Yah You Betcha

Face & Butt

2009-11-24T19:23:00.001-08:00

You are trying to fix something on the honey-do list. But it requires a special tool, like a #1 Philips or a #.5 star bit. You obviously don’t have one that small and using a #2 or larger will strip the screw. So, you head out to the local Hardware Hank and get the tool you need. You walk in the door and you get quizzed about what you bought, how much it was, and if it was really necessary. “I bought a small screwdriver. It was $1.49. And yes, if you want that lamp fixed with the specialized bulb in it you insisted on buying then yes, it’s necessary.” You try to be polite given the fact you could be watching a game or scratching something that really needs it but instead you’ve taken time out of your day off to fix something of hers she never should have purchased anyway. And now I’m getting the third degree?

But, according to the rules, that inquiry only goes one way. Guys, you know what I’m talking about.

Yesterday, my lovely wife was about two hours late getting home. I knew she was shopping. And I knew it involved something to do with color. She finally came home with a large bag containing new towels for our private bathroom. “I’m tired of our bathroom color.” I just repainted it a chocolate brown not all that long ago. “It needs something different.” Why? No one goes in there but us. I poop in there and walk around like I don’t care about what I’m not wearing. Why does it need something different? And how was that decided? What signal precipitated this change? Why didn’t I sense that a new color was needed? What special sensing gland does she have that tells her via magnetic waves enhanced by moon signals that a new accent color is needed in the private bathroom?

Our private bathroom is the place where all the crap towels end up. They are the ones we’ve had since we got married 25 years ago. They are bleached by hair coloring (not me), worn out by God-only-knows what beauty chemical, torn, threadbare and generally not pleasing. Downstairs are really nice towels I’m not allowed to touch. “They’re for company.” You know, the kind of friends that come over for dinner and a bath. All of our friends take baths in their own homes. I live in this one and I’d love to use a nice towel instead of this crap one that was last used to soak up refrigerator drippings.

I can’t buy a $1.49 screwdriver to fix her lamp but she can buy new towels because she’s tired of the colors? Now for the fun part. Can you guess what color the towels are? White. They are white towels. They are white towels with a small brown stripe at one end. And it gets better. Where are they? They are not in the private bathroom probably because they are too nice.

I’ve decided to go out and buy one of those giant towels that say FACE on one end and BUTT on the other. Thankfully, they only come in brown and white.

Christmas is for Lawyers

2009-11-23T21:18:00.000-08:00

I spent the day with my peeps decorating five large kids’ rooms and a giant hallway for Christmas at church. In one of the rooms I set up a pre-lit nine foot tall Christmas tree. First of all, the tree smelled oddly like Pirates of the Caribbean. Really. As I was assembling the three easy parts I noticed several large white stickers on the light wires. Then I noticed more, and more. I decided to count these obnoxious warning labels and reached a total of 64. One cluster of tags numbered 20. See the photo.

This is easily the most warning labels I have ever found on any one item, ever. Apparently, pre-lit Christmas trees are some of the most dangerous manufactured items known to humankind. I’ve sat under an x-ray machine, an MRI, and a CAT scan machine. I’ve never seen a warning label and those things use radiation and giant magnets. My car only has a couple warning labels. The fan on my desk with sharp whizzing blades has only one. The farm tractors, hay balers, Kitchen Aid blender, food processor, and giant mixer I own only have one. The set of Wusthoff kitchen knives I own have none.

Obviously, the warning labels were written by the lawyers of the pre-lit Christmas tree company because of lawsuits they were trying to avoid or because of added fees they were trying to charge. So, why all the warning labels on this nine foot pre-lit Christmas tree? I decided to take a look. Here’s what some of the labels said:

“Using this nine foot pre-lit Christmas tree as toilet paper will result in a giant rash.”

“Do not place this nine foot pre-lit Christmas tree into your inner ear canal.”

“Do not put your tongue into any electrical socket on this nine foot pre-lit Christmas tree or it will cook you.”

“Using this nine foot pre-lit Christmas tree to celebrate Christmas may lead others to believe you are celebrating a religious holiday. If you receive any government money of any kind and celebrate something religious, you may lose your citizenship.”

“This nine foot pre-lit Christmas tree cannot possibly replace the nostalgic value of cutting and killing your own wild tree. Please understand that this one smells like Pirates of the Caribbean which may constitute copy write infringement if you make that inference without expressed written permission.”

“Watering this nine foot pre-lit Christmas tree may result in electric shock.”

"Using evergreen scented Glade in the vicinity of this tree will reinforce to your guests that this tree is a nine foot tall fake."

“There is the risk of someone asking you, ‘Is this nine foot pre-lit Christmas tree a fake? And why does it have 64 warning labels?’ which may lead to shame and embarrassment.”

What kind of a litigious world do we live in where the simple act of putting up a Christmas tree constitutes 64 warning labels? Are they really that dangerous? Didn’t they used to put real candles on Christmas trees? And didn’t those used to be made out of wood? We’re scared of Christmas trees but are fine with coaxing a fat man in a red suit to wander our house while we’re sleeping once a year. We’re even more fine with telling our small children that he’s real, he knows what your doing, and mommy and daddy are fine with letting a stranger into our house in the middle of the night.

You think Christmas trees are dangerous? My folks used to let me wander the woods with a .22 rifle. They let me roam the neighbor farmer’s junkyard filled with broken glass, lockjaw, and rabid skunks. I’d even come back covered in deer ticks. I used to feed beef cattle and chase after bulls. I used to climb a giant silo without safety gear after school to feed ravenously hungry cattle in the winter every day. Lighten up, Christmas tree lawyers.

This year we’ll get a real tree again. They are fun to decorate, and they obviously are not nearly as dangerous as a nine foot pre-lit Christmas tree. They look better, smell better, and no one ever asks, “Is it fake?”

You'll Shoot Your Eye Out

2009-11-20T21:46:00.000-08:00

I cannot recall how old I was but I’m guessing somewhere between the fourth and sixth grade. I was invited to stay at my friend Keith’s home. I’d been there before and enjoyed the shooting gallery he had in his basement. He had a BB rifle of some sort and he would shoot at targets in the basement into a box of some type. I would love to say it was a Red Ryder but I don’t recall. My memory is a little hazy but I’m certain Keith will read this and fill in the details.

My folks gave me permission for the overnight but asked me what I was going to do over there. Like an idiot I told my mother the truth. “We’re going to shoot a BB gun in the basement.” Then she told me in no uncertain terms, “You will not shoot guns in his basement. You’ll shoot your eye out.”

Yes. You heard right. Years before A Christmas Story was ever released, my mother uttered those infamous words, “You’ll shoot your eye out.” I promised her I would not and went to Keith’s. It wasn’t long before we were in the basement shooting BB guns. Keith was a much better shot than I. On my first try, I overshot the box, the BB ricocheted off the cement wall and found the middle of my eye and broke every blood vessel. Everything looked pink.

So kids, if you get a Red Ryder BB Gun this Christmas, wear eye protection. And don’t lie to your mother. She knows Santa’s phone number and she’s not afraid to use it. To this day, when the 24 hour Christmas Story marathon is on and I hear those words, “You’ll shoot your eye out.” I remember my friend Keith so many years ago. But, we both turned out O.K.

My Flying Blog

2009-11-18T22:15:00.000-08:00

It's bad enough I don't have time to update this blog more than once a month. Sorry. So I started another one you can check out. It's for all my flying stories. If you like that sort of thing, you may enjoy my escapades in a plane.

Transportation Security Administration & Poop

2009-09-15T21:30:00.000-07:00

“The TSA protects the nation’s transportation systems to ensure freedom of movement for people and commerce.” That comes from their own website. I appreciate the folks at the airport who check for weapons and keep people with bad intentions out of airliners. Since I fly, I’m interested in getting to my destination safely. I get it and I have no problem with that.

But here’s what I do have a problem with. I fly a small plane. Because my plane goes up into the air, and I am a pilot, the TSA has placed me on their “watch list” and I am now suspect. To continue flying my small plane out of an airport that has 5 commercial flights daily, I needed to undergo a full federal background check, at my expense, and get a badge, at my expense. Anytime I am at my airport, that federally required badge needs to be worn. However, if I go to another airport, my federal badge is no good. I need an escort. My badge is only good at my airport. So much for freedom of movement.

Now, here’s the fun part. There are 8 airports within 20 miles of my airport that you don’t need a badge or a background check. Some don’t even have fences. Those that do have fences have rabbits and deer all over them. If they can get in, can’t a person? If a terrorist is going to take a small plane and turn it into a bomb, do you think they would be smart enough to go to one of those small fenceless airports instead of the big one with the fence around it? Probably. Then why do I need a badge and a background check? How am I threat to my country?

We’ve had two terrorist attacks in this country involving yellow Ryder rental trucks. Rental trucks can carry a much heavier payload and can cause much more damage than a small plane. My plane can only carry a couple hundred pounds of payload. A Ryder truck can carry tons. Do the math. But I don’t think you need to pay for and wait for a federal background check to rent a yellow truck. You certainly don’t need a security escort if you drive to a destination in another town. And you are not put on a federal watch list because you want to rent a yellow truck.

What’s going on? It’s fear and money. And I’m getting tired of it. We live in constant fear of each other. We’re all going to get shot, abducted, robbed, exploded, etc. We’re going to die of swine flu or that bird disease thing. I read today that showerheads contain bacteria that might be very harmful. Well, so does my poop. And so does the poop of our neighbor’s dog. And, to make matters worse, on occasion, I’ve seen my neighbor’s dog lick its butt (the same butt the poop comes from). Then it licks people. Dogs are terrorists.

I fully expect a new government agency to be created to govern poop. Since poop contains harmful bacteria, and poop is so easily made (especially after a few onion rings), federal background checks will be needed, at your expense, and permits will be required, at your expense, in order to poop. A HAZMAT team will be required at each incident, another fee, and several reports will be generated, at your expense, in order to insure the safety of this country from something that can kill you. Yes people, poop kills. And it’s everywhere.

Now, get this. Sometimes, when I’m at the airport, I poop. They have a bathroom there with real toilets you can poop in. I’m a double threat. Now, what if I had the swine flu, had diarrhea (the worst kind of poop) and rent a Ryder truck, drove it to the airport, then had to vomit? Imagine how many badges I would need.

I’ve been told to be careful about flying too low over Mendocino County. There are a lot of pot growers from the drug cartels that take shots at small airplanes thinking we are the Feds. In this great country you can be from a drug cartel, own a big gun, shoot at planes from your pot farm and never need a federal background check or need a badge. You can rent a Ryder truck, fill it with your pot and big guns, and drive it anywhere without an escort. You aren’t even on a federal watch list. In fact, the government might not even know you’re here. But if you’re a pilot of a small plane, you might be a terrorist and someone to be feared.

I resent that. I’m so mad I could poop.

Home Depot Broke the Guy Code

2009-08-27T20:46:00.000-07:00

In the book, Dune, by Frank Herbert, there is a dialogue between the Reverend Mother Gaius and Paul Atreides , a.k.a. Paul Muad'Dib. Let’s listen in on their conversation.

Rev. Mother Gaius: There is a place...terrifying to us, to women. It is said a man will come - the Kwisatz Haderach. He will go where we cannot. Many men have tried. Paul: They tried and failed?
Rev Mother Gaius: They tried and died.

Let’s turn the tables and listen on a conversation between Michael Nunan and myself.

Rev. Scott Peterson: There is a place, terrifying to us, to men. It is said a woman will come, the Amy Grant. She will go where we cannot, Michael’s Crafts. Many men have tried. Nunan: They tried and failed?
Rev. Scott Peterson: They tried and died.

Dan Ferguson and I share in our believe that Hell will be Michael’s Crafts with Amy Grant playing on the speaker system. It is a vision that haunts and chills us to our inner core. Walking around inside a craft or a fabric store is so foreign to a man, that our capacity to think, walk, utter sounds and swallow our own saliva all become severely affected. We can’t go in them. When I’m forced to go, the she-workers instantly recognize a testosterone-affected human has had a stroke and they come running to my aid. I hate craft and fabric stores. I cannot enter them. And the thought of Amy Grant playing in the background sends me into the fetal position.

So imagine my horror today, when I was sucker-punched inside Home Depot, the Temple of Testosterone. I was covered in MDF dust and was purchasing a light and some 3” PVC pipe when suddenly, over the speaker system, Amy Grant was singing, “Baby Baby.” Arrrrrrrgh!

You ladies just don’t get it. This is a man store. It smells like lumber and oil. Walk down any aisle and you'll run into a fresh fart. We can go in there looking like we’ve been in a war and no one cares. We can wear shorts with holes in the butt. We can wear unmatching socks. We can smell like raccoon feces. No one cares. We barely tolerate your flowers and storage tubs. But Amy Grant, in our store? Are you kidding me?

Why is this so offensive to us? Picture this. It’s like a female sales associate walks up to me and says, “Hello sir. Try on these panties. They’re your color. By the way, what season are you? I bet you’re a Spring. And here’s some ginger infused soap. Would you like a facial?”

That doesn’t happen in Home Depot! Someone was obviously asleep at the wheel. I don’t feel safe going in there, again. If they can do that in there, what next, pilates class? Bran muffin samples? Chai tea? I broke the Guy Code once so I can forgive them once. Click on this link to find out how.

If I ever hear Amy Grant again at Home Depot, I’m going to Lowes.

I love my wife!

2009-08-22T21:13:00.000-07:00

I met Sheri Anderson in the winter of 1982 at North Park College in Chicago, Illinois. Neither of us remembers each other but we do know that’s when we formally met. Where I do recall meeting her is on staff at Lake Beauty Covenant Bible Camp in Long Prairie, Minnesota where we both worked in the summer of 1983. My first impression of her was that she was a bit too strange for my liking. She thought I was stuck-up. But by the end of the summer, I was in love.

She was a pastor’s kid from Michigan. Her grandfather, also a minister, lived in a town near my hometown. After the camping season, she spent some time with her grandparents in Dassel, MN. I would make the short drive from Buffalo and spend the better part of the evening there and we would sit on the gliding swing in her grandparent’s backyard talking about what twitterpated young adults do. It didn’t matter what the topic was. Being with Sheri was the best.

I was in college in Minneapolis and she was in Chicago. Neither of us were sure how a long distance relationship would work. I was especially clueless since I had no idea how to date. I was always too scared to ask girls I liked in high school out on a date so I had no experience. So I kind of just went with the flow.

We did something that rarely happens today. We wrote letters to each other every day. I cannot tell you how excited I was to go to my P.O. box in the big hallway at Northwestern waiting for a letter from Sheri. We wrote about everything. I devoured every word. During our school breaks, one or the other would visit. It wasn’t long until I realized we were made for each other, as corny as that seems.

Sheri was in the concert choir at North Park. They were due to come to Minneapolis in the spring on a concert tour. I went with my mother to our small town jeweler and picked out a ring without her knowing. I knew this was a big risk but I was pretty sure the answer would be, “Yes.” My mother, recently widowed, gave me her diamond and I had it set in an unusual ring I knew she would love.

The big day came. I arranged with the choir director to steal her from the bus for a couple of hours. Then I arranged to have the small island chapel on Lake Josephine opened (something I had never seen happen). Inside the chapel I placed a sign that said, “Sheri, will you marry me? This is no drill.”

I brought her to Northwestern. She suspected nothing. There had just been a terrible spring storm that dropped a tornado just a couple miles away from the campus causing some major damage to a nearby mall so I was a bit concerned we’d have to run to a basement before I could pop the question.

I drove as close to the island as I could. We got out of the car and she seemed a bit confused why I was so excited to show her this tiny little chapel. We went inside and she looked all around, completely missing the large blue sign hanging on the wall. Then she started to leave. I said, “What’s that writing on the wall?” EGO MATER PULEBRAE DELECTIONIS ET TIMORIS ET AGNITIONIS ET SANCTAE SPEI ("I am the mother of beautiful delight and of reverence and of knowledge and of holy hope"). “It looks like Latin,” she said still oblivious to my sign. “Oh really?” I said. Sensing she was missing something she gave the chapel another look. She finally saw the sign. I got down on my knee and opened the box with the ring and held it out. I was so nervous that I forgot to ask her myself. Not one to miss such an important proposal, Sheri said, “Say it yourself. Say it yourself.” I came to my senses and I said it. Four words I have never regretted, “Will you marry me?”

Much to my relief, she said yes. We were so excited we were about to burst. She ran outside and I followed her. She wanted to see what her ring looked like in the sunlight. At that moment, I had arranged with campus security to ring the school bells (again, something I had never seen happen). I told her the bells were for us. They rang and rang. It was great to explain to folks at the school what the bells were for.

A year and couple months later we were married. On Monday, August 24, 2009, I will have been married to Sheri, my best friend, for 24 years. I cannot think of anyone I would have rather had at my side than Sheri Anderson from Livonia, Michigan. The joys and the struggles we’ve faced have come and gone so quickly. Our twin daughters, 22, have left the nest (almost). We’re now (almost) alone with each other again. We only had two years together before those little pumpkins came along and interrupted everything. Lesson one, birth control only works when you use it. Lesson two, babies change everything.

Now we have a big house and no kids. It’s just us again. And we’re a little confused. So much of our lives were spent raising the girls that we don’t know what to do with each other. A part of me is trying to remember what those early years were like, remembering the young Sheri and remembering what it was that made her so special. As we remember each other, and remember where to pick up the trail again, I know in my heart we were made for each other.

Before kids we used to talk about what it would be like to grow old together. What kind of grandparents would we be? What kind of vacations would we take? Who would our friends be? Where would we be living? What would our jobs be? What would our kids be like? What triumphs and tragedies would we experience and how would they shape us?

I can recall some of those conversations and I can confidently say we were wrong about most everything. We had no idea what life would do to us. We had no idea what kind of people we would become. We had no idea how hard adulthood and parenthood would be. We had no idea about the losses we would experience. We had no idea the tragedies we would suffer.

I can confidently say that the man I am today is not the man Sheri married. And she isn’t the woman I married. We’ve both changed immensely. We’ve matured and grown older together. We’ve slowed down, mellowed. We are each interested in things the other isn’t, and that’s O.K. As I write this, Sheri is at the movies all by herself. I hate going to movies but she loves it. That’s O.K. But we are still deeply committed to each other. When we’re apart for a while, and I see her, I’m home.

And she still drives me crazy. She does not tap the water out of her toothbrush to dry it out. She laughs way too loud at T.V. shows. She bangs the oatmeal spoon on the side of the sink, waking me up every morning. She uses glitter on her craft projects. I’m phobic about glitter. She obsesses about things for months at a time then she replaces it with a new obsession. She does not take the time to learn how a cell phone works. I’ve only twice called her on her cell phone and she’s actually answered. She can’t turn on a T.V. and make the DVD player work. She has a Master’s Degree with honors but she can’t send a text message. She snores and talks in her sleep. She puts her cold feet on my legs when I’m asleep waking me up. She buys too many shoes and I don’t like the smell of her hand lotions and lady things. But the list she has about me is much longer and way more embarrassing, I’m sure.

But that’s what love is. Love is having to say, “I’m sorry,” over and over and over. Love is going to Wendy’s in the middle of the night for chili during a pregnant craving. Love is buying a giant box of feminine items at Costco by myself when that’s so embarrassing.

As we approach 25 years together, I look forward to celebrating our commitment to each other, with you. We have a list in our bathroom of the places we want to go to celebrate next year, all by ourselves. She wants to go to Florida. I think that’s too hot and stinky. I want to go to Alaska, she thinks that’s too cold and wet. Who knows, maybe Tokyo?

So here’s to 24 years together! I love you Sheri. And thanks for never complaining about me leaving the seat up.

Private Pilot

2009-08-02T22:34:00.001-07:00

I have a box filled with goodies from when I was in kindergarten. The paper has the smell of “antique” which is somewhat disconcerting. To think that anything I created smells antique makes me realize just how far away I am from my earliest memories. One stack of papers has paintings I made of airplanes. It reminds me that my earliest goal was to someday be a pilot.

When I was 19, that dream came true. I worked hard for a year, spent my paycheck on flying lessons and ground school, and could not believe it when my instructor got out of the airplane and trusted me to fly the airplane myself. Later on, when I met all the FAA requirements, someone trusted me enough to award me my license, allowing me to take passengers.

Then life happened. I flew a couple more years. The cost and commitment was too much for me to maintain. I was in college and had no money. Soon, my license expired. But I always wondered if I would ever be able to get back into the air someday and renew my license.

I’m in my mid forties and my planned midlife crisis is hitting me hard. Couple that with having a very difficult year at work and I was going home each evening absolutely spent. I busied myself doing things for others but never really did anything for myself. Then, the opportunity to fly again presented itself so I jumped at it.

On Friday, July 30 at 7:00 PM, Captain Kevin, my extraordinary flight instructor, signed me off again as a private pilot. It’s been 25 years since I last took to the air. Captain Kevin got me back up to speed in just 10 hours. I kept hearing that it would all quickly come back. But I can’t remember my wife’s cell phone number, let alone a skill I haven’t used in 25 years. How was I going to do that?

It was long, tough, nerve-wracking and exhausting but on Friday night, Captain Kevin took me up into the pattern and we shot 5 more touch and go landings. He even gave me an engine failure on one of them. Then, he said it was time. I could feel myself getting choked-up (another sign of my age). I didn’t want to go by myself so I took my friend, Les, the man who got me back into the air, and up we went. I was now the PIC (Pilot In Command).

After a quick run around the pattern, I landed and taxied back to the hanger where Captain Kevin pinned me with Mickey Mouse wings. I cannot tell you how elated I was to have re-accomplished this achievement. Surrounded by my flying buddies, we went from the hanger to Third Street Aleworks to celebrate. We told flying stories and did a lot of smiling.

Thanks to Captain Kevin for the most difficult but excellent flight training anyone could have. He used to train the pilots for Japan Airlines so he really knows his stuff. Thanks to Captain Erik in Forest Lake, Minnesota. He let me fly his Cessna 150, the plane I first trained in. Those simple flights renewed my confidence at a time in my training when I really needed it. It reminded me of when I was 18, first taking to the skies. It helped to bring back something I feared I had lost. Captain Erik has no idea how much those flights meant to me, especially landing in that wicked crosswind in Duluth on the shore of Lake Superior.

Thanks to Les, the guy who said, “I want you to be my partner in this airplane I bought.” Even though I faced some challenges due to past medical issues, he kept pushing me to investigate and do what needed to be done. He was a bulldog and would not let up. And, thanks to my wife. She’s put up with my little dream for a very long time. She’s scared to death of little planes and is building up the courage to actually fly with me again. But without her encouragement, Friday night would not have happened.

I look forward to going on flying dates with my bride of 24 years. The ability to fly over the California mountains in one quarter of the driving time puts us in easy range of Lake Tahoe, Mount Shasta, Monterey Bay, etc. In just a couple of hours we can be someplace amazing without dealing with the insane traffic. And now that we’re empty nesters, getting to date my wife again is something I’m really looking forward to. I know how blessed I am to be able to do this.

When you look at that plane in the sky and the engine stops, understand that it’s probably Captain Kevin with another frightened student. About 500 feet above the ground the plane will restart and they will fly off. And inside, a confident Captain Kevin will know he’s doing what’s best for his student. And that student will, in turn, be getting an incredible gift.

Captain Kevin and the Night Flight to Napa

2009-07-22T21:45:00.000-07:00

Captain Kevin is one of those guys that is nicer than the Midwest. He has thousands of hours of flight time and he flies giant jets made by Boeing. But the minute he becomes your flight instructor he’s bent on assuring you know your stuff and that, in case of an emergency, you’ll land safely.

I’m currently on hour 7.7 of my private pilot recertification process with 2.3 hours left to go before I am, for the first time in 25 years, official. I was told when I reentered this process that it would be just like riding a bike. That could not be further from the truth. Let me explain what happened last night.

Captain Kevin lives about 20 miles away from my home airport. He graciously drives up to meet me for my lessons. Last night, my plane partner, Les, flew me down to meet Captain Kevin at his airport. That was at about 10:00 PM. In no time I was in the captain’s seat and up we went. Captain Kevin decided that flying to Napa, where the winds were stronger, would be a great idea. I had never been to Napa’s airport and this was only my second time in the air at night. So, why not heap on the pressure, right?

My previous night flight was amazing. Five full-stop takeoff and landing cycles went by quickly and seeing the lights of the North Bay were mesmerizing. So I was a bit excited for this flight. Captain Kevin had me right where he wanted me. Before getting to Napa He disoriented me a bit my having me track VOR radials. Basically, it’s navigating all over the place and trying to hold a straight line until he tells you to follow another line.

Landing #1
“Now, let’s land at Napa.” No big deal since I greased all my previous night landings. Again, I was putty in his hands. First landing I botched and bounced a bit too much. Crud. Full stop and then up we go again. Back into the flight pattern we go.

Landing #2
All goes well and this time I don’t bounce. Problem corrected. We come to a full stop. Then we take off again and start to get into the pattern. The Captain Kevin says that all the other planes in the pattern (2-3 of them) are all using the runway with a crosswind. “Let’s do that, too.” So now I’m doing a difficult crosswind landing at night at an unfamiliar airport in an airplane that does not want to come down. I drop the right wing down into the wind, left rudder to keep everything straight and touchdown. Full stop and then back into the air with three other student pilots behind me. The pressure continues to build. Les is in the back seat glad he’s not me. He occasionally gives me very reassuring pats on the back that I’m interpreting as “Please don’t kill us tonight” pats. Back into the pattern I go.

Landing #3
All is well until I turn onto final approach. Captain Kevin decides it’s a great time to kill the engine. He quickly quizzes me on what I should be doing if it’s a fire, catastrophic engine failure, UFO collision, electrical failure, etc. It’s important but remember the engine is out, it’s night and I need to get this plane on the ground. Did I mention it’s dark? I follow the procedures Captain Kevin has drilled into me and we land full stop. Then up we go again as the pressure builds. But this time Captain Kevin waits until I’m barely off the ground and he cuts the engine. There’s no way I have enough speed or altitude to make it back to the runway and he knows it. I push the nose over, do my checks and mentally brace for the worst. “You have to take what comes,” is what he says. “Fly it to the ground and take what comes.” Please, God, don’t ever let that be me. Les give me a pat.

I told my family and friends that if I die in a plane crash, don’t let anyone at my funeral say, “At least he died doing what he loved.” I don’t know of anyone who loves crashing into the ground at 200 mph. So don’t say it. These things are on my mind when Captain Kevin graciously gives me power back and up into the pattern we go. It’s still night and there’s still a crosswind and now I’m really uptight.

Landing #4
I’m only 2/3rds down my downwind leg and he cuts the power again. He asks, “Now what are you going to do?” Well, I’m pointed in the opposite direction but I’m still landing on that runway (in a crosswind going the wrong way in a really fast plane at night). I do my checks and ready the plane for landing. I turn hard right and roll out on the end a little high (which is way better than too low). I do a side-slip and bleed off the altitude but this is a mile-long runway so no worries, right? I make the landing and come to a full stop. Up in the pattern we go. “Let’s go back home,” he says. I know this is some sort of a trick. I know he wants to break me.

But we couldn’t go straight back. Oh, no. We had to do more VOR navigation work on the way. I was finally saved by the fog that was now visibly drifting in from the ocean. So, we headed back.

Landing #4.5
I was about 3 miles out from Captain Kevin’s home airport and really high when he cut the power again. If you’re keeping score that’s four engine failures in one night and in less than an hour and a half. I ask myself, “Why couldn’t it be a nice end to the evening?” Captain Kevin wants me to sweat even more. I do my checks and get my glide right. At least the wind is coming straight down the runway but I completely expect he has a way to change that, too.

I’m about ten feet off the ground about to touch down safe and sound when he announces, “Emergency abort!” I’m hoping it’s not real and I didn’t miss seeing a deer wandering on the runway. It doesn’t matter because Captain Kevin says we’re not landing. Up we go. In the pattern we discover the fog is now really close. And we still need to drop off the Captain and get back to our airport.

Landing #5
This time he’s nice to me and lets me land without incident. We drop him off, Les moves up front and flies the Mooney home. We land at Santa Rosa without any fog and I’ve lost 2 gallons of sweat and much of my faculties.

I’m now safe at home and Captain Kevin has given me a new assignment for those remaining 2.3 hours. Fly around San Francisco, avoiding all it’s dangers, deal with air traffic control, and suffer more engine failures. And, just as a heads up, all the planning I’m expected to do will go right out the window when he calls a “divert.” That means bringing out the map and re-plotting a new course of his choosing while flying the airplane.

Flying a Mooney at night in a crosswind with multiple engine failures is not like riding a bike.

The Ten Plagues of Minnesota

2009-06-22T21:08:00.000-07:00

*

Moses told Pharaoh, “Let my people go.” But Pharaoh’s heart was hard and he refused to listen to Moses. So, to get Pharaoh to listen, God sent ten plagues on Egypt to remind Pharaoh he was not in charge.
Minnesotans don’t have “hard hearts” because we know we’re not in charge. There’s a term for this niceness. It’s called, “Minnesota Nice.” Think I’m kidding? Go to Wikepedia.org and look it up. What Wikipedia does not say is how we Minnesotans turned out so nice. Personally, I believe it’s because we’re constantly afflicted with plagues. Thus, we know for certain that God is in charge and we have no control over what happens to us. That in itself is very humbling. So, none of us think we’re big shots. If Moses had asked the Governor of Minnesota to “Let my people go!” the Governor would have said, “Well, you betcha there. Will you be needin’ some hotdish for the trip, then?”
These are the plagues of Minnesota that keep us humble and nice:
1. State Taxes. They have one of the highest tax rates in the U.S. But they also have a stellar education system, great roads, and clean cities. That makes us very happy.
2. Mosquitoes. At sunset, you can honestly hear them buzzing, millions of them. And they all want you and what you contain. It’s nice to be wanted so we all feel loved.
3. Below Zero. The winter after my girls were born was so incredibly frigid that AAA had a week-long waiting list to assist you to start your car. I had to resort to using charcoal briquettes in an upside-down garbage can lid placed under my car to get it started. Minnesota cars have extension cord outlets coming out of them. Batteries have electric blankets and engine blocks have electric heating coils. In Northern Minnesota, people leave their cars running in grocery store parking lots. Below Zero is to a Minnesotan what earthquakes are to a Californian. It happens to everyone.
4. No fresh vegetables. A lack of Vitamin C can leave you listless, lethargic and prone to scurvy. This “dulling” keeps us from saying rude things to each other. On the rare occasion when we did get something fresh, the taste had been left in the field in California.
5. Tornadoes. Nothing says “Wrath of God” like a twister. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about them. So why worry about something you have no control over? Besides, tornadoes always happen to someone else. Right?
6. Border Patrol. We know they exist although we’ve never seen them. That’s what keeps us in a state that regularly spends weeks colder than 20 degrees below zero. I once told a Californian that I lived in Minnesota for 30 years. “Why would you do that,” the Californian asked. My reply was, “No one told us we could move.” Those of us who do move away live with the constant fear that the Minnesota Border Patrol will someday find us and extradite us to Duluth.
7. Fireworks. Fireworks have been illegal in Minnesota ever since I can remember. The are not illegal because state officials fear burning down the state. They are illegal because Minnesotans are not smart enough to let go of something that sparkles. Shake the hand of a Minnesotan and sense a missing digit or three? Ask them the whereabouts of the aforementioned appendages and nine out of ten trauma room visitors will blame, “Fireworks.” Ask them why they didn’t let go and they will reply, “It looked pretty.” We’re a docile folk, even ion the face of explosions.
8. Politics. When we moved to California Jesse “The Body” Ventura was governor. Minnesota was also the only state to vote for Walter Mondale. We have Al Franken (almost), and we had Paul Wellstone. Politics in Minnesota is odd because it never gets talked about in family circles. It seems the state will always be plagued by oddities in politics. Maybe if we fought more about politics, things would make more sense. But we’re too nice. And the long winters play tricks on your mind. Watch enough All Star Wrestling and you’ll vote for anyone.
9. Snow. The Super Bowl Blizzard of January 9-12, 1975 epitomized life in Minnesota. Sustained winds between 20-30 mph and gusts from 70-90 mph created snow drifts as high as 20 ft. I remember running out of food and riding the 5 miles into town on a sled being towed by a snowmobile because we could not find our car or the road. It took 11 days before we were dug out. At the grocery store, not many people were talking. But we all appreciated what each other were going thru as if it were an epic battle. And it was. Blizzards are more a badge of honor than they are an affliction. If you don’t understand that, you’re obviously not a Minnesotan. I remember it snowing on both Memorial and Labor Day. That leaves us with 3 months of Road Construction, better known as Summer. When you can’t be outside, you can’t get into trouble with your neighbors. And when everything finally melts, we’re so happy to see other people there’s no time to get upset with anyone.
10. Hotdish (all one word). The children of Israel made bricks out of mud and straw. Those same ingredients are used in a classic Minnesota Hotdish. Only we call them hamburger and cream of mushroom soup. Take away the mud or the straw and it’s not a brick. Take away hamburger or cream of mushroom soup, and it ain’t hotdish. Minnesota is plagued with plain canned food. We are born thinking tomatoes are supposed to be a little green. Meat is supposed to be cooked until all the moisture is gone. And, what in the name of Pete is an avocado and how do you crack one open? Salads are always made from Iceberg lettuce (figures) and the dressing is always French (orange corn syrup). Hotdishes are everywhere, just like locusts. John the Baptist dipped his in honey for extra pizzaz. We crumble Old Dutch Potato Chips over our hotdishes if we want to make an impression. I told a bunch of ladies at a church function that Californians don’t eat hotdish. “Well, what else is there?” She’ll have to move to find out.

*Please note the parsley that appears in the photo above it typical of any dish Minnesotans want to look fancy. Order anything on the menu at any backwoods eatery and parsley will be on the plate. Parsley is one of the few green items that survives the border crossing. If you made a hotdish from moose crap, hamburger and cream of mushroom soup, folks would eat it up if you put parsley on it. "That looks like moose poopie. But it has parsley on it so it must be hotdish."

The Flying Bug

2009-06-13T20:46:00.000-07:00

Aviation is a sickness. It was something I caught as a child. I’m not sure how it happened. Perhaps it was because my father seemed to travel a lot. We would dress nicely and see him off at Minneapolis International. Then, a few days later, dress nicely again and pick him up. I couldn’t wait to see those old North Central Airlines Convairs. Or maybe I caught it from my Uncle Karl who took us flying in his plane on occasion. Or maybe it was my Uncle Roger who worked for NASA. Or, it could be that when I was young, I was a boy.

When I was in high school I decided to stop dreaming and actually become a pilot. I signed up for flying lessons. I would take my paychecks from Kjellberg’s Carpet and bring them over to the Maple Lake Airport. You could actually do that back then. My first flight instructor was amazing. His name was Jim Shadduck. He really knew his stuff and he got me to solo with about 7 hours of instruction. I was partway through my total 40 hours of flight instruction when Jim left teaching to become an air traffic controller. I think he had the bug, too.

Part of the requirements for my license was to fly on a three-legged trip with each leg being more than 100 miles away from the next. My first stop was in Rochester, MN. It was also the first towered airport I ever landed at. I had no problems. I found the nice lady at the desk and she signed my logbook proving I was there. I gassed up the plane and started down the taxiway. A Northwest 727 was also taxiing and trying to beat me to the takeoff end of the runway. But I wanted to go first to avoid waiting for his turbulence. “Cessna 150, this is the copilot of the Northwest 727. I request you slow down and let us taxi first so we can keep our schedule.” I was not happy. So, I replied, “Copilot of the Northwest 727, this is the Captain of the Cessna 150. No.” and I kept taxiing. Then the tower came on and said, “Good job Captain.” Jim was very proud of me.

My second instructor had the odd habit of making strange noises after I did certain flying maneuvers. It really bothered me. I started to believe I was a horrible pilot based on the sounds he would make. Jeeze. Pffft. Khhhaa. It was all under his breath but quite audible to me. I was talking with a friend about my new hobby and about my new instructor and his audible musings. “You dummy, he has Tourette’s Syndrome.” I didn’t know what that was. Had I known beforehand, I probably would have been more scared. Eventually I received my license and was able to fly with passengers. Some of you reading this may have been past victims of this obsession.

A guy I used to work with named Russ offered me a motorcycle ride in exchange for a plane ride. I obliged. He made the grave mistake of popping a couple of wheelies on the way to the airport. I did not enjoy that. When he realized that he was scared of small planes, he realized what he had done. But I was nice and I promised not to make any violent maneuvers. I waited until he was thoroughly distracted looking out the side window at his family farm in Hanover. While he was waving at the cows I kicked the door on my side of the plane. Boom!

“WHAT’S THAT?” he yelled with the complete look of abject horror on his face. He instantly turned white and started to recall all the former sins he had ever committed and promised to become a castrated priest if God would grant him continued life. “I’m not sure. It was probably nothing.” I pretended to frantically fiddle with dials and levers pretending to pretend to not be afraid. He took the bait. The rest of the trip was spent in silence as he contemplated his life and prayed that God would grant me the wisdom of flying a horribly crippled Cessna 150 back to Maple Lake Airport and land without incident. But I never confessed my sin. So, Russ, if you’re reading this, it was all a fake. But you deserved it.

More flying stories to come.

Rosca de Reyes

2009-05-06T13:41:00.000-07:00

On Three Kings Day our staff celebrated by eating a Rosca de reyes. Look it up here to see what this all about. I would plagiarize the explanation, anyway. Inside the Rosca is 5 little plastic baby Jesuses (is the plural Jesi?). The idea is that if you eat a section with one of the baby Jesi in it, you throw a tamale party for your friends on Groundhog’s Day. This is too strange to make up so just believe me like you do Wikipedia.

Of course, I was the first to bite into Jesus. I also bit into the second Jesus. I now have those two baby Jesi sitting in Fun Tack on top of my computer screen. The one on the left stays in place. But the one on the right is constantly moving. I don’t know why but that baby Jesus just won’t stay put. The other day it fell over so far it was almost upside down. I repositioned the Fun Tack and the next day, both baby Jesi were upside down. This was very upsetting, as you can imagine.

Yesterday I put both baby Jesi back on fresh Fun Tack. Today they were both still standing but the baby Jesus on the right is listing to port about 5 degrees away from the other baby Jesus. Every time I try to reposition the Jesus on the right, he just falls down. I’ve even switched the baby Jesi but the one on the right won’t stay still.

I’m trying to place some deep spiritual meaning on these events but I keep coming back to this. I ate a pastry with two baby Jesi baked into it, bit them both, had to buy tamales from a man who was selling them out of a bucket on Groundhog’s Day, and now they are sitting in Fun Tack on my computer screen. Spiritual? Maybe. Strange? Way.

My Weekend

2009-04-19T21:00:00.001-07:00

Another weekend in the life of Scott proved to be like many others. I got called for my 7th jury duty in 15 years. It's a record. But it started out leaving home late Wednesday evening for Sacramento. Three of us stayed at the Ferguson home. We got settled past midnight and fell asleep. I did have to get up and pee twice, however, which is very irritating. The next morning I went to a very boring meeting all day. But I helped cook a BBQ (black & blue burgers). Then back to the boring meeting. Then back to the Ferguson home for some sleep. Then up early and off to another boring meeting. I left the meeting early to put on a suit (my only one) and I attend a very sad funeral. I got back to the boring meeting, which was now very boring, at 4:30 PM. Then back to the Ferguson's for spaghetti. I learned how to die playing some video game with the word "honor" in it. I learned to fear guard dogs. Then off to sleep. The next morning while getting ready to leave my car was attacked by a flock of turkeys. They scratched the paint on both sides. We left the Ferguson's and went to an Air Force base for an air show. I got to sit in the cockpit of a C5a Galaxy, a U2 Spy Plane, spend some quality time with General Chuck Yeager, and got sunburned. After the show was over we waited an hour to get off the base. On the drive home we saw a naked man in a field, ate at Chipotle, had ice cream at the skankiest Foster's Freeze in the West, saw the only other Old Faithful geyser erupt in Calistoga, and witnessed a beautiful setting sun as we drove over Mt. St. Helena into the Sonoma Valley. This morning I went to work, then went to the hanger and scraped out a gasoline tank. Tomorrow should be normal.

Star Wars Effect

2009-03-09T15:33:00.000-07:00

Something that really used to bother me about science fiction movies is the way that anyone could jump into any spaceship and make it fly. Anywhere. Here, in the past, there are tests and certifications that are needed. No one, even in the future, could know all the rules and regulations, and buttons and joysticks and skills to fly any spaceship they happen to find themselves in. Forget the realization that the copilot has two heads and one of them always eats pudding. I somehow find that more believable than the fact that everyone in the future knows how to fly every spaceship on the market.

I work with a young and talented guy named Andrew. He grew up with flush toilets, color TV, cell phones, computers and medium-rare steak. They’ve always been a part of his life. I have the same computer equipment he does. I also have the same software he uses. He has the ability to not read the directions and in twenty minutes be an expert at Photoshop. I watch him do this. He stares at it for about three seconds, figures out his options, then accomplishes the task he set out to do. The results are always perfect. After 45 minutes of trying to put text on a page I’m leaving the office because I might blurt out some bad swears.

Then it hit me the other day. Given enough time, and enough generations, this gift Andrew and his generation possesses will eventually evolve into the ability to sit in any spaceship and fly it off into other galaxies. So the next question is, will his grandchildren or great-grandchildren begin to grow two heads? Will one of those heads crave pudding?

Our 15th Anniversary in California

2009-02-22T17:19:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow marks the day I arrived in California fifteen years ago. In honor of this event, I shall tell the story.

We packed the moving van during a cold snap (-20 degrees) and light snow. Although it was breaking my heart to leave a job that I had dreamed of since I was a kid, I was very excited about a new opportunity somewhere exotic. All the travel arrangements were made. I was driving the moving van with my bestest childhood friend, Jeff, to California. Later, my family would arrive via some cheap airline along with our basset hound, Humphrey.

This was before cell phones so I met Jeff along a long stretch of road in St. Cloud. I was running very late because of a mix up at camp so I was hoping to find him without much difficulty. We did find each other and Jeff said his goodbyes to his wife, Kelly. Jeff was applying for a job in Redding so this trip was something he was very interested in taking.

We left below zero temps in Minnesota and headed south to I-80. We spent the first night in Lincoln, Nebraska. The plan was to drive until dinnertime and find a hotel with a place to eat within walking distance. We didn’t have any problems with that. I remember nothing about Lincoln other than it was off the freeway and I was exhausted.

Our plan was to drive all day, not stopping for lunch. We’d eat a big breakfast and a big dinner. For lunch, Kelly gave us a giant bucket of custom-made GORP, a.k.a. trail mix. As we made our way toward the Rockies we became familiar with how big and heavy the moving van really was. The van was 27 feet long. We also towed our car that sat on a trailer. This made us close to 50 feet long. It was also really slow, which was basically the entire trip.

Nebraska has a flat beauty all it’s own. You see a lot of sky and empty cornfields. To pass the time we kept talking about how remarkable it was we were driving a moving van along basically the same route the wagon trains to Oregon had taken. Did I mention iPods or GPS’s had not yet been invented? We were on our own for entertainment. Driving into Wyoming was slow going. It’s a gradual climb with very few mountains. We entered something called the Great Divide Basin. Google it because it’s too boring to write about. And it was boring to drive. I expected more.

There are a lot of big rigs on I-80 and some very rough looking and acting truckers. And most of the hotels along the way cater to the grunge crowd. So we began looking for signs for somewhere nice to stay in Wyoming. We start seeing signs for something called “Little America.” The billboards showed happy families and pools. The people on those signs seemed to value clean laundry and groomed pets. It looked like a clean place so we drive extra long that day until we made it to Green River, Wyoming.

The place turned out to be a dive. We checked into the hotel and found ourselves to be suspect. Two guys wearing clean shirts traveling together? We felt like we were going to get beat up. That feeling got worse when we went into the restaurant. I’ve never been stared down so much. We snarfed down our meal then hid out in our room for the rest of the night.

We woke up early and drove somewhere else for a big breakfast. Then we hit the road awaiting the adventure of crossing the Wasatch Mountains. As a Minnesotan I was very impressed. The peaks were rugged and snow covered. But the van could only make 25 mph, tops. It was very frustrating traveling so slowly. But at least the scenery was better. We munched on our GORP and enjoyed the trip as much as we could. We changed drivers every couple of hours to break the monotony.

As we started downhill, we had to keep the van in low gear to keep it from running away from us. Then Jeff looked in his side mirror and he said, “Look behind us. Look what we just drove out of.” I couldn’t believe my eyes. To look back at the Wasatch was just stunning.

We decided to stop at the Great Salt Lake. We pulled into a little park barren of all trees. We got out of the van and were overpowered with the smell of fart. It was a giant fart lake filled with fart water and swarming fart flies. It was beautiful but the stench was too much for us. But we both felt compelled to stick a hand in the water. That was a mistake. Every tiny imperfection on our hands was now exposed to the caustic pain of brine. And it left our hands sticky. So we had to hunt down some fresh water to get the ick off our hands.

We could see the salt flats ahead of us. Signs warned us to make sure the tanks were filled because there were no services for 80 miles. So we filled the tanks at a real rundown joint and headed across the Bonneville Salt Flat. You could see the mountains in the distance but the drive took forever. How did they do it in covered wagons (sorry, I was being a nerd, again)?

We made a quick stop on the salt flats just to say we did and found they were covered with about 2 inches of water. I didn’t expect that. We were making good time because of the GORP idea. But then halfway through Nevada Jeff needed to stop, urgently. I knew something was wrong but let him keep his dignity and didn’t ask. But my guess was gastrointestinal related. I was feeling it as well. We stopped in a little town and Jeff bolted from the van and disappeared. I had no idea which way he went but I wasn’t too concerned because the town only had a couple of streets.

But 45 minutes went by and I thought something might be horribly wrong. Perhaps he fainted on the toilet. Or maybe he passed his entire colon. Another half hour went by and I became concerned enough to start looking for him. Besides, now I had to poop. So I found a bathroom, did my thing and started my search. I found him walking out of a tiny drugstore. I think it was a drugstore. And I could tell my guess about the sudden stop was right. Although the GORP was delicious, we decided to leave the lid on, for both our sakes.

As we talked about poop (always funny) we walked back toward the van. We turned the corner and there, on the mountainside, in giant white letters were the initials of the town, Battle Mountain. I couldn’t believe it. After what Jeff just experienced we were now looking at a 50 foot tall BM on the side of a mountain. To prove it, enter these coordinates into Google Earth or Google Maps and you’ll see the giant BM about two miles southwest of town (+40° 36' 10.39", -116° 58' 19.64").

We made it to Reno that night. We stayed at a nice hotel and had a great meal. The next day we’d climb the east side of the Sierra and hope for great weather. It was snowing on the pass that evening and we were hoping we would not have to rent chains for that giant truck. We weren’t even sure how to do that. So we hoped for the best.

After crossing the border we were stopped at a department of agriculture checkpoint. We had no fruits or veggies but the nice inspector man still made me open the van. He was convinced I had houseplants. I tried to convince him that houseplants in -20 degree weather would not have survived. We left all our plants back in Minnesota. He would not believe me and I was very irritated by this Californian’s lack of severe cold weather knowledge. Then, to spite me for my impatience, he made me take out our disassembled swing set and scrape out all the dirt off the bottoms of the poles with my pocketknife. It took a good 20 minutes before he was satisfied that all Minnesota bacteria were gone and the orange and almond crop would be safe from my swing set. The funny thing was I sold the swing set the minute we settled in because there was no room for it in our new backyard.

The next morning was sunny and a bit warm. It was in the 30’s and felt balmy compared to what we left two days earlier. We ate a big breakfast and hid the GORP. We drove up into the Sierra and decided to make an historical stop. We would be crossing the Sierra at Donner Pass, the site of American style cannibalism. We decided to stop at the park and pay our respects. Inside the Donner museum was a giant oil painting depicting the hardships of the Donner party. In a moment of irreverence I placed a small piece of beef jerky behind the picture on the inside of the back of the frame on the lower left corner. Believe it or not, it’s still there.

As we left we (Jeff) took a wrong turn and ended up in a dead end. I would have done the same thing if I were driving because it looked like the way to the freeway. It was decided that since we were 50 feet long we needed to back out for quite a ways. Since I was a farm boy used to backing up trailers I was chosen to drive and Jeff guided me by walking down the street telling cars I was drunk.

We made it out of Donner Pass after our own little incident and headed down toward California’s Central valley. The temperature started to climb. By the time we hit Sacramento it was 80 degrees. We were roasting because we were still dressed for Minnesota winter.

We decided to stop for lunch before we reached Santa Rosa and avoid the GORP difficulties. So, we went to Taco Bell. Using a paper map (they did use them back then) we found our way to the church I would be working at. Once at the church they directed us to our new home. But I remember while still in the parking lot I opened the moving van and tried to find a pair of shorts. It was about 85 degrees. Amazing.

The troops were called in to empty the van and we were moved in rather quickly. I started work the next day. I spent the evenings getting unpacked and ready for my family to arrive.

Still in Minnesota, my brother took my wife, girls and dog to Minneapolis International very early in the morning. Humphrey was in a carrier. They let him out to walk one last time just before checking him in. While in the check in line Humphrey barfed copious amounts of cat food he had stealthily stolen that morning. The large pile of puke was picked up by my brother, Tim. I cannot tell you how thankful Sheri was to have Tim there, helping to get them on the plane.

The girls quickly made friends in the neighborhood and we settled into our new lives as immigrants from Minnesota. They made fun of our accents for quite some time. Those accents have now faded and folks can only tell when I say things like, “about, pop, hot dish, boat, ish or uffda” before catching myself. When we travel back to Minnesota or Michigan, people say we talk funny now.

Our girls were 5 when we moved. They are now 21. They remember only those things we have pictures or video of. They have vague recollections of our friends and places we lived. They have strong Californian accents and don’t remember what really cold temperatures are like. They have never shoveled snow or eaten tater tot hot dish. They say ‘soda’ instead of ‘pop.’ And when it rains, it feels like Christmas it them.

We thought we would be here 3 years at the most. But Northern California has grown on us. And it took forever but it now feels like home. We miss our friends and family and wish we could see more of them. So we cherish our visits to the homeland more and more. So here’s to fifteen years of living in Northern California.

Bacon Explosion

2009-01-29T20:17:00.001-08:00

Sheri will not allow me to make this in the house. But if I'm going to break my diet, this is how I will do it. Click on "Bacon Explosion" above and see what I'm talking about. Oh, my.

Northwestern College Pranks, Part Deux

2009-01-07T21:20:00.000-08:00

My desire was to prank the entire school. But to do that, the entire school had to be present. The only time that happened was in a required chapel session that happened a couple of times a week. We would sit and listen to a speaker, sing a couple of old hymns and then be on our way. Most of the time we’d find creative ways to skip chapel after we signed in. So, instead of listening to the speaker drone on about love and friendships and other stuff, I sat and stared at the auditorium trying to figure out what to do that would involve pranking everyone. It was a long thought process and I wont bore you with the details. Suffice to say I ended up looking at the hymnal.

Every student, at the required time, was asked to open the hymnal and sing from an announced page. I discovered that if you put a pencil inside the binding of the hymnal and close it, the pencil would disappear and be locked inside. When you opened the hymnal the pencil would fall out. But pencils were not going to work. Another day or two and I would have the answer.

By now the farmers were anxious to get going on the “college prank.” I knew if I told them my plan they would eventually blab it to someone and the surprise would be gone. But I needed their help. For the next two months I had the farmers take a couple of extra knives from the cafeteria every meal and bring them to me. I hid them inside an old backpack in my room. Every day they asked, “When are we going to do the college prank?”

A couple of weeks before the big day, I secretly scouted out the auditorium. I wasn’t sure how we would get in after hours and I experimented with propping doors open but they were all discovered and locked. It seems that security at Northwestern College was a force to be respected. In fact, there was one particular student who was part of the security team that I was scared to death of. His name was Clarence Boomgaarden. They called him “Boomer.” The rumor was he was an ex-marine and a former Hell’s Angel. I was too scared to ask him if those rumors were true. And, I didn’t want him to know who I was for fear of him catching me and squashing me like a bug. I frequently saw him patrolling the building at night. It was going to be the skinny Swede and two farmers from South Dakota vs. Boomer.

Boomer was really good at his job. So my only hope was to rely on dumb luck, and a plan. Dumb luck actually worked the first night we tried to get in the auditorium. I told the farmers this was the night. We took turns carrying the backpack as it was filled with 244 (I counted) very heavy cafeteria knives. We entered the building from the access tunnel and began checking for empty doors. It was closing time so there were no other students in the building. Dumb luck prevailed and I found an open door. Just as I whisper-shouted to the farmers I found an opening, Boomer pulled up in his patrol car. We bolted inside but I was certain he saw us.

Now for my plan. I figured we might need a safe place to hide until I was certain Boomer had made his rounds for the evening. I found that place, underneath the stage. The front of the stage had a thick velvet skirt about four feet high. I found that there were legs supporting the stage near the front of the stage. Using my feet, I marked the position of those legs and found that if we needed to quickly hide, we could duck under the stage directly in line with the main aisle as it was clear of obstacles.

With Boomer on our tail, we would need to do just that. So, wearing a very heavy backpack, and with two farmers closely behind, we ran down the dark aisle hoping our eyes would adjust by the time we reached the front. There wasn’t time to pull out the flashlights. Just as we reached the front our eyes adjusted to the dark and we could see our hideout. I dove under the stage and rolled about three feet.

It was then I discovered something called an orchestra pit. I fell into this pit on my back about six feet. I hit a hard cement floor and the backpack burst open sending the knives flying and making a horrible racket. The impact knocked the wind out of me, which is a terrible feeling. Now for the fun part. There were two farmers right behind me and I couldn’t warn them because I had no breath. Both of them fell on me like a couple of corpses. About two seconds later we could hear Boomer open the main doors. He must have heard the noise. As I struggled to take a breath I moved, causing the knives under me to make a metallic clank. The farmers covered my mouth. Imagine this. I have the wind knocked out of me, knives are jabbing into my back, I have two farmers laying on top of me, both of them with their hands over my mouth, and Boomer is now turning on the lights and is going to kill us. At some point I passed out from lack of air.

It wasn’t long but I regained consciousness, my diaphragm finally relaxed and regained breathing. But we didn’t move a muscle because Boomer had called in reinforcements and was now looking for us. About five minutes later a buddy joined him and they searched everywhere for us. They even shined their lights under the curtain but we were so close to the wall they didn’t spot us. Thank God because those farmers were still laying on me.

About twenty minutes went by and the doors closed and the lights went out. The farmers wanted to move but I told them this might be a trick and that one of them might still be in the auditorium. We had a whisper fight but I won. I had already paid too high a cost to get busted and have the plan fall apart.

I was right, about ten minutes passed and we heard someone get up from a seat, open the inner then outer doors, then leave the auditorium. For the next ten minutes we gathered every knife we could find with the one working flashlight we had. Since the backpack was broken, we placed the knives up on the floor of the auditorium. Then we helped each other scale the pit we fell into. For the next half hour we placed knives in the bindings of hymnals in random places all over the auditorium.

We snuck out of the building and went back to our rooms. I swore the farmers to secrecy. The next morning I was never so excited to attend a required chapel session in my life. I made the farmers sit in front of me about 20 seats apart. I didn’t want them to give away what we had done. Then, as if to reward our hard work, Almighty God pulled off a miracle. The president of the college, who rarely appeared in these chapel sessions, took the podium. In tow was the entire trustee board of Northwestern College. We had no idea. The president asked us all to stand and turn to hymn number 123.

As we stood and opened our hymnals knives started dropping everywhere. Students looked puzzled, so did the president and the trustees. I will never forget the president’s words that day. “It sounds like we have a tinkling bell out there.” And it just got worse. Now students had realized what had happened. They were picking up knives and dropping them on the ground creating more noise. This went on for some time. It was glorious and no one knew who had done it.

On the way out I knew this was going to be the talk of the college, and no one was the wiser. Now we just needed to keep our mouths shut. On the way out of the building a very tall senior named Paul stopped me. He said, “Nice job.” Fearing for my college career I feigned ignorance. “What do you mean?” I replied with a fake puzzled look on my face knowing his mother worked for the college provost or someone important. “Give me a break Peterson.” He said. Oh no, he knows my name. Now I was in big trouble. “For the last three weeks I watched you and those two farmers take knives from the cafeteria. I knew whatever you were up to it was going to be good. Your secret’s safe with me. I just wanted to say, ‘Good job.’” I beamed from ear to ear knowing I was recognized for such a great accomplishment and knowing I had earned the respect of my peers.

For the next two weeks a random knife would drop out of a hymnal causing the student body to break into laughter. This ended the day they removed all the hymnals and checked all the bindings. About two months later a kids choir came to entertain us and they sat up front where no one ever sat. When they stood up to sing a hymn a few remaining knives dropped out causing more uproarious laughter. It was truly the gift that kept on giving.

It is my understanding that this prank has become a tradition at Northwestern College in the Totino Fine Arts Center. Someone else will have to testify to that, I’ve only heard rumors. But I do want to go on record taking full credit for creating the prank. The only problem is that I was now hooked. I needed more. That’s when I joined student security. And that’s when the fun really began. More later.

College Pranks, Part I

2008-12-22T20:05:00.000-08:00

The start of my formal college pranking career began with a couple of tablespoons of water. This is going to take some explaining so go make yourself a nice cup of warm beverage and come back after the microwave dings.

Ready? Great. I attended Northwestern College in St. Paul, Minnesota starting in 1982. Northwestern is a beautiful suburban campus with some very fancy dormitories. They were so fancy, in fact, that the college authorities did not take a liking to pranks of any kind. They had a monetary fine system, which they readily employed. Two college buddies of mine were fresh off the farm in North Dakota. They decided to spend a year at Northwestern to broaden their horizons. They led a life out in the middle of nowhere so keep that in mind as you continue reading.

One day they decided to play a “college prank.” I put that in quotes for reasons you will soon see. I was always the intended victim. One afternoon I walked into their dorm room and as I entered the main part of the room, I could see the farmers sitting on beanbag chair awaiting my arrival. They stared at me quite oddly as I walked toward them. My shoe snagged on something and a moment later about two tablespoons of water fell from the ceiling, missing me completely. The farmers were visibly and vocally disappointed. I looked up to see an elaborate system of hooks and fishing line attached to a Dixie cup on the ceiling. Apparently I triggered the tripwire, which tipped over the cup. But the speed at which I entered the room was not accounted for thus the misfire.

This “college prank” repeated itself for a few weeks. It got to be a joke as they seriously thought they could get me. I took to pushing open their door with my foot before entering every time I visited. Each time they were waiting for me on that beanbag chair. It was actually quite cute. Those crazy college boys from North Dakota and their “college pranks” became quite the hit with the city folks. I would invite people who didn’t know them for a visit just so they could see the disappointed look on the faces of the farmers. “Maybe next time, boys. Maybe next time.”

I decided it was time to show those farmers their first real college prank. So one evening I enlisted my two roommates to help me. I filled a large manila envelope with shaving cream. Late that night, after the R.A.’s were tucked away in bed, we took the filled envelope to the second floor. I placed the open end under their door, knocked, waited for them to come to the door, then we dropped a couple of text books onto the envelope.

The books forced the shaving cream out of the envelope, under the door and sent it spraying into the room, covering the farmers with shaving cream as they approached. That was how it was supposed to work. What really happened was that the seam of the envelope became soaked with shaving cream and loosened. When we dropped the books onto it exploded on our side of the door completely covering my roommate and I from head to toe. It also covered the ceiling and many other parts of the hall. None of it entered the farmer’s room.

Shaving cream pranks were one of those on the upper end of expensive in the fine system. So, we freaked out. The farmers opened the door, saw us covered in shaving cream and were completely perplexed. Not wanting them to know what happened I told them that someone left an exploding package outside their door and I must have triggered it. We quickly grabbed all the towels we could and cleaned up the mess before getting busted.

A couple of days later the farmers began to suspect we tried to prank them and something went horribly wrong. Their “college pranks” grew more frequent. Tired of such shenanigans I told them if they promised to stop I would involve them in a real college prank on the entire student body. What we did became a tradition at Northwestern for years. And I am taking complete credit. I have witnesses.

Innocent Pranks

2008-11-24T20:45:00.000-08:00

In high school I began to get a thirst for pranks that would later blossom into large scale events in college. The earliest ones I can remember from high school were rather innocent compared to the epic pranks that would come later in life. The first one I can remember was taking brass tacks and forming them so that when you kicked them into an electrical outlet, they would trip the circuit breaker. If you did the right way, they wouldn’t smoke or spark and give the “joke” away. If any of you youngin’s is readin’ this here blog, don’t do it. I was dumb and lucky I didn’t burn anything down or electrocute myself.

I was in algebra and bored to death. A storm was rumbling through and a couple of times the power went out for a couple of seconds. I was sitting next to the light switches and so I had an idea. The power went out again and before it went back on I turned off the lights. A few seconds later, the power came back on everywhere but in our room. I kept my mouth shut. The teacher was perplexed why the power remained off in our room so he left to find a custodian. A few minutes he returned with the custodian who advised us all to leave the room. He used his ladder to look above the ceiling tiles at all the lights. He was stumped. We sat in the hall until the bell rang for the next period. Teehee.

One day we had a substitute teacher in biology. I convinced a guy named Karl to pretend to cough and complain of smelling gas. Since gas outlets were everywhere in the room, the substitute took us seriously, especially since several other students joined us in coughing. She evacuated the room and once again, I accomplished my task.

But these were only the beginning. For soon I was off to college and would join student security. I would be given the keys to almost everything. And an era of great pranking and joy would begin.

Equal Opportunity

2008-11-14T22:23:00.001-08:00

We had four shop classes at Buffalo Junior High; wood, metal, plastics, and electronics. In wood shop I had a few close calls. I unplugged a router to change the bit. Someone saw the cord unplugged and without looking to see what the other end was attached to, plugged it back in. I had just taken out the bit and was about to remove the wrench when the power went on. The router sprang to life and my wrench shot across the room nearly missing two friends and it flew out the wire-reinforced window. Thankfully it went through handle-first leaving the smallest hole it could. A few of us said the obligatory, “Whoa,” then went back to our projects. I got a new wrench.

For some reason the shop teacher decided to put me in charge of the movie he wanted to show. It was about different kinds of wood. It was going to be an exciting class. I sat back by the projector. It was about 45 minutes long. Halfway through I was supposed to change the reels. Someone reported our teacher was in his office sleeping. We had a laugh and kept watching the movie. At some point I fell asleep. I woke up to someone shouting, “The movie’s on the floor!” I had no idea what that meant. I looked up at the screen and it was still there. Then I looked down at the floor and almost the entire reel had somehow made its way to the floor in a large pile. I quickly turned off the projector and got a pencil to use to spin the film back onto the reel. All was well.

Wood shop wasn’t nearly as dangerous as metal shop. I was using a soldering oven. It looked like a little iron box with fire in it. To light it, you turned the two gas valves on and put the flint inside the oven and struck the flint creating a spark, thus, igniting the oven. Well, my flint was worn down and wouldn’t spark no matter what I tried. So I went to the shop teacher and he gave me a new flint. I returned to the oven and noticed the gas was still on. Oops. I turned it off for a second, turned it back on and hit the flint. The top exploded off the oven, hit the ceiling leaving a mark, and burned the eyebrows off my face. I distinctly remember Bill Lohse (I know you’re reading this Bill) looking at me and having a good laugh. I though he was kidding me when he said my eyebrows were gone. They take about three months to grow back. The redness went away in about four days.

In another incident we were making chisels. We took a short steel rod and heated it up until it was glowing in this huge furnace. Then we pounded it into shape just like little blacksmiths. The heating process took a while and I got a little distracted. Somehow I dropped my chisel into the furnace. Now, had I been smart I would have reported my error. But I looked over at the teacher, saw he was busy with something, so I cut myself a new steel rod and started over. At the end of the day my chisel was really cool. It looked like something you’d buy at Home Depot. The next day they couldn’t get the fire lit. They discovered a puddle of metal had cooled in the bottom of the furnace closing off the gas jets. It took them a week to fix it. Oops.

In 8th grade, the State of Minnesota ruled that girls now had to take shop along with home economics. Guys did, too. This was terrible for us guys but a true victory for the women-folk. One of the first things we guys had to learn was sewing. We were all horrible. We struggled with making raglan-sleeved shirts for weeks. The ultimate humiliation came when the teacher got the great idea to make everyone wear the shirts they made on the same day for a final exam. We all showed up looking like we were in some family singing group. I looked like a freakin’ hobo caught in a lawn mower. I wore my jacket all day.

Cooking was no better. I had a very hard time following directions for something I already knew how to make. Today was French toast. I had made French toast a hundred times so I didn’t need anyone telling me how to make it. So, I got bored. I noticed an old potholder sitting on the counter and decided to have some fun. I dipped the potholder in the egg mixture and started to cook it. I was hoping to serve it to one of my friends. Just as the potholder was reaching the peak of caramelization, the teacher busted me. It would be my first detention. I even got in trouble during detention retelling the story to amused classmates. I got an extra half hour.

A Grand Day Out

2008-10-12T22:14:00.000-07:00

We picked up Elissa at school and headed to a beach in San Fransisco along with our friends Andrew and Christy. We set up a little tent and got out our picnic wares and enjoyed San Francisco's Fleet Week celebration. Head on over to my photo album for some great pictures and commentary of the day.

A Trip to Holbrook

2008-09-25T22:13:00.001-07:00

I was recently invited by my co-worker-friend Dan to join his brother, Dave, on a little adventure. The purpose of the trip was to attend a concert put on by a group called The Lost Dogs. Dan and Dave have been fans of The Lost Dogs since they were in junior high school. The band embarked on an odd concert tour following Route 66 from Chicago to Los Angeles. Stopping along the way, they set up in parks and parking lots and played concerts for whoever wanted to listen.

Dave owns a Piper Malibu, a very nice six-seat turboprop flying machine. The plan was for him to pick us up in Santa Rosa and fly to Holbrook, Arizona, where we would both stay and listen to the band at the famous Wigwam Hotel. The plan did not disappoint. It was both spontaneous and odd, a combination I could not refuse.

We met Dave at the Charles M. Schulz Sonoma County Airport, just two miles down the road from my house. Dave was already there, fueling the plane for the four-hour trip. We stowed our luggage and I grabbed my camera. In case Dave passed out during the trip, and since I was a licensed private pilot, I sat in the co-pilot’s seat. If anything did happen, I could surely land the plane. I thought that was a great plan.

We took off over the skies of Sonoma County and headed east. Our flight plan took us just south of Sacramento and into the Sierra Nevada. The route took us directly over Yosemite National Park, one of my favorite places in all the world. I love seeing it from the air but usually I’m in a United Airlines coach seat. Now I was just a few thousand feet above the valley looking down at Half Dome. It was stunning. Flying near Bishop brought us very near Mt. Whitney, the tallest mountain in the lower 48. Then came the mountains of southern Nevada.

I wasn’t going to say anything but I had to go pee. I figured it wasn’t polite to ask Dave the pilot to pull over. But something incredible was brewing in his pilot brain. “Have you ever been to Las Vegas?” Dave queried. “Why yes Dave,” I replied politely, “But only to the airport switching flights. “How would you guys like to stop in Vegas and have lunch on the strip?” he asked. Of course we obliged. I think he had to pee, too. We landed at a general aviation airport just north of the city. We drained our tanks at the Jet Center. We were then given a shuttle ride to the famous Las Vegas strip. We were dropped of at the Bellagio Hotel where we wandered a bit, amazed at the opulence. Since $50 each for lunch each was a bit much, we settled on Planet Hollywood.

After lunch we wandered the casinos a bit and ended up at Caesar’s Palace. I was stunned and amazed that this city was built: 1) by the mob, 2) with money people willingly lost, 3) in the middle of the desert. We didn’t gamble but we did watch plenty of very depressed looking people trying to get rich quick by giving their money away.

As we got a cab, the bellman joked with us asking if we were going to the airport to fly off in our Lear Jet. We said, well yes, we were going to the airport to board a private plane and we only stopped because we in the neighborhood and wanted some lunch. It made me feel special.

Back to the North Las Vegas Airport we went. Our cabbie was an interesting guy. He was a model plane hobbyist and showed us his scars from little propeller accidents. We drove by the largest car wash signs I have ever seen. The cabby then told us about his idea for starting a topless car wash. I stopped myself from saying, “You gotta dream big.”

Our plane was fueled and ready to go. We took off heading east to our destination of Holbrook. On the way we saw a lot of desert. But there were a few sited worth mentioning. First we passed the Hoover Dam. Simply stunning. Then we flew over the Grand Canyon, which was even more stunning. After the Grand Canyon we flew over a vast expanse of featureless desert broken up only by the city of Flagstaff, which looked amazing.

Then the skies got very bumpy. After an hour of being tossed around I was thankful I had packed a secret gallon-sized Zip Loc bag in my back pocket in case I needed a place to put my Planet Hollywood lunch. I never had to use it, thankfully. I didn’t want to start another puke-a-palooza.

We landed at Holbrook, an uncontrolled field just north of town, in the middle of nowhere right next to historic Route 66. We were met by a very nice gentleman, the airport FBO (fixed base operator). We tied down the plane and the FBO gave us the airport car to use. There were two other European gentlemen who arrived just before us. They had little portable bikes. We got the car.

It was an old Crown Victoria converted police car. It had a few dents and patched-up antennae holes and smelled a bit of burned tinkle (probably from transporting convicts), but it was free. We just had to gas it up before bringing it back.

We threw our stuff in the car and headed down Route 66 into the sleepy town of Holbrook. It’s a town where you can see what the damage the freeway caused. It was run down, dirty and semi-abandoned. You could tell the folks in Holbrook were trying their best to keep the old magic alive but the cars just kept whizzing by on the interstate. It reminded me of Pixar’s Cars movie.

We found the Wigwam hotel. The placed looked a little tired but it turned out to be fantastic. The lady at the front desk was incredibly polite and got us set up quickly. Lost Dog fans were now arriving anticipating a 4PM concert. We checked into wigwam #9. It was clean and actually didn’t smell of smoke. It was a small room but filled with charm. We loved it. I brought my AeroBed, which was a lifesaver, as we only had one bed. The brothers would share that.

The band was late because they stopped at an Indian Reservation to play a concert for some kids. That was more than forgivable. They set up on a back patio of the hotel next to the fire pit. The concert started just as the sun was setting. I was somewhat familiar with The Lost Dogs but all their songs were new to me. They were a great band and shared with us many of the unique adventures they had playing these small concerts on Route 66.

After the concert we needed some dinner. But the town shunned us. Nothing was open save McDonalds, Burger King and Denny’s. Fast food was out. And, since no one goes to Denny’s on purpose, it seemed that was the only viable alternative. We opted for sandwiches and fruit at Safeway.

I took a lot of photos. But when we returned, the nice lady at the front desk had turned off the famous Wigwam Hotel neon signs and was nowhere to be found. I almost cried. I only got one shot of the famous neon from my iPhone. Looks like I’ll have to return.

The next morning we arose, showered and headed to a greasy spoon for breakfast. We found a place called Jerry’s. It turned out to be a chain restaurant. We were the only folks there. The tables were filled with dirty dishes from earlier breakfasts consumed by the locals. We found a clean table and had a seat. Breakfast wasn’t spectacular but it was predictable.

We headed across the street to the airport, gave back the car, loaded and fueled the plane and took off, heading back toward Flagstaff. We were not making any stops this time. We got great photos of the Grand Canyon in morning light. Just west of Las Vegas we saw a couple of F-16 fighters dog fighting. We had to climb really high to clear the mountains west of Vegas so we donned our oxygen masks to keep from passing out in the thin air. We climbed to 16,500 feet, which is really good for a non-pressurized plane. Dave said he could actually climb to 25,000 feet. We were so high I got a photo of a Delta Boeing 777 below us.

Back over the desert, over the Sierra Nevada and Yosemite again, and soon we were home. We made the return trip in just over three hours because of a favorable tailwind. We bid thanks to Dave and went home. I started to download my photos and fell asleep. Five hours later I woke up. As the postcard says, “I wish you were here.”

Thanks Dave & Dan for a very memorable trip!

Please check out the photos and commentary here.

Treasure City, Royalton, Minnesota

2008-09-21T21:45:00.000-07:00

How do I begin to describe the joy Treasure City has brought to my life? For those of you who have never heard of the place, Treasure City is a classic American tourist trap located on what used to be the main artery out of Minneapolis into the wild northern reaches of Minnesota. Highway 10 is to Minnesota what Route 66 is to the U.S. Besides Treasure City, Highway 10 brings you partway to Paul Bunyan Land, home of Paul and Babe, the Blue Ox. It was also the home of the amazing, but semi-retired, Flying Wallendas until they moved to Florida. It cuts through Little Falls, boyhood home of Charles Lindberg. Little falls also boasts the now gone but never forgotten, Smuda Zoo. But unquestionably the most amazing place along Highway 10 still is Treasure City.

As a boy I used to ride the bus to camp. We drove by Treasure City but never, ever stopped. I had dreams of the place. I was entranced by the 200 pound man-eating clam at the front door. Real pirate treasure chests could be seen just inside. Sometimes you could make out other trinkets if the bus driver was in the right lane and was following a tractor. On the way home we’d stop at Dairy Queen but never at Treasure City. What did the bus driver know about this place we didn’t? Could you get mummified monkey hands? What about real Indian scalps? Or perhaps a shark’s eyeball? What could be so forbidden about the place?

When we started going to family camp, I begged my parents to stop. But they too knew what the bus driver did and kept driving. I would later find out that if you bring a child into Treasure City you’ll be there at least two hours.

When I got my own car, and was employed by the camp, I became a frequent visitor. I quickly acquainted myself with the store manager, Florence Ziwicki. When we needed cheap prizes at camp, I would get Florence to sign stacks and stacks of 10-cent postcards. It was very irritating to her but I kept doing it. The kids went crazy for them. Imagine having a Treasure City postcard signed by Florence Zwicki!

Years after I left camp, a guy I mentor left California and ended up in Minnesota. I told him of the wonders of the northland and he brought his family to Treasure City. He brought in his video camera just in case something great happened. He quickly found Florence and he asked her to greet me. She was happy to oblige. “Hello Scott,” she said with gusto. Then under her breath she muttered, “Who ever the hell you are!” I about peed my pants laughing. I used to irritate her so much signing those postcards I thought for sure she’d remember me. But I guess she sees a lot of folks more memorable than me.

This past summer we made the trek to LBBC and my wife and I decided to make the stop at Treasure City. I brought my camera hoping to pose with Florence. I asked where she was, hoping no tragedy struck her. I was informed by the owner, Bob Janski, she was away on medical leave but was returning to work after a long absence later that afternoon. Unfortunately, we couldn’t stay to welcome her back. Another opportunity missed.

So we wandered and took pictures. Please look at my album for some lively commentary. And here you’ll find a video the local news did on the place. Check out this video, too. And here you’ll find their website. If you’re ever in the neighborhood, you can’t pass by without stopping. It’s north of St. Cloud in Royalton on the north side of town. When you stop, greet Florence for me. She won’t remember me but you might get her to cuss.

Empty Nest (almost)

2008-09-20T12:15:00.000-07:00

That's Britt on the left, Elissa on the right.

Last week we helped Elissa move out of the nest. We had our children early and are now looking at a completely empty nest in our mid-forties. Britt will be moving out in January as she is spending one more semester at our local college to earn enough credits to properly transfer to Sacramento State. It’s been a transforming week for us. We face the realization that she might never move back and that our job, for the most part, is finished. She’s on her own and that’s that.

Last Friday morning we emptied her room, with the help of three college-age guys, and packed her stuff into three vehicles. We took a couple of parting pictures and headed to Emeryville, about and hour’s drive away. It was strange moving her into her own apartment and getting things set up. As I put together her bed and desk my mind was filled with all the things I never taught her to do. They were guy things she was never interested in. Too late now.

Everyone left to find some food and make an IKEA run. That left me alone in the apartment to set things up. And that caused me to think of all the great memories I have of Elissa. I started to cry. I kept reminding myself that this wasn’t a funeral and that she was only an hour away. No big deal, right? Well it was a big deal. And it is a funeral. My role as a father will never be the same. Like it or not the parent company has moved me from my job of 21 years to a different department. Have I been promoted or demoted? Will we be downsizing? How are we going to pay for all this? When will I stop crying? Am I just being man-opausal?

I got the room situated and then all the ladies showed up and put their decorative touches on the room. They squabbled about what should go where and what she should do with this and that just like they do at home. I just stared at my daughter and wondered where the time went.

I hated car seats and diapers. I loved reading to the girls, “Brown bear, brown bear, what do your see? I see a green frog looking at me.” But how many times can you read those lines with interest? I loved soccer games but driving them both in different directions all day, every day, got a little tiring. And once they drove I got tired of worrying about when they would get home. But now I won’t be doing any of that.

Then came the goodbye. I had heard legends of this rite of passage from several experienced friends. I was not looking forward to it. For one, I was dealing with some emotions from the past. Only one other person from my extended family ever graduated from college. So the prospect of me even going to college and graduating was very important to my father. My dad was fighting cancer when I entered college. He was in terrible pain the day I was to move into the dorm at Northwestern. He should have stayed home but insisted on making the trip. He stayed in the car while my mother and I moved everything into my room. This really bothered him but he was in too much pain to help. When I said goodbye, he implored me to stay in school and to graduate no matter what. “Don’t give up.” He told me he was proud of me and that he would be o.k. Just a couple of months later he died while I was in school.

Take those memories into account when you realize that I would now be wishing my daughter all the best in her new life away from home. I had all these things I wanted to say but the words wouldn’t come out. I just hugged her and cried. I think she knew what I wanted to say. And I hoped with all my heart she would remember to brush her teeth on her own.

She wasn’t there more than two days when she called us. She was bored, as her classes had not started. She wanted to go to dinner and a movie. How could we resist? We made haste and rescued her from her boredom. We roamed around IKEA looking for a step stool then found dinner at California Pizza Kitchen. In the same mall we found a theater and watched the latest Cohen brothers movie. We dropped her at her apartment with more goodies and said goodbye. This goodbye was much easier.

A few days later Britt went down and brought her home for the night. I thought those two couldn’t stand each other but, as it turn out, adulthood changes sisters, too. When we dropped her off the next day Britt got out of the car and hugger her sister goodbye. I about fainted. I had heard legends about this sort of thing happening but I never imagined it would happen with my two girls. They hugged. Lord Jesus in Heaven, they hugged!

I’ve posted a couple of photos here for you to see Elissa’s new digs. We’ll keep you updated on her adventures and ours.

Dental Care

2008-09-06T09:14:00.001-07:00

I’ve tried them all; Crest, Colgate, Aim, Pearl Drops and even some organic crap from Trader Joes. I’ve tried whitening, cavity care, extra minty, and cool ranch. But they all do the same thing.

When my girls were infants and I was still in school I worked a job that had very late hours on occasion. One evening I came in very late. Not wanting to wake my wife or my babies I quietly went upstairs avoiding the squeaky steps. I carefully closed the bathroom door and without turning on the light I did my pre-sleep tinkle and brushed my teeth. I grabbed the tube of toothpaste and started to brush vigorously. It didn’t take long for me to realize I was brushing with Desitin Diaper Rash Cream. I never liked the smell of that stuff and I discovered I didn’t like the taste either. The problem with Desitin is that it is specifically made to stick to wet skin and never come off. Since the inside of my mouth is made entirely of wet skin, the Desitin found a nice home. And it wasn’t leaving. There was no spitting it out. So I grabbed toilet paper and tried wiping it out. But toilet paper is meant to break apart, which it did inside my mouth. So I went downstairs and used paper towels. I went thru several sheets before I could go back to brushing with the real stuff.

I was reminded of this incident because of something that recently happened. We just put in a whole-house fan. In our climate it is has saved us using our air conditioning about 80% which translates into big savings. We had to cut four new vents into the side of the house for the exhaust for the giant fan. As we trimmed up the vents we sealed them using some silicone caulking. I got some silicone on my new shorts. So I went to Home Depot and purchased some Mötsenböcker’s Lift Off® Silicone and Latex Caulk Remover. Using an old toothbrush, I scrubbed that stuff out of my new shorts and made them good-as-new.

The next morning, forgetting I had just placed a large amount of Mötsenböcker’s on my old toothbrush, and not realizing I had a new toothbrush, I placed a dab of Colgate on my brush and scrubbed away. I was quickly taken aback and surprised by the prodigious foaming action instantly filling my mouth. Then I realized my mouth was hosting a severe chemical reaction akin to mixing bleach with sulfuric acid. I immediately removed the contents of my mouth by heaving into the sink and spent the next five minutes rinsing my mouth out with cool water. Since I could not read the tiny lettering on the bottle to determine what poison almost killed me, I decided not to worry about it.

Always look before you brush. Always.