Melissa back, "This is the kind of weather the airlines won't fly through," I explained. The thunderstorms were towering to fifty- and sixty-thousand feet. Storms were affecting Kansas City, Minneapolis, Chicago, Denver, and Atlanta. Airline traffic was backed up all over the country. Even Houston International Airport had been shut down for weather earlier in the day as storms passed through.


I really wanted to help her but, but I couldn't. "I can't fly through it and I can't go around it. It's just too big." It broke my heart to tell her, "I can't do it." After my broadcast, I kept checking the weather. Later in the afternoon, I called Melissa. "It looks like there's going to be a small break in the weather. If I take off within thirty minutes, I should be able to make it." I explained that she would have to be sure her aunt and uncle were at the airport when I arrived. I would have to do a fast fueling and get right back in the air.


"Are you sure?" she asked. "Yeah," I told her, explaining, "I can get to Houston no problem. If the window closes and the weather comes down, I might not get back, but I think I can make it. It's worth a shot." In a worst-case scenario, I could stay in Houston with my sister, Patti.


Melissa wanted to know, "Will you have room for my cousin Bree? She wants to come too."  "Sure, but they'll all have to be at the airport ready to go. This is a really narrow window of opportunity." Melissa would watch my flight on flightaware.com, and keep her family posted on my expected arrival time in Houston.
 
In route to the airport, I filed my flight plan, then called Ottumwa Flying Service. I was very relieved when Steve Black answered the phone, late on a Saturday afternoon. "Steve, I need a favor. Can you pull my airplane out, top the tanks, check the oil and do a preflight for me?" "Sure, what's the rush?" He asked. "I need to run to Houston and back." I told him. "Houston, Texas," he questioned.  "Have you looked the weather? It's a mess all over the country!" I told him I had, and explained there was a window opening. If I timed it just right, I could get through. "Okay, I trust you." he said, "But be careful. Tom, if you need to, land the plane and wait the storm out!" I assured him I would.
 
Speaking of trust, I don't let anyone preflight my airplane. Steve Black is the only man I would allow to do that for me. I would trust him with my life, and when you let someone else preflight your airplane, that is exactly what you are doing.



When I arrived at the airport, I parked the car, grabbed my flight bag, and ran to the airplane. Steve was waiting by the wing with my door opened for me. He handed me a quart of oil, then said, "Take this with you in case you need it in Houston."


I took the container, thanked him and climbed onto the wing to get in. "You're going to get diverted around Kansas City,” he told me.  I smiled and replied, "Yeah, that’s my window. I've been watching that cell. It's a big one. I'll shoot around it to the west." "Be safe, Tom." he told me as I closed the door.
 
I started the engine and taxied to runway three-one, making my radio calls along the way. Rolling down the runway on departure, I patted the top of the instrument panel, “Here we go, girl. It’s you and me. We’ll get through this together.” I was bumping around in the clouds most of the way. I stayed in touch with the flight service people, who guided me through the sky, keeping me away from the bad weather.
 
Near Kansas City, a big line of storms was moving from the west, eastward, leaving me the window I anticipated. The air traffic controller suggested a diversion to the west to get behind the storm system.  From there I would have storm-free path all the way to Houston. Around central Texas the clouds broke and I flew in clear skies and smooth air the rest of the way.
 
About twenty minutes before landing at Hooks Field in Houston, I called the flying service on the local unicom. I gave them my aircraft information and request. "I need to top off both tanks. Can I get a quick turn on fuel? I'll be picking up some people, and need get right back in the air to beat weather." The lady on the other end of the radio answered, "No problem. We'll be ready for you and your passengers are here waiting."

After landing, the fuel truck pulled right up to my airplane. The line guy greeted me, "We're topping both tanks, correct? Do you want me to check your oil." "Yes please, I like it at seven quarts." I answered, then went inside.

I had never met Melissa's aunt and uncle, but from seeing photos, I recognized Kenny, right away. His perfectly groomed hair, soft eyes and big smile under his mustache, made him easy to pick out. He walked toward me, "Tom?" He asked. We shook hands, then he introduced me to Gail. I had met Bree once before.
 
"If you need the restroom, now's the time," I said, "This will be a non-stop flight to Ottumwa." I used the men's room, checked the weather radar, paid for my fuel, and returned to the plane.
 
The line guy told me the oil was fine, but I checked it anyway. I checked the fuel caps to assure they were tight, and did a quick preflight. After loading the few bags they brought, I had Bree board first in the back seat behind the pilot, and Gail sat next to her. I climbed in, slid over to the pilot side, then had Kenny get in the front seat next to me.
 
Because I had already filed my return flight plan, we were able to depart Houston quickly. The takeoff was good, the air cool and smooth - the airplane was flying great. All was good, but I knew it would deteriorate. "The weather is good here, but we may run into some stuff as we get closer to Iowa," I told them. "We'll see how it goes. If we have to, we'll go around the weather."
 
Several flashes of lightning to the west lit the sky, but I wasn't worried. From the air, you can see lightning that is hundreds of miles away - it is no threat. Then a bolt flashed in the nearer distance ahead of us. The air traffic controller called me, "Bonanza, one x-ray delta, there a strong isolated cell at your twelve-o-clock, sixty miles out. It has level three thunderstorms embedded with heavy precipitation, hail and lightning. It's moving fast to the east at 50 miles an hour, but you'll get there before it clears. I would suggest a deviation to the west, and you can go around the back side of it."

I replied, "One x-ray delta, I appreciate that. Request the deviation to the West." ”One x-ray delta, deviation approved. Turn twenty degrees west, return on course when able."

I banked the airplane to the West, and flew that direction for about twenty-five miles. We turned back, to the North for another twenty miles, to clear the storm, then pointed the nose of the airplane to Ottumwa. We were moving toward the overcast.

I checked weather with flight service again; the cloud bases were low, down to about one thousand feet above the ground. We weren't going to be able to fly under them. It wasn't long and we were flying in and out of the clouds at seven thousand feet, in the dark night sky. As we passed the Kansas City metro, the lights of the city glowed in the overcast of clouds below us.
 
We flew about another twenty minutes, before the clouds got thicker. I shined my flashlight down the leading edge of the wing frequently, checking for ice.
 
I got on the radio, "Kansas City center, One x-ray delta, is picking up light to moderate rime ice. Request to go higher, for nine thousand feet." He replied, "One x-ray delta, climb and maintain niner-thousand. What are your conditions?" We were in solid clouds - instrument meteorological conditions. "One x-ray delta, is IMC, temperature is 35 degrees, the air is pretty choppy, moderate turbulence." I had reached my new altitude.

Later I called again, "Kansas City, we're still picking up ice, request higher for eleven thousand feet." My voice was shaking as I spoke. I wasn't scared, but it was like trying to talk when you're driving down a wash-boarded gravel road. "Roger, one x-ray delta, climb and maintain one, one thousand feet."
 
Ice is never a pilot’s friend. It adds weight to the airplane and changes the aerodynamics. It can be very dangerous and requires close attention. Since I was carrying ice, I began considering all my options. With the additional altitude, I could descend into Kirksville, if necessary. Bloomfield was also on the way, then Ottumwa.
 
It appeared I stopped building ice, but I was still in the clouds. "Kansas City, one x-ray delta, we're no longer picking up ice, but we're still IMC, request higher for twelve thousand." The altitude change was approved.
 
Just above 11,000 feet, I broke out of the clouds and the air smoothed out considerably. It seemed like we reached a calm area, as if we were in the eye of a storm. There would probably be more weather to deal with on our descent, but for now all was well and peaceful. The tension was lifted from me.


There was another cloud layer not very high above me. Imagine a sandwich: the bread being the clouds, above and below, we were like the peanut butter in the thin area between.  I climbed a little higher, but I didn't want to get back in the clouds above. Even though this is not a normal flight altitude, I called again, "Kansas City center, one x-ray delta is between layers at eleven-seven. We have 39 degrees and the ice is starting to dissipate. We'd like to stay here."
 
He replied, "One x-Ray delta, I'll give you a block, from ten thousand, to one-two thousand feet. Contact Chicago Center at one-one-eight-point-one-five.” I repeated his instructions, then said, "Thanks for all your help tonight, Kansas City." "No problem." He replied, “that's what we're here for. Good night."
 
When I called Chicago center, he asked what approach I would like for Ottumwa. Ottumwa had a high overcast, so I requested a visual approach for runway three-one. "One x-ray delta, descend at pilot’s discretion to five thousand feet,” he said.
 
I started down for Ottumwa. As soon as we re-entered the clouds, we started building up ice again and the air got rough. The lower I got, the more ice I collected. At about six thousand feet, I broke out of the clouds. The air temperature was forty degrees. The airport was straight ahead, about twenty miles out.


I called the Chicago center, "Chicago, one x-ray delta has the field at Ottumwa. I'll cancel my IFR now."
He answered, "One x-ray delta, I show no traffic between you and the airport. Cancellation received, change to advisory frequency approved. Squawk VFR, one-two-zero-zero. Good night."

With all the intense weather and flying, I almost forgot why I was flying. I decided to land straight in on runway four. With ice still on the wings, the sooner I was on the ground the better.

I landed the plane, then pulled off the runway, and taxied quickly toward the ramp. I turned the airplane to pull into the hangar, where Melissa was standing with her mom and dad next to their car.


My heart sank. In the beam of my taxi lights, I could tell by the look on her face, I was too late. I didn't get there in time. I stopped the airplane, shut down the engine and opened the door for Kenny to climb out first. I got out, then helped Gail and Bree, down onto the step from the wing.
 
Melissa came over and gave me a hug. "I didn't make it, did I?" She whispered, "He passed away." A tear rolled down my cheek. I was glad it was dark as I didn't want her to see me crying. "I’m so sorry. I really tried." I said. "I know you did. They are here now, and that's what matters.”

Melissa left to be with her family. I secured the airplane, then drove home. I felt like I had failed. If only the weather was better, I could have left hours earlier. If only I didn't have to divert around storms. If only I didn't have to deal with ice. If only the airplane could have gone faster. If only...
 
Then I heard a voice. "You did exactly what I wanted you to do. Let this be My way." I could only sigh.
 
As I drove down the road, my mood started to change. Even in this time of grieving for Melissa, and her family, there was joy to be found. You see, a few days before he passed, Melissa shared with me, that her grandpa Max, told her he had a date coming up. A date with her grandma, Lucille.

I only met Max Lyons one time. After being introduced, he shook my hand with vigor and said, "Tom, glad to know you." That's exactly what Melissa told me he would say!
 
Somehow, I envisioned Max standing before his Creator for judgement. I could imagine him saying something like, "I wasn't always perfect, Lord, but I did the best I could. Can we make this quick? There's a pretty lady who's been waiting an awful long time for me to get here."


I could see Max, passing through the pearly gates. Lucille, waiting on the other side, in a beautiful dress with her hair done up to perfection. Each of them blushing, Max extends his hand toward her. Lucille takes his hand. The two come close together again and dance a waltz. Arm in arm, they dance and dance, off into eternity.

This morning, I read my mother-in-law, Carol's post. It was eleven years ago today when Max passed away. It was eleven years before that, on the same date, when his wife, Lucille, passed. On that flight from Texas to Iowa, we found calm air at eleven thousand feet.
 
Perhaps Max and Lucille were already there, dancing on the calm clouds, watching as we flew by in the heavens above - at eleven thousand feet.

​I watched our oldest granddaughter, Addison, as she chased Edgar, the cat, around the house.  We tried explaining, “He is never going to come to you as long as you keep chasing him.”  Being impatient, she didn’t want to wait and continued her quest. From the living room, through the dining room, into the kitchen, then back into the living room; around and around they went in circles, one lap after another, the sleek black cat was always in the lead. 
 
Occasionally, Edgar would double back, running around the dining room table, reversing the direction of travel.  Addison kept with him, staying in hot pursuit. She tried to outsmart Edgar by stopping in the opening between the living room and dining room. She waited for Edgar, thinking she would head him off and pounce on him. But Edgar never came. Reversing her direction again, Addison ran counter-clock-wise in an attempt to find the elusive feline. In vain, she pressed on but couldn’t find him. Edgar was hiding under the corner booth in the kitchen, watching as she sprinted by, looking for him.
 
As a spectator, I was amused by it all.  A chase that was only possible because we live in a “circle house.” Circle houses provide a natural racetrack by having at least two doorways in different rooms, connecting them together and creating “the circle.” I suppose such houses were built for convenience, allowing people to move through the structure more efficiently; saving steps. But that wasn’t always the case.  
 
Many parents were worn out after chasing a bare-bottomed, laughing child who fled from the bath, or, a kid wearing pajamas whose mission was to delay bedtime.  I’ve seen all these things growing up. As a child I assumed all houses were built this way. Hands down, the coolest circle house I ever lived in was our old farmhouse on rural route #5 in Ottumwa, Iowa.  It was actually a double circle house, as the solarium made its own smaller circle with doorways into the dining and living rooms.
 
Back then, my Dad was the general manager of KTVO-TV. The station aired a program called Candyland. Kids were invited to be on the show, where they sat in little bleachers to watch cartoons. The host would play games, tell stories and provide other entertainment. Each kid would get something small like a coloring book or a paper hat. If you were lucky, you might get a certificate for a free ice cream cone at Grahams Dairy, A&W, or Briggs Ice Cream. Usually, the prizes were kind of cheesy, but everyone was happy to get something.
 
One year around Christmas, my brother Gerard and I got to be on the show. We were five and six years old at the time. I don’t remember what cartoons we watched, but the gifts were awesome! I left with a big yellow Tonka dump truck. It was all metal, the tires were real rubber and the bed of the truck was hinged to actually dump whatever I loaded into the truck. It was big enough that I could sit in the box, hang my feet out the back and push myself along backwards until I stopped by running into something. 
 
Gerard got a red cement truck with a white mixing drum on the back. It had an oval on the sides with red letters spelling Tonka, in the center. The drum really turned. We pretended to mix concrete by putting sand and small rocks into the opening, then turning the drum. We played for countless hours with those trucks. As two young brothers often do, we became somewhat competitive.
 
My dump truck was much larger than his cement truck.  Sometimes, to boast the size and power of my truck, I would snatch his fully-loaded cement mixer and put it in the bed of my truck.  With a hand on each side of the dump box, I would lean into it and take off running, pushing the truck as fast as I could go, stealing his truck. He would chase me, eventually catching me. A wrestling match always followed.
 
“My dump truck is a lot faster than your cement truck.” I told him. “No, it’s not.” He replied. “Yes, it is. It’s bigger and it’s a lot faster.” I justified. “My truck is faster,” he argued, “because it’s not fat like your truck.” “Oh yeah?” I said, “Yeah.” He replied. After an exchange bantering of “Oh yeah?” and “Yeah!” It was obvious a race would be needed to determine who had the faster truck
 
Inside the house, a course was plotted. The first one to cross the start/finish line, the second time, would be the winner, earning bragging rights for owning the faster truck. We lined our trucks up in the double doorway between the living room and the dining room. Because Gerard’s truck was smaller than mine, he couldn’t lean on his truck like I did. That gave me a clear advantage.  “On your mark. Get set. GO!” I immediately pushed Gerard over, then took off.
 
He was quickly back on his truck and hot on my tail. We sped across the Living room.  We made tire screeching noises as we rounded the corner, heading down the hallway. A hard-right turn at the end of the hallway would require slowing down for most drivers, but not me. I picked up the speed, losing control in the turn and rolled into the open bedroom door.  Gerard passed me, laughing. 
 
I put my truck back on its wheels and raced past the bathroom.  Gerard had just passed the door that went upstairs. He stopped long enough to open the door, throwing an obstacle in my path.  I didn’t even slow down, I just rammed the door, pushing it out of my way and slamming it shut, making one heck of a racket!  Mom was in the kitchen, “What’s going on?” She wanted to know. “Did you boys break something?” Before we could answer, Gerard raced through the S-turn at the end of the hall and into the kitchen. He was headed for the butler’s pantry. “Hey! You didn’t do your lap around the kitchen table.” I called out to Gerard, as I was going around the table, speeding between Mom and the sink. I stopped for a moment in the pantry to make sure he went all the way around the table.  Passing Mom, he ran into her foot. (Remember, these were metal toys.)  “Ouch!” She yelled.  Mom was mad, “Knock it off! Right now!”
 
It was a heated race. Tempers flared and we both became more determined to win. Bumping into each other several times, we sped through the dining room.  Once past the glass French doors, we turned left through the living room, into the solarium, back to the dining room. Two laps were required around the little circle.  Then we began the second and final lap on the big circle.  In the kitchen, rounding the table, I wiped out on a slippery floor, knocking over a trash can. Gerard took over the lead, but not for long.
 
The swinging door between the pantry and the kitchen was closed, which was quite strange as that door is always propped open. Gerard pushed through the door and I followed, bouncing the heavy door off my shoulder. Uh, oh! Mom was in the dining room.  Gerard couldn’t stop and crashed into the now closed French doors that led to the living room.  Looking for an escape route, I headed for the solarium, but that glass door was also now closed. Mom was really mad.
 
She grabbed me by the wrist and picked me up. I tried to hold onto my truck, but it fell to the floor, landing on its side next to Gerard’s upset cement truck. She opened the door with her free hand, then grabbed my brother by the wrist. Mom’s lecture began: “If you two think you’re going to disobey me and keep running around the house after I told you to stop, you’ve both got another think coming!”
 
The two of us were being taken, actually dragged, to the back bedroom.  Spankings were imminent.  “It’s not fair!” I protested, while trying to dig my heels into the carpet. “I’m not the one who ran into you. It was him!” Protests never did work with Mom.  When she felt you had it coming, you were going to get it! 
 
As I recall, Gerard got three swats on the behind, where my tushy was graced with six or seven stinging whacks.  The extra whacks were the result of my attempted protest.  Mom put us in bed and went back to the kitchen, pulling the bedroom door closed behind her.
 
A debate ensued as to who won the race. Gerard insisted he won, since he reached the doors first. “You didn’t reach them, you crashed into them. That’s why we got sent to bed.” I told him. “Besides, since the doors were closed, neither one of us actually crossed the finish line.”  I explained.  “We’ll probably have to have a rematch.” Gerard said. I agreed, “Fine, but you’re just going to lose again because my dump truck is bigger and faster than your cement truck.”
 
Gerard snuck out the door and down the hallway. He came back and reported Mom was in the kitchen at the sink, doing something. Another advantage to a circle house.  It offered us the opportunity to tiptoe, unnoticed, down the front hallway and out the front door.  We were going to go out to the apple orchard, but Mom would see us through the kitchen window.  Instead, we ran around the front of the house to the garage, to see if the mother cat and her kittens were still under the porch. They were, so we stayed to play with them.
 
Back in the present-day kitchen at our house, Addison walked towards me. Looking up, she asked, “Papa, do you know where Edgar is?” I smiled, “Sweetie, you need to leave Edgar alone for a little while. He’ll come to you, but you have to stop chasing him.” From under the bench, Edgar watched as she walked to the living room.
 
A few minutes later, Addison went running by with June’s stuffed moose in her hand. June trotted along behind, hoping she would throw the toy for her to catch. Addison wasn’t going to throw it. She just enjoyed being chased by the dog, as she ran laps through our circle house.

​I cannot do it.  I absolutely cannot throw out a clean sock just because it has a hole in it.  It’s a waste of soap and water, not to mention my labor and the senseless wear and tear on the laundry machines. Because it’s clean, I feel obligated to wear it one more time, then discard the worn-out sock when it’s dirty…that is, if I remember.
 
This oddity of mine goes beyond socks.  I’ll openly admit: I have a few “garment attachment” issues – okay, maybe I have a lot of them.  My wife has pointed out my inability to throw away old, worn out, damaged or faded clothing.  Rather than addressing the problem and seeking a resolution, I find it much easier to head straight into denial.  In an attempt to justify my bad habit, I’ll declare, “I can wear this as a work shirt,” or, “This will make a good rag.”  The other day I had a fabric experience that gave me a real scare.
 
We had company coming for the weekend and I needed to prepare the guest bedroom for them. Flannel bedsheets are really nice and cozy in the winter months, but it was time to replace them with regular cotton sheets, for the milder spring days ahead.  I set the decorative pillows, with shams that match the quilted bedspread, on the chair in the corner.  I pulled off the pillow cases and tossed them into the laundry basket.
 
I removed the bedspread, folding it neatly and placing it on the chair.  When I tried to take off the brown fleece blanket, it clung to the top sheet.  The two pieces were stuck together.  Grabbing a corner of the flannel sheet in my left hand and the edge of the blanket in my right, I would separate them so I could put the sheet in the laundry basket.  I lifted my arms like an Olympic swimmer doing the breast stroke, I yanked the two pieces in opposite direction.  That’s when the incident occurred.
 
“Sweet Mother Mary, Joseph and Jesus, save me!”  I was nearly electrocuted!  Bang, bang, bang, snap, snap, pop, pop, pop, crack, crack… Hundreds of little bluish-white static sparks flew wildly, every other one striking me, creating a racket that sounded like the Fourth of July and I was screaming like a girl.  I honestly thought someone lit a whole package of firecrackers, tossing it at my feet as a prankster would do to his buddies. 
 
The noise scared my dog, June. She went scurrying down the hallway with her tail tucked in between her legs. When the fireworks settled, I inspected the blanket for burn marks or possible open flames.  Not finding any, I walked to the living room. June was curled up safely in the leather chair with her head hanging over the edge of the cushion. “Get back in there and help me; you’re a dog, not a chicken. Act like it.”   “No way, man,” she said, “I don’t get hazard pay. You’re on your own.”
 
I returned to the guest bedroom (alone) and carefully removed the remainder of flannel bedding.  The static had gotten on me! Every hair on my arms, and most on my head, were drawn toward the bed, pointing toward that fleece blanket like it was magnetic. My T-shirt was sticking to my chest; my blue pajama pants were clinging to my legs. My whole body was fully charged. I was more than a little on edge. Each aftershock of static caused me to jump again, whether it popped me or missed. 
 
With the flannel sheets in the basket, I walked to the master bedroom to check for anything else that could go in with this load of laundry.  On the end of the bed were a few of my favorite flannel garments – two shirts and a pair of pajama pants.  Throwing them into the basket, I laughed to myself. Women spent decades teaching men the proper way to do the wash; separating whites and colors, using hot or cold, etc., but I might be the first man in history to do a load of flannels only.
 
With the laundry basket on my hip, I started walking toward the basement.  June was still sitting in the chair. “Do you want to come downstairs with me?” I asked her. Recognizing the scary, blue plaid flannel sheets that made all the sparks and noise, she declined. 
 
At the washer, I turned the load size to extra-large; set the temperature to cold, pulled the knob outward to start the water flowing and added a capful of liquid detergent to the tub.  While I waited for the soap to mix with the water, I took the green flannel shirt from the basket, holding it up and looking it over. Both sleeves were shredded near the elbows. The back and front both had various large holes and rips in them.  I thought about throwing it away, but I could keep using it for a work shirt. Besides, it had sentimental value. 
 
On my dresser there is a framed photo of Melissa and me.  I was wearing that very green shirt, back when it was almost new. The shirt was one of the first gifts my wife gave me. I knew if I washed it, I wouldn’t throw it away until after I’d worn it again. “I don’t have to decide right now.” I said, then laid the shirt over my shoulder to take it back upstairs.
 
Next, I took the orange, plaid shirt from the basket, holding it up and looking it over. The color has faded, but overall, it was in pretty good shape, with just one or two small holes in the tail and some damage to the collar.  I thought about throwing it away, but I still wear it, especially around campfires, when I don’t want a good shirt smelling like smoke. Besides, it had sentimental value. 
 
One night I fell asleep in the papasan chair in the living room. Melissa was going to bed and didn’t want June, who was just young puppy at that time, roaming freely around the house.  (She wasn’t fully potty trained yet. She, meaning June, not Melissa.)  Melissa put June on her leash, then placed the loop of the leash over my foot and around my ankle, leaving the puppy with me. While I was sleeping, June hopped up in the chair, crawled up onto my shoulder and gnawed the collar on the back of my shirt.  I was wearing that very orange plaid shirt. As I ran my hands over the chewed collar, I remembered it was a gift from my wife and one of my favorite shirts. I knew if I washed the shirt, I wouldn’t throw it away until after I’d worn it again. “I don’t have to decide right now.” I said, then threw the shirt over my shoulder with the green one, to take it back upstairs.
 
Next, I picked up the red plaid, flannel pajama pants.  I held them up and looked them over.  The fabric was worn so thin I could see daylight through it.  The hems on both legs were tattered and there were a couple holes in the jammies. The seams were weak and even the cloth around the waistband was giving out, allowing the white elastic inside to show. The seat was blown out with about an eight or nine-inch tear. I thought about throwing them away, but I still wear them as long as I have on boxers, my derriere wasn’t showing. Besides, they had sentimental value.
 
That was the first pair of pajama pants my wife ever gave me.  I knew if I washed them, I wouldn’t throw them away until after I’d worn them again. “I don’t have to decide right now.” I said, then flipped the pajama pants over my shoulder along with the two shirts to take them back upstairs.
 
Pulling the sheets from the basket, I could hear June snickering upstairs as they snapped and popped a few more times from static.  “It’s not funny, dog!” I hollered toward the stairwell.  I stuffed the sheets into the washer, positioning them evenly around the agitator. I gave final consideration to throwing in the garments that were draped over my shoulder.  Old, worn flannel sure feels good to wear and it’s taken a dozen years to get these special articles of clothing to this level of satisfying comfort.  “I don’t have to decide right now.” I said, then closed the lid on the washer and went upstairs.
 
In the master bathroom, I held up the two shirts and the pajama pants, looking them over one last time.  “Sorry guys,” I said to the mass of flannel in my hands, “I think this is the end of the road for you.”  I dropped the pajama pants into the trash can, then the green shirt and finally the orange shirt. The three pieces overflowed the top of the can.  I turned off the bathroom light and said, “Farewell my good friends, it’s been a long, fun ride, but your journey has come to an end. Rest in peace.” I pulled the door shut, then went to the living room to sit with June.  Together, we would mourn.
 
Thinking about what I had just done and not sure I felt very good about it, I was trying to convince myself, “You did the right thing, Tom. They were tired. It was time.”  Suddenly, I jumped up and walked, with conviction, to the master bath.  June followed close on my heels.  I flung the door open and grabbed the orange flannel shirt from the top of the trash can.  “This one still has plenty of life in it. I’ll be darned if I’m going to throw away a perfectly good shirt.”
 
I returned to the living room chair with my dog and my orange flannel shirt.  Still second guessing my decision, I was thinking about the pajama pants and the green flannel shirt.  They were about the same age and now deceased, laying together in a shallow, plastic grave.  I also thought about the sheets I took off the bed and how much static energy they discharged. Wondering if there was any possible resurrection for the shirt and jammies, I considered Dr. Frankenstein and how he brought his deceased creature back to life with a charge from a bolt of lightning. 
 
“Lightning is just a static discharge.” I told June, with a fleeting glimmer of hope in my voice. “Just like the sparks from the sheets – also a static discharge.  It’s the same thing, albeit the voltage is substantially less than lightning.” June looked upon me with pity and compassion and said, “Dad, you’ve got to let go.” I pleaded my case, “But it worked for Dr. Frankenstein…” June interrupted me, “Frankenstein was just a movie. It wasn’t real.” “But...”  June warned, “If you keep this up, Mom is going to have you committed, you know that, right?” I hung my head low, surrendering, “I know.”
 
Later, when I heard the buzzer sound off on the dryer, I went down and gathered the bedding. I decided I was going to put the flannel sheets back on the bed for our company coming on the weekend.  The nights were still chilly and I’m sure they would appreciate sleeping on them.  I began making the bed. I like working with warm sheets. T
 
hey smell so fresh and clean right out of the dryer.  I put two dryer sheets in with them so, they were static free, too. Ahhh…
 
I stretched the fitted sheet over each of the four corners, smoothing out the wrinkles in the middle.  Then I snapped and waved the top sheet, letting it settle gently over the mattress like a parachute. I gave it a few more light shakes for alignment until it was centered on the bed. I tucked the sheet under the foot of the mattress and began making my hospital corners, just like mom taught me when I was little.  As I smoothed the first corner, I felt a lump underneath. I pulled the top sheet loose, lifting the elastic corner from the bottom sheet, to investigate.
 
“Would you look at that?” I said, with a big grin, as I removed a grey, athletic sock that was trapped inside. We know washing machines steal socks, but they rarely give one back.  That sock wasn’t there when I put the load in the washer, so to find a lone sock in with the clean sheets? That was every bit as lucky as finding a four-leaf clover in the yard.
 
I knew there was another single grey sock in my dresser drawer.  I held the sock up and looked it over.  It had a small hole in the heel. Still smiling, I carried it to the master bedroom to reunite the two single socks, as one pair.  Even though one sock had a hole in it, you can bet I wasn’t going to throw away a pair of perfectly good, clean socks – especially after the day I’d had!

Not all parts of the country get them and not everyone likes them, but I do.  They scare the daylights out of some people and pets, while others look forward to them, anticipating their arrival.  They’re loud, powerful and can be very destructive and yet there’s still a gracefulness; a mystique and romantic charm about them that draws in many.  I am talking about a meteorological-phenomena called the Midwestern thunderstorm – thunderstorms cooler than any place else in the world.  I really miss them.  Folks, such as myself, like to pull up a chair and watch the storm as if it was the single performance of a show coming to town for one day only. 
 
The best seat for spectating is under a covered porch, an awning, or, maybe out in the garage or a barn with a large door, opened.  Your vantage point needs a view to the west – the direction from which the storms arrive.  Occasionally storms move in from the east, but that’s pretty uncommon.
 
People are often caught off-guard.  Their first sign of a storm approaching is thunder.  Unsuspecting souls will hear it before ever seeing the storm. It starts with a dull noise coming from the far distance, invoking the obvious question: “Was that thunder?” A look to the west might reveal a dark sky, or massive, brilliant white cumulus clouds, still billowing and towering upward toward the heavens.  Sometimes, the sky might have a brackish green color. Or, a very dark grey, nearly black line will define a squall line. When either of these appear, you know you’re in for a real doozy of a storm.
 
I always enjoy hearing loud crashes of thunder, even stronger than fireworks.  I will listen as it booms and echoes, rolling off into the distance, dissipating to silence - until the next clap sounds off. Flashes of lightning put on spectacular displays in the sky.  Sometimes, the lightning jumps horizontally from cloud to cloud. Other times it shoots down vertically, striking out at the earth. I love to watch lightning by day or night. It’s power always leaves me in awe. If I’m really lucky, I might catch a bolt hitting an object on the ground, discharging its energy.   Lightning strikes, though fascinating, are both dangerous and damaging.
 
As much as I enjoy watching the lightning, I always cringed whenever it was close to our radio station towers. A 400-foot-tall steel tower is the easiest target in the area for lightning to hit.  Our equipment had the best lightning protection and grounding systems available, but lightning has a mind and a will of its own; it will find a way to get in.  In my 35 years as a radio broadcaster, I saw some severe lightning damage and the cost was always measured in the thousands of dollars.  The visual damage inside a transmitter building was never as impressive as the outdoor damage.  Lightning is very capable of splitting a massive oak tree in half, setting structures on fire and is often fatal if it strikes a person. All of the damage is done in a split second and if you blink, you might miss it all.  Lightning has to be respected, as do all elements of a severe storm. 
 
Hail is kind of cool when it’s pea-sized, or even the size of nickels and dimes.  It can cover the ground, giving the illusion of a snowfall in the spring or summer.  But when hail is the size of golf balls, it starts denting car hoods and tops.  When it gets as large as baseballs and softballs, it’s not fun anymore.  It smashes through windshields, breaks house windows and destroys siding and roofs. It becomes very destructive and dangerous!
 
The wind is a sure sign that a pending storm is about to break loose.  It always kicks up just before the rains that are often torrential.  When driven by the wind, rain can be pushed horizontally, in defiance of the laws of gravity.  While lightning damage is isolated to the object it strikes, strong wind will tear up anything in its path.  Wind will knock down power lines, snap off large branches, uproot tall trees and remove rooftops without effort.  The wind, too, has to be respected.  Just because the winds die down, it is not an assurance the storm is over.  Frequently, it is just regrouping, finding new energy and about to wallop you with round two.  A person has to be prepared for storms to flare up at any time – even when they’re not forecast.  It’s just a Midwest thing.  A common question asked when away from home and a storm is brewing: “Are the windows closed?”
 
Last weekend, while in Ottumwa, Iowa, I took the opportunity to visit my old friend, Mike, at O’Hara Hardware.  It was after hours and we were sitting in his office, reminiscing when I heard a rumbling.  “Was that thunder?” I asked. “It sounded like a truck outside to me.” He replied.  Content with his answer, we resumed our conversation.  A second and louder rumbling was heard.  Mike said, “That was thunder.”  I knew I had to get going and was getting ready to say farewell.  Then came a really familiar sound that I hadn’t heard for a while. 
 
I cocked my head and listened, to make sure I was hearing what I thought I was hearing.  It started softly, then rapidly got louder and louder.  It was a booming noise, that can be deafening when heavy rains are pounding down on a metal roof. I jumped out of my chair, “I have to go!” I announced hurriedly.  As Mike followed me to the front door, I explained.  “My dog June, is in the car waiting for me.”  Are your windows opened?” He asked.  I replied, “Yep. The windows are down.”
 
At the front door, I looked out across the parking lot.  Since the store was closed, Mike’s truck and my car were the only two vehicles out there.  The rain was pouring straight down; water was running across the pavement toward the gutters on the street, where it was already pooling faster than the storm sewers could take it in.  It was an icky feeling that settled into my stomach, seeing my car, sitting in the rain with the windows all open halfway.  The visibility was reduced by the heavy rain, but not so much that I could see my sunroof was open, too!
 
Mike unlocked the door and held it open for me.  I said, “Next time I come to town, I’ll try to let you know ahead of time.  Maybe we can go out to dinner!”  “That sound good. Let’s do that.” He was saying as I ran away, through the rain, toward my car.
 
In stride, I unlocked the doors with my fob.  Quickly jumping into the car, I was hoping to find shelter from the rain – but you don’t get out of the rain when sitting under a giant hole in the roof.  I put the key in the ignition and turned it, simultaneously holding the button to close the sunroof.  June was sitting in the back of the car, where she was protected from the rain.  Sarcastically, she said, “Nice work boss.  Next time, maybe you’ll listen to the dog and let me come inside with you, so you can lock the car…with the windows rolled up and everything.”  “Hmfph. Smart aleck.” I grumbled.  Adding insult to injury, June reminded me, “You’re in Iowa now, partner. You can’t trust the weather.”
 
The seats, the steering wheel, the center console and everything under the sun (roof) was soaked.  My back was cold; my shirt was already wet and the seat back finished it off. My jeans were as drenched as if I had sat in a puddle of water – which I did, as there was literally a puddle of water in the front seat.  “June Bug, do you want to sit with me up front?” I asked, while patting my hand, splashing the water in the passenger’s seat.  She lowered her brow, “I think not, Dad.”
 
“Hey Dad?” June beckoned from the back of the car. “Yeah Bugs, what’s up?” I responded.  Is this part of that ‘Midwestern meteorological-phenomena,’ that you love and claim to miss?” We shared a good laugh about that.  “Actually June,” I answered, “this is a part of it. Yes. Getting caught in the rain.” What the heck. Getting upset over wet seats wasn’t going to make them dry, one might as well find humor in the situation. 
 
I shook the water from my right hand and put the car in first gear.  I felt warmer inside – a nostalgic feeling, that, for me, is another element of a thunderstorm - a true meteorological-phenomena that can only be experienced this way, in The Midwest.

It was close to 7:00 p.m. when I snuck into the radio station, the same way a teenager sneaks into the house at 2 or 3 in the morning, when they were supposed to be home by 11. I was hoping and praying not to get caught, which would give me until the next morning to come up with an alibi. I knew I would have some explaining to do.
 
The first office inside the front door was my Dad’s and his lights were off - that was a good sign. My office was all the way down the hall, in the back of the building, next to the production room.  Since Dad’s lights were off, it seemed the coast was clear.  I breathed a sigh of relief and walked freely to my office, placing the key in the door.  Dad stepped out of the production room.  Wearing his long beige dress coat with the belt tied around the waist and plaid Stetson hat, he didn’t look or sound happy. “Where have you been all day?” He demanded.
 
I always liked that Stetson hat on Dad, but strongly suspected, this was not the time to offer flattering comments on his apparel. Not having the luxury of waiting until the next morning, I had to think on my feet and fast. “Well…Dad…” I cleared my throat and stammered, “I was seeing a new potential client.  I think they might be spending a lot of money advertising with us in the future.”  His arms were folded across his chest. He looked at me with strong skepticism, waiting for a full explanation.
 
The truth is, I was out selling advertising, as I was supposed to be.  It was a nice day in the early spring and I was riding my motorcycle to my sales calls.  It was a brand new, dark blue 1981 Kawasaki, KZ1100 with red and gold pinstripes. She was fully dressed with a matching fairing and windshield; saddlebags and a trunk, not to mention a cool sounding stereo system, complete with a cassette tape player. I taught dog Harry to ride on the motorcycle and he was with me most of the time – even when I went to work.
 
We stopped at a gas station around noon to fill the tank, where we ran into a couple of friends, Jerry and Donna. They were fueling their bike as well.  “Beautiful day for a bike ride, isn’t it?” I asked them.  Donna was sitting on the seat of the bike, which leaning on its kickstand. She agreed “It sure is.” Jerry added, “It’s a great day for riding the bike.” “You guys just cruising around town?” I queried.  “Nope,” Jerry answered, “We’re going to ride to Keith’s Café for lunch. Have you ever been there?” “I’ve never heard of it. Where is Keith’s?” I asked. “Memphis, Missouri.” Jerry said, “About an hour or so from here. They’ve got the best steaks in the whole Midwest.”  “That sounds like fun.” I said.
 
The thought of going with them was enticing, but I had a lot of work to do.  I had clients to see, commercials to write and record and I was way behind on paperwork. Besides, I wasn’t invited and asking to tag along just seemed weird.
 
Jerry offered, “Were going down with a few other couples, you’re welcome to ride along.” Being 21-years-old at the time, I didn’t always make the wisest decisions. “I really don’t have much to do today,” I said, “we’d love to go along with you.”  I nodded toward my dog, who was sitting patiently on the seat, “Is it okay if Harry goes along as my date?”  Jerry laughed. “Sure, why not? He’s a lot better looking than you, Palen.” We shared a good laugh over that, then planned to meet at their house where the others  were waiting.
 
They pulled away from the pumps and rode off.  With a scornful eye, Harry warned, “You’re going to get in trouble for this, you know.” “You worry too much, Harry. Sometimes you just gotta live a little. Besides, we’re going to be back in three hours.  No one will even know we were gone.”  Harry and I rushed home to change clothes.
 
I took off my suit and tie, and put on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt with the radio station logo, “K-98” across the front.  Harry groomed himself a bit, then asked me, “Does this red bandana look okay? Or, should I wear the blue one?” “You look smashing in red, my friend.”  Harry blushed a bit and I gave him a rub on the head, saying, “Come on, let’s go. They’re waiting.”
 
When I got to Jerry’s house, four bikes were parked, backed up to the curb, side-by-side. A group of people were gathered in the yard talking.  I knew most of them and met a couple new people, too.  “Are you guys about ready?” I asked in gest, “I’m tired of waiting.”  We all shared a good laugh about that, mounted our bikes and headed down the road.
 
We weren’t in a hurry, so we took the county roads and less traveled highways – all paved of course.  Since they knew the way, Jerry and Donna led the group; Harry and I brought up the rear.
 
The Iowa countryside was pretty. It was just starting to turn green and the air was so fresh.  The further south we drove toward Missouri, the greener the landscape became.  It was a warm, sunny day, and the wind felt good rushing around the sides of the windshield.  Harry sat behind me with his rump on the seat and his front paws on the saddlebag; his neck stretched out to see around me and look down the road.  “Do you want to come up front for a better view?” I asked him.  Still holding the throttle, I raised my right elbow high in the air.  That was my signal to let Harry know he could sit up front.  I had a special cover made for the gas tank so that he could sit on it without sliding or scratching the paint. 
 
While moving down the road, Harry walked around me, stepping onto my right thigh, then in front of me.  He sat upright between my legs on the gas tank, looking curiously through the windshield, almost as if he was the driver. Taking in all the scenery, he watched cows in the fields, farmers on tractors planting their crops, people out working in their yards and more.  His ears flapped in the wind, occasionally brushing my face and tickling my cheeks. “You’re a good boy, Harry Palen.”  I said, then turned up the stereo when an old Waylon and Willie song came on the radio.
 
Watching the bikes in front of me, I saw something that didn’t look right. I raised my arm again, “Go back, Harry.” I said.  He promptly crossed over my leg the same way as before, taking his seat behind me. Leaning against my back, as if bracing himself for trouble, Harry was looking over my left shoulder to see what was going on.  Doug, a new guy I met that day, on the bike ahead of me was slowing down.  His motorcycle was wobbling from side to side; he had a flat tire.  I turned on my flashers and backed off even more, not knowing if he was going to hang on, or lay it down on the pavement.  As he continued to slow down, his bike jumped each time the rim rolled across from one side of the flat tire to the other.  When he had slowed down enough, Doug pulled off the highway onto the gravel shoulder, walking along, straddling the seat with both feet on the ground to steady the bike.  His wife climbed off first, then Doug got off and put the bike up on the center stand.
 
The other riders noticed he was having trouble and turned around to came back.  Harry and I pulled off the highway behind Doug.  He looked a little pale and shaken; who wouldn’t be? Anyone who has every had a flat tire on a motorcycle at highway speed, knows the gut wrenching feeling and anxiety you experience while trying to stop the bike and stay upright.  “Nice job keeping it up.” I said. Doug nodded, “Thanks.”  Doug was able to remove the back wheel.  I don’t remember if someone ran him into town with his flat or what, but the tire was repaired and we continued down the road toward Memphis.
 
In Memphis, we arrived at Keith’s Café, a small building with white siding, on the corner of Market Street and US Highway 136. We pulled into the gravel parking lot.  Uniformly, one bike at a time pulled up to the building until we were all in a row.  We shut down the engines, put down our kickstands and climbed off our bikes.  After ceremoniously stretching and bending, we all stood upright.  “So, this is Keith’s Café.” I said. Two or three people answered at the same time, “Best steaks in the Midwest.”
 
They all started to walk in. “I’ll be in in a minute.” I said.  Harry looked at me and asked, “Do I get to come in this time?”  “Sorry, bud. I need you to stay out here and guard the bikes.” I said.  I got his water bowl and a bottle of water from the side compartment.  Filling his dish, I said, “There’s shade next to the building for you.” I gave him a rub on the head and said, “I’ll be back in a bit and I’ll bring you something to eat.” I didn’t put Harry on a leash; it wasn’t necessary. Harry knew to stay close to the bike until I came back.
 
Walking inside the restaurant was like taking a step back in time.  The tables were mostly old kitchen tables with chrome legs and Formica tops and a chrome band around the edges. Mismatched chrome chairs, with a hodge-podge of shiny red, green, blue, yellow and turquoise seats tops, sat around each table.  There was a counter with chairs and stools, the flooring was square vinyl tile that made a checker-board pattern of sorts.  Coffee mugs hanging on the wall had red Dyno-Label Maker tags, marking each hook for the mug’s owner. The feel indicated this was a favorite spot for the locals of Memphis, Missouri.  The décor, atmosphere and friendly staff made tourists, such as ourselves, feel right at home, too.  It was like sitting around the table at your uncle’s house with family and friends. The ambiance of Keith’s Café was indeed welcoming – but the food? Oh my!
 
I ordered a big T-bone steak, medium rare, a baked potato with butter and sour cream and a side of green beans.  I substituted the salad, for cottage cheese and a warm dinner roll came with the meal.  The steak was tender, juicy and cooked to perfection.  The baked potato was just right.  Everything was delicious.  I was very full, but, against my better judgement I ordered a slice of homemade apple pie…a la mode.  My friends didn’t steer me wrong – it was quite possibly the best steak in the whole Midwest; it certainly was the best steak I’d ever had.
 
We enjoyed good conversation and plenty of laughter, both during and after dinner.  The waitress came by with our checks, asking, “Do you all need anything else?” “Can I get a doggie bag, please?” I asked, when she set my ticket next to my empty plate.  She looked at my dishes. Somewhat perplexed, she smiled and said, “There’s nothing left to take.”  “Actually, I want the bone for my dog. He’s been waiting patiently outside.”  “Oh,” she said a bit excited, “Are you the one that has the dog outside by the motorcycles?” I smiled and nodded. The waitress added, “That sure is a good-looking dog and so well behaved to sit out there without a leash or anything.”   “Thanks.” I said. “I’ll go get you a doggie bag.” She said, turning away.  Jerry seized the moment to remind me, “I told you Harry was better looking than you, Palen.” “Hmfph.” I grunted while everyone else laughed.
 
We enjoyed a leisurely ride back home, taking in all the beauty Missouri and Iowa’s country roads had to offer. When we got to the edge of Ottumwa, we said our farewells, and Harry and I rushed home to change clothes.  I put my suit back on just in case Dad was at the radio station when I got there. Which of course, he was.
 
Dad stood in the hallway outside the production room, in his long beige dress coat with the belt tied around the waist and plaid Stetson hat. He wasn’t happy. His arms were folded across his chest the entire time I told my story.  When I was done, the lecture began. “Son, you have to start using better judgement.  You can’t go to Missouri to make just one sales call. You have to make better use of your time.  Plan to spend the whole day there and see several clients. And, you need to let me know when you’re working out of town for the day, otherwise the rest of the staff will think you were just out joy-riding on your motorcycle.”  “I will, Dad.” I promised.
 
I immediately started thinking of additional clients I could call on next Friday.  The Coho salmon season on Lake Michigan was starting to peak and I was just sure I could sell some advertising to Schiller Sporting Goods, in Port Washington, Wisconsin. 

One could easily jump to conclusions, thinking the worst, if one should get a text message such as I did about four weeks ago. My daughter Annie, wrote, “Dad, can we go someplace together for spring break? I want to ride along with you on a trip.” Annie is 23 years old, graduated college last year and is now in her first-year teaching school in Iowa. Hanging out with your Dad over spring break is not something most 23-year old’s want to do. Rather than trying to figure out why she wanted to hang out with me, I started looking for a trip we could take on her available days off.
 
I knew she would want to go someplace warm and green; a cool destination, where she could go back to work and boast, “I went to so-and-so, for spring break.” Anything opposite of winter, would define “cool.” To get a trip like that would involve driving to California, and she only had five days off. I was offered a trip to Washington state, a cool place, but again, we would spend our entire time together on the road driving. A potential trip to Kentucky came up and I claimed it right away. A few days before spring break, that trip fell through. The only other option on the table was a drive to Port Huron, Michigan – not exactly the warmest place this time of year, but I accepted the offer.
 
I met Annie in St. Paul, Minnesota, where we spent the night, then left early the next morning. After doing my business in Port Huron, we drove down to the waterfront on the St. Clair River; a shipping channel that connects Lake Huron to Lake Erie. It’s also the border between the United States and Canada. The shipping season wasn’t underway yet, so there were no boats to see and frankly, not much action going on. We considered going to Canada, but Annie doesn’t have a passport yet. Although Port Huron is a cool area, I told Annie I wanted to start for home, “We’ll visit here another time during the season, for now I have something else I want to show you farther north; we have to get there before dark.”
 
Four hours later, we were in Mackinaw City, Michigan. I wanted to take Annie to the beach at the park, but a ten-foot-tall snowbank at the parking lot entrance caboshed that idea. The lighthouse museum and most other attractions in town were also closed for the season. From the main street, between the high snowbanks on each side and the big ridge of snow down the middle of the lanes, I was able to show her the Mackinac Bridge that we would be crossing to get to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. She thought it looked pretty cool.
 
If you’ve never crossed the Mackinac Bridge, (pronounced Mackinaw) put it on your list of “must do” destinations. It’s the third longest suspension bridge in America, only behind the Verrazano-Narrows, in lower New York Bay, and the Golden Gate at San Francisco Bay. Spanning the Mackinac Straights, the natural waterway which connect Lake Michigan to Lake Huron, the bridge was finished in 1957. The center lanes are open grate surfaces, you can see right through them: the outer lanes are paved. Combine her narrow lanes, no walkways on either side, the short side rails and the deck being some 170’ above the water, and the person sitting on the passenger side is looking right over the edge of the bridge – straight down into the icy waters! Can you say anxiety? If you have no fear of heights the Mighty Mac, just might give you one – but oh, what a thrill to drive over it!
 
The Mac’s upright towers stand tall and majestic. Huge cables sweep up from the deck, all the way to the top of the towers, then down the other side to the center surface of the bridge, then race back up to the next tower and once again down to the deck. Such a design of strength is an engineering miracle, but to the average person, it is simple grace and beauty on display.
 
Annie was absolutely glued to the windows; looking over the edge, and all around. It was a real charge for me to share her excitement, crossing for the first time. “We have a great lake over here.” She narrated while panning her video camera from left to right, “and another great lake over here.”  On the north end of the bridge, we stopped to pay the toll. I didn’t mind paying this one. It was only four dollars and the toll booth guy, was really nice. He had a wealth of information about the bridge and since there were no cars behind us, he was willing to share.
 
While Annie was experiencing such a natural high, she asked hurriedly, “Dad, can we please go back over it again. That was so cool.” “We have to pay every time we cross.” I told her. She fired right back “I’ll pay the toll.” I explained, “Yes, but we would have to pay to go south, and then pay another four bucks to come back north again.” “Dad, please! I’ll pay it! We have to do that again!” I was so caught up in her elation, I wanted to cross over again, too! I made a U-turn and went back to the bridge.
 
Crossing back to the south, Annie was all camera, all windows, looking over the edge again, straight up at the towers, off to the distance in every direction - every angle she could find. But, it was the third crossing, going back north, that was the best!
 
Semis and vehicles with trailers are limited to 20 miles-per-hour on the bridge, because the winds are always strong that high in the air.  The temperature was in the mid-fifties. Annie got up on her knees on the center armrest and had her upper body sticking out through the open sunroof. With her arms extended in the air as if she was on a roller coaster using no hands to hold on, she hollered, “Wooo Hooo!”
 
Annie mimicked Jack riding the bow of the Titanic. Her body rushing through the wind, her hair was blowing straight back and her eyes watered in the cold air. She proclaimed, “I’m the king of the world.” June watched Annie, then looked back and forth between Annie and me as if to alert me, “Are you seeing this, Dad? I think Annie’s gone loopy.” “It’s okay, Bugs. She’s just having fun.” I assured.
 
Annie seized the full effect, fearlessly hanging over to the side to look over the edge of the bridge. She was savoring every exhilarating moment, all the way to the end of the bridge. She was still poking out the sunroof when I pulled up to the toll booth. It was the same nice man in the booth. I’m sure he watched her celebrating coming down the lane toward him. From the open top, she handed him four dollars, “that was well worth the money.” She said. He was laughing when he took her money, “Well, that’s one way to cross the bridge.”
 
The trip was a blast to say the least. We had a lot of fun, saw a lot of neat things and spent much time talking. Annie plug her iPhone into the stereo and introduced me to “DCappella,” an a cappella group that sings all Disney songs. The group of seven singers is every bit as talented as you would expect from any Disney production. In the 23 hours were on the road, Annie got me to like this group as well…and she taught me the lyrics to a few of their songs. I even agreed to someday go to a DCappella live concert with her.
 
Arriving back at the house around 2 a.m. Friday, the road trip portion of our spring break together was over.  Tired, we decided everything in the car could stay there until morning. We went inside and straight to bed. Friday was a day for sleeping in late to recoup, lounge around the house for a while, then get some things ready for Saturday – St. Urho’s Day, in Finland, Minnesota.
 
If you’ve not heard of St. Urho, he’s worth researching a bit. It’s my understanding he is the saint credited with chasing the grasshoppers away and saving the grape crops in Finland. He has given the Finnish people as much reason to celebrate as St. Patrick gave the Irish. And, celebrate they do! People come from great distances to join the festivities in Finland. One of the bigger spectacles is a parade on Saturday morning.
 
My wife coordinated the parade float and crew for the North Shore Federal Credit Union, where she works. I was honored to drive the truck pulling their float. Since Annie had been driving with me the previous two days, it only made sense she would be my copilot for this venture as well. My cousin’s Andy and Sarah, rounded out the tow vehicle crew. (Yes, it takes four people to drive the truck!) It was a really good time with many wonderful participants in the annual parade. The crowd was large and the spirit was festive.  After the parade, we stayed awhile to join the party.
 
That night, back at the house, we made a late dinner of homemade beef and noodles.  We sat around the fire in the living room telling stories and enjoying conversation. When the others went to bed, Melissa and I broke out a new carton of Moose Tracks ice-cream. Yum… Hey, it wasn’t our fault those party poopers couldn’t hang with us until dessert time!
 
Sunday morning brought yet another great feast – brunch: eggs scrambled with green pepper, onion, mushrooms and sausage. Homemade buttermilk biscuits, fried potatoes and fresh fruit. Again, we ate well and enjoyed good conversation. Near the end of every adventure, I always ask the kids, “What was your favorite part of the trip?” I forgot to ask Annie at the table, but I would ask before she left town.
 
After brunch, Andy and Annie helped with cleaning up the kitchen. Sarah and Melissa started loading the car.  It was now time for our guest to head south for the Twin-Cities. Annie would now ride back with them as her was car parked at their house. It’s always kind of sad when a visit comes to an end and your guests have to go home. As I stood on the front porch and watched them drive away down the road, I remembered that I had forgotten to ask Annie what her favorite part of spring break was.  I imagined she would have told me, crossing the Mighty Mac, or the St. Urho’s Day Parade.
 
Inevitably she would return the question, “What was your favorite part, Dad?” I thought about it for a moment. I smiled as I could see myself telling her, “My favorite part, was having a 23 year-old daughter who wanted to spend spring break with her Dad.”
 
 

I was very tired when I pulled into the Visitor’s Information Center and Rest Area, on I-94 near Pleasant Prairie, Wisconsin. It was around midnight. I’d had enough driving for the day and climbed into the back of my wagon where I crawled into my sleeping bag and curled up with my dog, June. Laying my head on the pillow, I went out like a light.
 
I awoke just before seven in the morning feeling rested, but a little chilly. Guessing the temperature was around fifteen degrees, I leaned forward, turning on the key to check. “That’s odd,” I said, wondering why the outside air temperature didn’t display. I hunkered back into my warm sleeping bag; June snuggled inside with me.  “Oh well, it doesn’t matter.” I said, “We’ll just sleep a while longer then get up and head out.” I tried to fall back asleep but was burdened by a looming thought. “Why didn’t that temperature light come on?” 
 
I slid from under my cozy covers, into the driver’s seat, and turned on the key. All the dash lights were dim. Suspecting the inevitable, I tried starting the motor but the battery didn’t have enough juice to turn the engine over - it was so dead the starter wouldn’t even click. This is not what I wanted to deal with early on a Sunday morning. Still, being equipped to handle such a situation, I wasn’t too worried.
 
I pulled on my shoes, coat, and stocking hat. I smiled with confidence as I reached behind the driver’s seat for the portable battery pack my father-in-law gave me a couple years ago. At first, I thought the pack was just a gimmick - sure, it might recharge a cell phone or other such device, but there was no way this little box, only 3 X 8 X 1 ½” thick, was going to start a car.
 
I had the opportunity to put the battery pack to the test at home one time. My old dump truck had sat for over seven months, through the winter, and the battery was dead as a doornail. I must admit I was shocked when that little emergency power pack actually started that big V-8 engine. That’s how I knew it would also start my little four-cylinder Subaru. I quickly became a believer and carried that power pack with me on all my ventures.
 
I plugged the special jumper cables into the pack, then clipped them onto the battery posts. I sat in the driver’s seat, pressing the clutch pedal to the floor, I turned the key and…nothing. “Ah,” I told June, “I forgot to push the power button.” I took care of that and went to start the engine again. *Urr, urr, click, click, click.* I climbed out again to check my connections. They certainly looked secure so I checked the LED lights on the battery pack itself. Only two of six lights were on. I recalled on the previous trip using the pack to help a stranger with a dead battery. I failed to recharge the pack afterwards.
 
 
Inside the Visitor’s Center, I found an electrical outlet to plug in the unit.  I got cleaned up while it charged. There was nobody in the building but me so I left the charger sitting unattended and went for a walk with June. Not long after, people started to show up, so I put June in the car, then headed inside to watch my power pack.
 
Some of the people seemed way over thrilled with the snow. I struck up conversation with them and learned they were from southern California. They all appeared to be in their later fifties, and none of them had ever seen snow before. How neat! I went outside with them to take several group photos, so they could all be in the pictures. It was fun to share their excitement over snow - something we Midwesterner folks take for granted and frankly a lot of us are sick of it this year!
 
My new friends moved on, but not before one of the ladies threw a loosely packed snowball at her husband. The snowball flew apart in midair while sailing toward him. He in turn scooped up a wad of snow and lobbed it back in her direction; it also fell apart in the air, nearly hitting an innocent bystander. I shook my head, “Amateurs. You didn’t pack it tight enough,” I muttered while walking through the front door. I’m not picking on them, I’m just saying they were in Wisconsin and if you’re going to throw snow around here, you better know what you’re doing. Those Wisconsin folks will throw snow back and they’re pretty good at it – although I don’t think a bunch of Wisconsinites would stand a chance in a snowball fight against a group of Minnesotans, but I’m not trying to start anything here so let’s not go there.
 
Inside the building a tall man was standing at the counter with his back toward me, thumbing through literature. He wore tattered, tan coveralls, a heavy canvas jacket and brown knit leggings that came halfway up his shins to keep his ankles warm. He sported a large purple backpack – not like a school kid would carry, but one a serious hiker would pack with all sorts of pockets and places to carry gear and gadgets. Tucked under the top straps was a large, worn, beige teddy bear.  An American flag, about 18” mounted on stick was poked into the pack, displayed proudly.
 
I walked up next to him. He appeared clean-cut and shaven, wore round, gold wire rimmed glasses and a weathered ball cap bearing a tattered patch that read “U.S. Marines.” I greeted him, “Hi. How are ya?” He turned my way and glared without saying a word. Perhaps I should have walked away, but I didn’t. “You look like a man on a mission; a man with places to go.” I said, in a friendly, inviting tone. He again briefly stared at me, almost scowling when he answered, “Yeah. Something like that.” Then he moved farther down the literature rack as if to intentionally put distance between us. I got the distinct impression he did not want to talk, or be bothered. I left him alone.
 
My power pack was now showing six LED lights – a full charge. I packed up the device and walked to my car. After reconnecting the jumpers again, I sat in the driver’s seat, turned the key and the engine fired right up. June seemed happy to hear the motor running. “We’re in business now, June Bug!” I said. She seemed a little too happy. “You have to go potty, don’t you?” I asked. Once that business was taken care of, we pulled away from our parking space.
 
At the end of the lot, I signaled to turn left. I looked left, then to the right, “McDonald’s!” I happily exclaimed. A cup of hot coffee was on my mind. I turned right!
 
Pulling in under the golden arches, I drove toward the back of the lot. I like to park away from the front entrance to keep June from barking at other customers. As I did so I noticed a man walking. The man with the purple backpack and Marines ball cap. I rolled down my passenger-side window, stopping alongside him. “Have you had breakfast yet?” I asked him cheerfully. He looked at me almost as if he was thinking, you again. “I’ve had my coffee,” He replied curtly. “Coffee, yeah. But did you get to eat?” I pressed. He mumbled something, but didn’t really answer me. I pulled past him and into a parking space.
 
When I got out of the car, I left my door open. The man didn’t seem very friendly, or happy to see me, let alone wish to talk to me. I approached him anyway. “Would you like to come in and join me for breakfast?” I asked. “I don’t know.” He replied seeming quite standoffish. “I’d like to treat you to breakfast, if you have time.” I offered. About that time, June came charging out of the car toward the man. June’s aggressive approach can be rather intimidating to someone who doesn’t know her. “June, come! Now!” I called, but I was too late. June moseyed up to the man, sniffing his shoes, wiggling her rump and wagging her tail as she danced about.
 
The stranger took right to June’s charm and began to rub her shoulders. He stood up, “Yes.” He said, “I’d like to have breakfast with you.” He extended his right hand toward me, and we shook hands. “I’m Ronnie. Ronnie Wychelewski.” He said. “Ronnie, I’m Tom. Tom Palen. Let’s go eat.” We walked to the restaurant together – he was no longer a stranger.
 
Inside, we ordered breakfast and sat down to eat. “Where are you off to?” I asked him. “Williston, eventually.” He said, then asked, “Do you know where that is?” I felt like he was testing me. “In the far northwest corner of North Dakota, almost to Montana and not far south of Canada, if that’s the Williston you’re talking about.”  I answered. He smiled, “That’s it.” “Why would you want to go there this time of year?”  I questioned, explaining, “It’s bitterly cold there.”
 
Ronnie answered, “I’m a veteran. There’s a VA clinic there.” “There are VA clinics closer…and warmer.” I said. He explained, “Yes, there are VA clinics all over, but they are not all the same. For the medical procedure I need, I’m best off going to Williston.” He added, “I’m not going all the way, now. I’m just starting that way. I’d like to make it to Minneapolis in the next day or so.” I liked this guy and enjoyed his company. June liked him, too, and that says a lot about a man when your dog likes him. “I’m going west on I-94, I could get you as far as Eau Claire, Wisconsin, if that would help.” Ronnie accepted my offer. 
 
Driving down the freeway, we talked about different parts of the country and where we had each traveled. Ronnie said he’d been from coast to coast and asked if I had ever been to California. “Lots of times.” I answered. “What’s your favorite route to get there?” He asked. “Coming from the north, I’ll take I-90 West, then south at Bozeman through the Gallatin River Valley, it’s one of the most beautiful roads in America.” He said, “I don’t think I’m familiar with that road,” I continued. “Just go south on US 191 out of Bozeman. You’ll go through the little town of Big Sky, Montana, and…” Ronnie interrupted me, finishing my sentence, “Yeah, then down into West Yellowstone. I do know that road. Beautiful, man. Beautiful.” I’ve met people who will try to bamboozle me, acting as if they know what I’m talking about when they really don’t. Ronnie wasn’t like that. He was genuine and sincere.
 
We passed a sign that read, “Eau Claire 72 miles”.  After reading the sign, Ronnie said, “If you go north out of Eau Claire, on Highway 53, it will take you Superior, Wisconsin, then into Duluth.  They’re both on Lake Superior; they call them the Twin Ports.” He began reminiscing, “I haven’t been up there for at least twenty-five years or so. I’d love to go up there again, it was so cool.” When I told him I was actually going to Duluth, he got excited and asked, “Would mind if he rode along.” “I thought you were going to Minneapolis.” I said. He replied, “It doesn’t matter where I go as long as it’s westward and north.” He went on, “Highway 2 comes out of Duluth and runs all the way to Williston. Duluth would be perfect, if you don’t mind.” “You want to go to Duluth? Then Duluth it is.” I said. Ronnie exhaled, he was pleased with that.
 
On the way, we talked about a lot of things, including where he would stay in Duluth. “It’s supposed to drop down to about five below zero tonight.” I told him. “I can survive that,” he said, “but I’d rather see if they have a shelter where I can stay.” I made a couple inquiries. A friend told me about CHUM, a shelter in Duluth. I called ahead and they told me they would have a bed for Ronnie that night.
 
We stopped to use a WiFi signal to get information and directions to CHUM.  Ronnie offered, “Would you let me buy you a cup of coffee?” “No thanks,” I replied, “I am completely coffee’d out.” Ronnie went to his backpack and pulled out two cans of beer – tall boys.  Earlier, he told me he doesn’t drink a lot, but he likes to have a beer occasionally at night.  “They had these on sale at the truck stop, two for three dollars.” He offered the cans to me, saying, “I want you to have these.” “You don’t have to give me your beer.” I said, but he insisted. “I can’t take them into the shelter, and I don’t want to throw them away. I want you to have them.” He extended his hands toward me, saying, “Please.”  I smiled and graciously accepted his gift.
 
We drove to the shelter. Parking out front, I opened the lift gate and Ronnie grabbed his pack. After closing the gate, he said, “I don’t accept rides from just anyone. There are a lot of strange people out here. Usually people avoid me; they’ll go out of their way to escape talking to me.  I’m sorry if I was rude when you first walked up to me today. I didn’t know what you wanted.” “Don’t worry about it, my friend.  You didn’t hurt my feelings and the day turned out good.” I said. Then Ronnie asked, “Do you know why I accepted the breakfast and your offer for a ride?” I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. “It was the way June greeted and welcomed me. You can tell almost anything you want to know about a man, by watching his dog.” I must admit, that got me.
 
I asked Ronnie if there was any way I could reach him in the future; he wanted to know why. “I drive a lot and many of those trips are out west.” I said, then offered, “I could probably score a ride for you all the way to Williston, when you’re ready to go.” He wrote down an email address for me and said, “Let’s stay in touch.” Then he lifted his heavy pack. Putting one arm through the strap, he swung the whole thing up onto his back, fastened the buckle on the front, and walked toward me. Ronnie paused, gave me a big hug, then turned to walk away. 
 
A few steps away, he stopped, turned and looked at me. “June is a good dog, because you are a good man, Tom Palen. Thank you for everything. Let’s stay in touch.” He said. I nodded at him, cleared my throat and said, “You take care of yourself, and stay warm, Ronnie Wychelewski.”
 

​I try to walk two miles each day. It’s good for me on so many different levels. I wish I had better self-discipline to walk every day, especially when traveling. Walking is easy to do when I’m at home. I just set the treadmill to run at four-miles-per hour, jump on, and in thirty minutes I’ve done my walk. It’s hard to gauge the distance when walking outdoors. Without a machine setting the pace, my speed varies and I think it takes closer to forty minutes to walk the desired distance.
 
When I do walk outside, I find it’s better to have June Bug on her leash with me. She’s good company and being a spirited, energetic dog, she is a fast walker. Pulling me along at her pace, I rely on June to assure I have covered two miles in forty minutes.
 
One particular trip, I was driving on a quiet highway in eastern Colorado, headed for home. I took notice when I passed mile marker 210, on the side of the road. I smiled, thinking, if I stop at the next marker, 211, then walk between the two signs, I would get my full two-mile walk and the distance would be measured. That’s what I would do.
 
I let off the accelerator and began to slow down, eventually pulling over to the side of the road. Moving off the paved shoulder, I parked in the grass on the edge of the ditch, to keep my pickup a safe distance from traffic. With the truck stopped, the motor shut off and seeing a grassy area just outside the window, June began to bounce around the cab, assuming an adventure was at hand.
 
It was a good day for such an undertaking: at 52° the sun was shining and the sky was blue. The eastern side of this state is flat and agricultural; brown hayfields lined both sides of the road. They would soon turn green with the coming of spring. This far from the mountains, the area looked more like Iowa than Colorado. 
 
Back home on the Northshore, the temperatures were in the single digits and tall snowbanks lined the sides of every road. Weather at the homestead has often been sub-zero lately. Because her feet get too cold, I haven’t been able to take June on a descent walk outside for a long time. This day was a welcome break from the Minnesota winter and I would take advantage of it to treat my dog to a walk in the fresh air. 
 
Being as mild as it was, I decided to wear a flannel shirt without a coat, although I would still wear my favorite stocking cap to protect my ears from the wind. I considered letting June run without her leash, but we were on the side of a highway and there was still some traffic going by at highway speeds. Besides, June would need the leash to pull me along; helping me stay on pace. I planned to time our walk, to see how long it took to cover two measured miles.
 
While June stood in the backseat of the truck, I clipped the leash to her collar and said, “Come on Bugs, let’s go for a walk.” She jumped right out to the ground, where she went berserk sniffing the grass, curious about every scent left by other animals. I checked the time on my phone; it was 11:57 a.m. I would give her until the top of the hour to sniff about and take her potty break.
 
At 11:00, I called, “Come on June Bug. Let’s go.” The first thing she did was run on the opposite side of the mile marker post from me, catching her leash. “Go around.” I told her. She’s such a smart dog, she ran right back to the post, returning to me on the correct side. We didn’t get very far into the walk before June stopped again. She would sniff things, as I kept walking, until the retractable leash was taught, then she would sprint past me to the end of the leash, to find more things that needed to be sniffed. It’s a process that repeats itself, back and forth, over and over again on our walks. At one point, it was June who wanted to keep walking, but I found something interesting I wanted to look at.
 
June was tugging on her leash, so I picked up the piece and carried it with me. It was a tension spring for an old drum brake, off a tractor or something. It had two springs, one on each end, with a shaft the middle. The shaft had a stop, similar to the head of a nail, on each end that allowed the spring unit to be connected between to two brake shoes. This kept the shoes off the drum, until the brakes were applied. It was a cool looking, rusty old piece. I thought I would take it home to hang a basket with a green plant - maybe in the bay window at home. I carried the piece for a while as we walked. Pretty soon I said to myself, “You’re collecting junk you don’t need. Leave it here.” I dropped it back on the paved shoulder where I found it.
 
After I dropped it, I thought someone might run over it, possibly damaging their tire. I set the steel piece just off the edge of the blacktop in that little six-inch space of rocks where the pavement ends and before the grass starts. June tugged on the leash as if to say, “Come on!”
 
We walked farther down the road. In the farm field to my left, there was an old phone pole laying in the taller grass. It still had the insulator on top. Not one of the really old blue or green glass insulators, but a two-tone brown and tan one. It was much larger than the old glass type - probably from the seventies. Anyway, it was cool and I wanted to keep it. June and I walked down through the taller grass in the ditch. I dropped the retractable end of her leash. “Wait here.” I said.
 
I climbed over the barbed wire fence and walked to the old phone pole. The bracket that held the ceramic piece was bolted all the way through the pole. I unscrewed the insulator from its mount and turned to leave the field. June startled me. She was standing next to me. “How did you get in here?” I asked. She said, “Dad, I’m a dog not a cow. I walked under the wires on the fence. Can we go now?” “Sure, Bugs.” I said and we left the field to continue walking toward mile marker 210, with me carrying the big insulator.
 
After we reached the marker post, we turned to start walking back to the truck. The ceramic piece was getting heavy. I switched hands and noticed the weather seemed to be getting warmer. I was starting to sweat a little, so I took off my stocking cap, tucking it into my back pocket. June gave a tug on the leash, “Come on, Dad.” We picked up the pace. June continued sniffing things as we went, but we were making good time and soon rounded mile marker 210.
 
We walked quite a stretch on our return before I stopped again. I found a triangular, flat steel thing in the road. It too was rusty, with serrated edges on two sides and flat across the back. I was pretty sure it was a blade from a sickle mower. I thought it was neat, but had no idea what I would do with it. June gave me an odd look, “Dad, are you collecting junk again?” She asked. “No.” I replied, “One never knows when he’ll need on of these.” I put it in my back pocket. When I did, I noticed my hat was missing. I looked around but it wasn’t near.
 
Still carrying the insulator, I used my hand with the dog leash to shade my eyes from the sun. Squinting, I looked down the road behind me. I could see the hat on the shoulder of the road about a quarter mile behind us. It was about the same place where we crossed the fence to get the phone pole. I didn’t feel like walking all the way back to get it, but it was my favorite hat. June asked, “What are you going to do?” “We’ll walk to the truck, then drive back to get it.” “Good thinking, Dad.” She complimented, I knew she was getting tired. “That’s why I get paid the big bucks, June. The really big bucks.” I said snickering, as we kept walking.
 
Not too much farther up the road, I came across the tension spring again. It was back up on the paved part of the shoulder, still by the reflector post where I had set it down off the asphalt. It laid perpendicular to my path, as if it was blocking my way That was really strange.
 
I checked along the edge where I set it before to make sure there weren’t two of these tension springs. There were not. I looked up and down the highway to see if someone was there messing with me. No one was there and this spring was too heavy to have blown back up on the shoulder – especially with a two or three-inch lip from the gravel up to the pavement. I figured I was meant to keep this piece, so I picked it up to take home. With June’s leash and the spring in my right hand, and the insulator in my left, we continued back to the truck. I laughed, thinking, I’m out of hands, I hope I don’t find any other cool stuff.
 
I set the three pieces on the back floor, then I looked in both the cab and box for any kind of a wrench. If I could loosen those nuts and bolts on the pole, I could get the bracket for the insulator. I didn’t find the tool I was looking for, so we drove back to get my hat. As I suspected, it was right where the phone pole was laying in the field. I stopped the truck. Looking at the pole, I wondered; those old poles shrink over time. Maybe the bolts would be loose enough, I could remove the nuts by hand. As long as I was already there, I crossed the fence to check it out. The bolts were way too tight, but I had another idea.
 
The farmer had the pole cut up in sections and pushed to the side of the field. Maybe I could just take the whole top section. The grass had grown up around the pole laying in the field and was holding it down. As I tried to clear some of the grass, I found a second insulator that was nearly buried in the dirt. After digging it out and carrying it to the fence line, I continued my efforts to free the pole. “Well, I’ll be...” I said aloud, kneeling down. I found the third insulator, deep in the growth as well. The last two pieces I found were each still attached to a small block of wood that was the cross bar on the phone pole. They had been cut loose with a chain saw. How cool is that? Now if I can get the pole, I’ll have the whole circuit.
 
It took a little work, but I freed the pole, carried it to the edge of the field, and tossed it over the fence to the other side where the two insulators laid. Opening the tailgate, I put the two smaller pieces in the truck, then went back for the pole. I carried it up the hill from the ditch, lifting it up into the bed. It was too long for the tailgate to close. “Stupid five-foot box!” I complained. I love the four-door pickup, but I’ve never liked these short boxes.
 
By laying the pole diagonally across the floor, I was able to get it in all the way and close the gate. Pretty smitten with myself, I climbed into the cab, started the truck and got ready to pull away. I shifted the transmission back in park, jumped out, ran about ten feet in front of the truck, retrieved my hat, then returned to the driver’s seat and headed down the road.
 
While I was driving, I began thinking about the treasures I found. The insulators are used to hold live electrical lines. If those lines connect with ground, they’ll short out, blow a fuse and become dead wires. One might conclude they insulate life from death. It takes all three wires to make a 240-volt circuit - the three separate wires, make one circuit. Hmm. The wires were mounted high upon a pole with a cross bar. Boy does that bring some things to mind.
 
I considered the first piece I found, the tension spring. It’s made up of three individual components; a spring on each end and a shaft in the middle, holding them together. The three pieces make one unit. Okay, this now had my attention. What about the sickle mower blade? A triangle with three sides that make one shape. There was clearly a message here.
 
Having trouble finding the message, I called my cousin, telling her my story. “What do you think this means?” I asked her. Robin responded, “I think God is telling you something.” “Indeed,” I agreed, “but what is He trying to tell me?”
 
Robin paused for a moment. “You’ve been praying a lot lately. Have your prayers been answered?” she asked. “No, not yet.” I replied. “Maybe it’s God’s way of saying, I’m still here.” “Yes, but why three signs?” I questioned.
 
Just then, it all made sense. It was the Father in the tension spring telling me, “I’m still here listening. I hear you - keep praying.” The Son was in the insulators and wood pole saying, “I am at your side. I haven’t left you - keep praying.” The Holy Spirit was in that triangular blade, calling out, “Follow me. I will point the way for you - keep praying.” I was humbled beyond words.
 
I shared the experience with my brother, Gerard, asking what he made of it. He asked, “When you threw the spring to the side of the road, were you rejecting someone?” “I didn’t reject Him,” I insisted, “I just didn’t recognize Him.”  Then my brother challenged me, “So, you’re telling me, you carried six-feet of a phone pole, up the hill, by yourself.” “Yes, I did. Why does that seem so unlikely?” I questioned. Gerard answered, “I would think that pole would have been very heavy - too heavy for one man to throw over a fence, then, carry alone.” Then he suggested, “Perhaps someone else carried the wood up that hill for you.” Gerard’s message was clear, and again, humbling. Still, who would have thought spiritual messages could come from, well, just things?
 
With the season of Lent upon us and Easter on the way, I’ve been thinking more about our walk in Colorado that day, and what came from it. Forgetting to check the clock when we finished, I had no idea how long we had been walking. With all our stops, the time would not have been accurate, anyway. The next time June and I go for a walk outdoors, I’ll still depend on her to keep us on pace for a forty-minute, two-mile walk. The next time I find an inanimate object that seems to be sending a message, I’ll stop to ask, “Are you talking to me?”