Over the past eight years, I have written amonthly letter to my brother Dave and used it for that week’s column. Dave is an older brother and lives with his wife in Carrington, North Dakota. He has been a mechanic over thirty years and most of those years has been as a service manager for Case/IH. I look up to him a lot. I hope you enjoy this week’s letter.

Grant

Dear Dave,

I found out just this morning that “are you awake” sounds just like “the cattle are out” when I am in deep sleep; more on that later.

I think I struck a chord with last week’s column. Apparently, I am not the only one who has a love/hate relationship with winter. Your wife, Mary, sent us an email with several pictures of the snow in Carrington, North Dakota. You have much more snow to love or hate than we do. The pictures of your streets looked more like bobsled runs than routes upon which cars might travel. Much like you, we had very wet soils prior to freeze-up and although most of our snow has been dry, I believe we can look forward to standing water in a few months.

I feel for farmers with corn still standing as there is going to be a few, intense weeks in which standing corn can be harvested this spring. Our neighbor, Paul Mosbeck, combined our corn in mid-December and I was surprised at how little the deer had eaten prior to harvest. We had six deer in our yard last year but haven’t seen anything yet this season. We did have a stray cat show up and so we are fussing over her at least thrice-daily. Her name is “Smudge.” Smudge prefers to drink half and half cream and enjoys canned cat food more than dry. She has become friendly enough now that Lisa and I can pet her and she enjoys rather than tolerates it.

I guess you and Mary never made it to Florida in December because of the weather, Dave. That’s too bad but then at least you got to take a trip to Nebraska to tour the combine manufacturing plant. Honestly, I’d much rather see the combines than any kingdom that calls itself, “magic.” I attended the park about 20 years ago and it was far from magic. The character, “Pluto” actually grabbed my ex-wife in an overly-friendly way which she did not report to me until he was out of smashing range.

Okay, let’s get back to my opening paragraph. I wake up nice and easy to an alarm clock but awake in a dead panic to phones or the human voice. Although we haven’t had cattle outside a fence for years, it’s always one my mind. This morning, Lisa innocently woke me by asking if I was awake which translated through sleepy ears into “there’s cattle out.” My heart got a nice little cardio workout and my body did a little diagnostic on my “fight or flight” response. Lisa felt so bad about my panic that once I’d again fallen asleep, she snuck up on me, placed her face inches from mine and touched my panic button once more before leaving for work. Honestly, I’ve spent a good part of our marriage hiding behind doors, popping out in front of the window by her chair and making sudden appearances outside her shower so I probably deserved it. The Russians says revenge is the sweetest dish, in Lisa’s case I intend to taste it, regardless.

Well that’s all the news; not much happens around here but what does happen, happens often. Tell everyone around there…well, you know.

You’re little bro’

I recently received an email from Dan Brekke who lives in Berkeley, California. Mr. Brekke found a picture of his grandfather, Pastor Sjur Brekke, seated with the 1923 confirmation class of Zion Lutheran church on the Viking, Minnesota website. Brekke’s email is the story of how his grandfather emigrated from Norway to Chicago and eventually became pastor at Zion Lutheran Church; I will share an abbreviated version of it with you.

Sjur Ingebrettson Brekke was born in Vik, Norway in 1876. Vik currently is home to about three thousand people on the Sognefjord River and has been a settlement for centuries. The area is well known for the presence of 12th century Stave kirks (medieval wooden stave churches) and glaciers that reside on the nearby Atlantic Ocean. Sjur Brekke was on of five children and came to the United States in the 1880’s. He attended seminary in Red Wing, Minnesota and at a seminary which would be the future site of Wrigley Field in Chicago where he was ordained in 1905. Sjur was a minister of the Hauge Synod which arose in Norway as a reaction to state-run churches and emphasized personal prayer and religious meditation more than religious ceremony.

Sjur Brekke pastored from 1904-1905 at Ebenezer Lutheran and Hauge Lutheran in Chicago which is where he met his wife, Otilia Sieverson who had been born in America. Otilia’s family moved from Frederikstad (near Oslo) in Norway to Chicago which is where she was born in 1884. The Sieverson’s were founding members of Hauge Lutheran in 1900 and it stands to reason that is where Sjur and Otilia met then married in 1905.

Sjur Brekke served at other churches but came to Alvarado, Minnesota in 1918 and served at Bethlehem Lutheran Church. From there, he ministered also to Kongsvinger Lutheran near Alvarado and Zion in Viking; that’s a fair commute but there was a strong train schedule at that time so perhaps that is how Pastor Brekke traveled.

In 1921, Steven was born to Pastor Sjur and Otilia at the hospital in Warren, Minnesota. Steve Brekke is the father of Dan Brekke who then gathered the information upon which I based this column. Steve Brekke still has a collection of letters sent by his father to Otilia during their courtship that are written in both English and Norwegian. Norwegian was probably the first language in the Brekke household and the reason for much teasing for young Steve when the family moved back to Chicago in 1926.

Back in Chicago, Sjur Brekke was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease and began a slow, devastating decline. He gave up his assignment at Ebenezer, which is where he had first served, in 1930. Pastor Sjur and Otilia moved to Pasadena, California where Sjur took long walks to maintain his health but soon returned to Chicago where he died in 1932. Otilia kept her feelings for Sjur private until her death in 1975. Her son, Steve, found the letters Sjur had sent Otilia which she had treasured all of those years. Pastor Sjur was known to be a very serious person as evidenced by the stern countenance in the confirmation picture from 1923 but perhaps revealed a more playful side in one of his letters, this time written to his parents. At the time, Sjur was living at his brother’s place near Clear Lake, Iowa and his letter was to inform his parents that he had proposed marriage to Otilia. It was a letter that required privacy and Sjur had written his mother that, “you would smile if you knew where I was writing.” Sjur Brekke-spiritual leader, pastor to many, husband and father, was writing his letter in the outhouse.

(picture caption)

1923 – (standing) Floyd Greenley, Solveig Samuelson, Ernest Melvie, Sr., Clarence
Grindeland. (sitting) Selma Holden, Rev. S. J. Brekke, Olga Urdahl
 

My hobby is to collect old John Deere snowmobiles, I’ve explained the reasons for this interest in past columns. For the most part, this hobby is based on my personal history with John Deere snowmobiles and an appreciation for their simple, dependable design and function. This week I want to write about a sled whose own history is the real focus of my interest and at the same time explain what I’ve done to make it possible for this snowmobile to have a future.

The John Deere 400 I’ve spent the last year repairing was manufactured in Horicon, Wisconsin but made itself useful around the Bowman County, North Dakota area. It’s first owner was Doug Schwartz who purchased it in 1972, like most snowmobiles, it was used for enjoyment and to relieve boredom from a long winter spent but this sled was also used to help people who were sick and lost. Doug Schwartz was one of the first Emergency Medical Technicians around Bowman and used the 400 to find downed airplanes, deliver medicine in an area with few roads and actual emergency runs where he and the 400 hauled hurt people to the hospital. One night, a rancher ran his own snowmobile through the wall of his barn so Doug and e.m.t partner, Ervin Schneider (also on a Deere,) pulled a luggage sled out to the farm and hauled the rancher in to the Bowman hospital. This was a trip of fourteen miles, at night, in the snow and without the benefit of any moon which tells me that this sled was made tough in order to live up to the demands and abilities of it’s driver. I know people make longer trips today but long-travel suspensions and gps have made it possible for anyone to call themselves a snowmobiler.

I purchased the 400 one 35 degree below day last February; it had not run since 1992 and it’s recent history was spent on a hill in the middle of a pasture near Bismarck, North Dakota. Since then, it had sat in my shop until last November when I began by taking it apart and removing the damaged track. I don’t call what I do “restoration” because the raises expectations much too high; I guess maybe “redemption” is a better way to describe what I do with my old snowmobiles. I repair everything that is important to the sled’s operation, however cosmetics are left to only what is absolutely necessary. I wanted the 400 kept in original condition but to also feel a little proud; for this reason I had decals made up to tells it’s story. Along with the regular decals it has a red cross, a civil defense sticker and lettering that states “Bowman County First Responder” plus a mounted first aid kit which will help to tell it’s story even after I pass it along to someone else. In order to keep it operating like new I replaced the following (short list); new crankcase seals, replaced all bearings, new seat, new light bulbs, replaced the track, repaired trailing arms, new windshield and many small repairs made in the interest of making this sled more than just a static display.

I feel I’ve accomplished maintaining some history and at the same time the 400 is something I can drive right now as it starts on the first pull. The real reward was last Sunday; I took the little sled out for a short, initial ride; it performed better than my John Deere 300 and much more quietly than the JDX-8 with which it shares space. I thought how this was a good choice for first responder work; dependable and powerful with plenty of low-end torque and respectable top speed. I’d like to test the 400’s rescue abilities but that may be some time in coming; know any rancher willing to ride his own snowmobile through the wall of his barn? (before and after pictures)

I don’t believe I’ve ever taken you on a day-trip with me. Last fall, I did write about our trip to Idaho, but that was seven times longer than a day-trip. Last week, my nephew, Jamie, and I retrieved an Oliver manure spreader from North Dakota, during a trip that took less than a day.
First off, most day-trips I make are recognizable by several factors; they have a purpose, they are the result of a purchase, and I usually rope someone into going with me. I’ve needed a different manure spreader for quite some time and decided to recently take the plunge. I could have purchased one locally, but that would have required more money and would not have required our day-trip.
Jamie and I left last Friday at five in the morning; we were bound for Denhoff, N.D. Denhoff is about 60 miles west of Carrington, so we would pay brother David a visit in the same fell swoop. I have become emboldened with age and so took several back roads that saved us some time and also brought us through the town of Hatton, N.D., which is the home of Carl Ben Eielson, world famous aviator. I like small towns, and North Dakota is rich with them; most have business districts the width of a C-store, but the towns are typically well-kept and feature a huge grain elevator. I also like the fact that Main Street is normally the highway, therefore I see some of the older, more ornate old homes from either side of the year 1900.
We arrived in Carrington and saw Dave working at Erickson Implement. Dave is a gadget-hound, like myself, so he offered his GPS for our trip to pick up the manure spreader. These little units are fantastic, and I think they would make a good addition for local emergency services. The GPS helped us find turn-offs with great accuracy and ticked off how far we had traveled as we curved around gravel roads to the home of Terry Stroebel.
Now, northwest Minnesota people are fantastic, but some of the North Dakota people would give us a real run for our money. Terry had welded a jack onto the spreader, oiled the wooden floor, greased the axle bearings and fussed over the unit to make sure it was field-ready. I’d sent him a check weeks ago, but he had not cashed it, as he wanted to make sure I liked what I’d purchased. His family was all gathered around for conversation with the travelers from abroad, and I’m sure they would have fed us had we stayed any longer, but we had to get home.
We stopped for another visit with David on the way home. We stood in front of his work and shot the breeze under the sun in light wind; it was really pleasant. We talked about the weather, farming, farmers, my new spreader, family and how well our trip had gone. Our trip had gone so well that I guess I wouldn’t have had to bring most of the tools I own, an air compressor and my good crescent wrench. I felt we were due for a breakdown on the way home, but it never happened. Daylight revealed that which we’d missed on the way out, and we stopped for coffee about every hour and to stretch our legs-I’ve got a 28-inch inseam, so it doesn’t take me very long.
The manure spreader is home now and sitting in the shed. Jamie and I had a nice trip and got to see Dave, so that was nice. Still, I wonder when I’ll get the chance for a quest that does not require staying somewhere overnight. It’s rare that purpose, purchase and someone willing to ride shotgun to get a manure spreader come together for a day-trip.

(a little project for this Spring)

I love seeing the flag of the United States flown prominently in front of businesses and homes. I believe the American Legion can provide you with the rules for proper flag display but they are fairly simple; just treat the flag like you would any symbol for the greatest country in the world and the shining beacon of democracy and you should be okay. I want to focus on lighting the flag as I see a lot of United States flags that are flown overnight without being lit. I think most do-it-yourself folks can erect a pole to hold the flag without my instruction however here is one rule to remember; for every three feet of pole height you should have one foot firmly driven into the ground.

Let’s light the flag; it’s pretty easy and not that expensive. I believe 150 watt halogen lights, ran 24/7 are probably overkill and that a low voltage system with a 50 watt flood light should light the flag properly. Some folks will probably just push a solar-powered light into the ground and call it good, which is fine; just remember that the light needs to shine the whole night and few solar lights, even when exposed to full sun during the day, can handle this task.

Our flag is lit by a low-voltage controller that is wired underground to the spot light. The controller was about thirty five dollars and the wire is cheap and easy to install; I usually just slice the sod with a shovel, pull on the grass to open the cut then slide the wire under the top layer. A light that simply sits on the ground, in front of the flagpole, will be subject to lawnmower abuse and it will be hard to trim the grass around it to the point the grass may block the light. I placed our light on top of a concrete column about three feet above the ground. I used a cardboard forming tube, placed one foot into the ground for stability, then ran the wire through before I filled it with concrete. I did us a favor but removing the sod around the tube and filling the empty space with concrete set to ground level which prevents grass re-growth. I hate trimming and if you use this little trick you can trim with your rider or push mower. The use of string trimmers is punishment for certain crimes in some countries and I usually lose my will to trim by the time I get that little two cycle engine running. After the concrete set for about 4 hours, I removed the top 6 inches of the cardboard tube then shaped the concrete with my gloved hands. I then wired the low-voltage spotlight and used it’s mounting spike to attach it to the soft concrete.

There are several symbols which have represented our country including the Statue of Liberty which was originally called “Liberty Lighting the World.” When you light the flag of the United States, you return the favor to the symbol which inspired this statue and the idea of our country. It’s an important act and a great summer project for those who need to make a little concrete, do a little digging, and try some basic wiring to make a summer holiday week-end complete.

(summer/2008)

Summer means vacations and fishing to some, but to many the word summer is interchangeable with the phrase “garage sale.” It’s the season of the year to seek valuable information contained on garage sale signs before they are removed for the week-end. No one wants to purchase old plastic flowers or bent aluminum window frames from a garage in the winter, so it’s time to strike while the iron (and weather) is hot. It’s time to garage sale.

Saturday morning will invariably draw early risers hoping for a great deal. Most garage sales have set times however those who arrive early with pockets full of money often make their own rules. I’ve noticed that some people price every item while some have various islands of goods organized by price, I prefer the island theme but that’s difficult unless you’re selling books or like items. Sunday afternoon is a difficult time at a garage sale; items competitively priced a ten cents that would have gone home with someone instead were priced at fifteen cents and are returned to storage. The seller’s high hopes of a little less clutter are only partially realized, and the effort to carry everything back inside is exponentially greater in comparison to what was needed to first display everything.

Some folks buy garage sale stuff and just use it, some are just looking for project ideas but the most interesting buyer is the one looking for parts. My mother in-law, Jeanette Walseth, looks for parts. Jeanette visits garage sales like parents visit an orphanage-everything can be saved. She builds planters, bird feeders, benches and whatever her creativity demands, from items many folks throw away, or sell at garage sales. While doing a bit of research for this week’s column, I discovered Mr. Jalopy. Mr. Jalopy is like Jeanette in that he finds items bound for oblivion and creates something useful, interesting or both. He recently rewired an old stereo that he could record vinyl albums to an I pod. He also gives a lot of credence to those who garage sale creatively in that he is a leader of something called, “the Maker Movement.” This movement is composed of people who make items bound for a landfill into something useful. My Jalopy has even been consulted by large corporations who seek to market their products to people like him. The “Maker Movement” is supposed to be a new group in America’s culture, however I believe it’s simply making do with what you have, or with what you find at a garage sale.

Some garage sale for fun, others for their children’s dorm room, while others have a whimsy to satisfy. If times are indeed getting a little tougher, then garage sales make even more sense than ever. You can save money over buying new and a week-end of sales are much less expensive than the same time spent boating on a lake. Plus, where in the world are you going to find old plastic flowers or bent aluminum window frames, competitively priced, but at a garage sale.
 

Today’s column will end with an email and picture I recently received from my sister, Deb. First I have to give you some background to give the story context.

Deb is the oldest of my siblings and has always looked after us. I would describe Deb’s matronly ways as part mother hen, part border collie and just a dash of drill sergeant. Debbie likes to know that every member of her family (human or animal) is happy but protected under her benevolent umbrella. If something bad happens to one of us, it also happens to her. She is a person who many have looked to (including me) during times of need and has a very deep well of compassion.

Deb and her husband, Mike, have three Rat Terrier dogs that are energetic and smart enough to get themselves into trouble from which they cannot extract themselves. Tigger, Miss Scarlett and Woody recently rediscovered that they are also included under the Debbie umbrella when they took off on an adventure that was neither planned nor approved by Deb. This caused a lot of anxiety for Deb as she seeks guarantee danger stays far from her three little rats. Her pursuit and recovery was successful and none came to harm but the dogs received the pointy end of a heart to heart conversation with their human mother. There’s a certain investment Deb makes in those she cares for and she protects that investment with diligence. Although always kind, she also lets you know what her expectations are and I’m sure these expectations were explained in great detail to Tigger, Miss Scarlett and Woody-perhaps in a louder than “indoor voice.” I’m sure they were as relieved to get back home as was Deb but for totally different reasons. This is where my part of the narration ends, I’ll let Debbie tell you the full story through the email and picture she sent to me a few weeks ago.

“I let the Rat Terriers out the door after dinner tonight. I ran back in the house for something and found they had headed down the road. I blew the whistle, called, and the only one who’d come back was Tigger, the first one we purchased. I got in Mike’s car and drove the 1/8 mile down the road where Miss Scarlett and Woody were investigating the deep ditch. I ordered them in the car. I’d taken Tigger with me as he had hopped in the car in the yard. I bawled them out on the way home and ordered them into the house. Mike was sitting in his recliner trying to heal from the day and all three terriers jumped in his lap as if to say, "Dad! Protect us from Mom!" It made me laugh so I took a few pictures so you could see what three dogs, in trouble, and seeking shelter from "Dad", look like.”
 

This might sound strange but, winter will soon be over. Winter is the
season that defines this area; ask someone about the weather in
Minnesota and most likely they will mention the cold and not our
brief, but lovely, summer. A January thaw brushed by us lightly this month and
next month may be more forward and linger a bit longer. We will be
very cold again before we are very warm; however the November relationship we began with winter will soon be over.

The recent cold snap was a pain. Our water froze, it took longer to
warm up the tractor and the cattle ate twice as much as usual.
Surprisingly, my bad memories of this time have already begun to
fade as they would in an imperfect relationship. When I think of the cold snap, I think of taking care of our wild birds by keeping a steady supply of peanut butter, suet and seed
available. I think of the little stray cat that struggled to our yard
and took up residence in the hollow under a tree. It felt so good to fatten her
with half and half cream and soft cat food. My memories are of
feeding the corn stove then watching the flames and feeling grateful
for the heat. I also slept deeper than ever after hours spent in the
cold and knee-cap deep snow. Nothing measures character like
challenge; nothing stiffens the spine like 30 below.

I think we are now entering the scary part of winter. It’s a season
which knows its days are numbered and is cornered for a fight. The
worst snow storms lie ahead and the cold will once again visit.
There’s a more emotional element to this time of year that also makes
me uneasy. Although neither the latest sunrise nor the earliest sunset
occurs on December 21st, Winter Solstice is a decent indicator of
longer days. There is more light to see what winter looks like
without her veil. This is the time of season when you get to see the
ancient, frozen colors in the sky and truly sense how cold the winter
makes life for the deer. In late January, you can feel the relationship ending, and it is the time of
year that offers neither darkness nor warmth in which to find comfort. The Pagans always got
happy at winter solstice but for me it’s the season that leaves too
much time for contemplation and too little time for unreasonable
optimism.

Maybe winter is more like a woman than even my few metaphors suggest. The
singer, Billy Joel, once described a woman as “frequently kind, then
suddenly cruel.” This winter has been nothing short of the complex
infatuation that Joel describes and unapologetically so. “The most
she will do is throw shadows at you,“ describes the weeks since the solstice
very accurately, but I prefer it to the lackluster snow and uninspiring dry kisses of recent winters.

Winter will soon be over, which is great, because I really hate it.

Winter will soon be over, which is too bad, because I really love it-at least sometimes.
 

A counter-culture of sorts has been growing from behind the frost covered windows of garages and shops across the country. People, craving a youth that included many brands of snowmobiles, have stepped from their poorly lit work benches and into the glare of sunlight rebounding from frozen snow through the windshield of a vintage snowmobile. This a group of folks who’ve been around for quite awhile but whose influence only recently caught my eye.

I loved to ride our snowmobile when I was young. I was fourteen and needed a little evening respite from the increased expectations of Junior High School. My parents had purchased a John Deere 300 for their kids a few years back and so my brother, Darrel , had beaten most of the speed out of it. I didn’t care because I was only allowed to go around the section a few times so I took my time. That snowmobile was good exercise because it lacked electronic ignition so you needed determination more than a key to start it. Most times my face mask caught my panting breath in the form of frost so it was initially opaque and worthless. A few miles of the Braille system and I’d finally see through my face mask. Back in the seventies there were more yard lights so the skyline around Viking was a little more exciting. I loved those rides. Busting drifts requires focus and that mixed with engine noise quiets the shout of everyday life. The self-determination granted to a young man who chooses where to steer was my first taste of freedom.

I hadn’t ridden a snowmobile again until recently. I kind of got the bug to restore our old John Deere last February. I found it in my Dad’s shop. The 300 had seen way more grain dusk than drifts during the past three decades. Several generations of Nelsons had tried to get it going but really succeeded only in losing engine access panels along the way. I was grateful that my Dad gave me the snowmobile but I would soon find out it was equivalent to receiving a free oil spill. The cost would not be in the acquisition but in the resurrection. I tallied it up when I was finally done and the restoration cost about nine hundred dollars. My brother, David, had sold the snowmobile to my parents back in the mid seventies for about seven hundred and fifty. We both had a good laugh at the cost only I expressed my laughter in the form of tears.

I’ve driven the John Deere a little this year. It’s equal to the task of transporting me back to the era of “Angel Flight” three piece suits and smoked glasses but the weather has failed to meet us even halfway. I’ve grown frustrated that I can’t ride so I did the only thing a man can do and dug myself in even deeper. I recently purchased a black 1974 John Deere JDX-8 which is a hotter version of the 300. My restorations are more like meatball surgery but I still want things done right. Much like rebuilding last years John Deere, this years’ purchase has been close enough to the funeral pyre to smell smoke but I’ve managed to keep working through my frustration. It will soon be ready for the snow or whatever it is you call that rock-hard, gray stuff in the ditches.

Like old cars or aged iron tractors, vintage snowmobiles are as much about restoring your memories as restoring old John Deere’s, Arctic Cats, Polaris, Moto-skis or whatever. I think for me it’s not so much about a better time but rather remembering a simpler time of busting snow drifts and seeing the beautiful, Viking skyline through my frosted face shield.
 

I have poor impulse control when it comes to coffee. I have spilled many partially-brewed pots on our counter trying to sneak a cup. The answer to my impatience was simple but unthinkable as I really appreciate good coffee; my answer was a brew that demands little or no patience from those who drink it; instant coffee.

I didn’t come to realize the instant potential of coffee on my own. I introduced you to Travis Black last spring when he was tying walleye spinners in a quiet, calm and meditative way. Travis is sort of my guru when it comes to simplicity and instant coffee was his suggestion; I was immediately repulsed by the idea. I only drink good coffee. Instant coffee is something you set on a shelf to show you are hospitable to visitors but not something you actually consume unless an insurance salesman happens to visit in the afternoon. My only experience with instant coffee was as a prop in a high school play and it made my stomach hurt. I like coffee perked, I like coffee pressed, I like coffee dripped but I resisted coffee freeze dried-then I tried it.

I fill up my cup from my sister with warm water, hit the “beverage” button on the microwave then get my blankets and magazines arranged on the couch which uses up just enough time to heat the water. The instructions say one rounded teaspoon but that is for non-believers, I use one and a half. I like how the water reacts when I dump in the brown crystallized coffee; it sort of boils up and makes a froth which warms me right down to make caffeinated soul. Then the taste; you may drink coffee with your mouth but you taste it with your nose-that’s the great thing about instant; it’s so concentrated! I’ve even heard of people who put instant into already-brewed coffee but I’ve yet to try it. Cup in hand, I make it to the couch just as our cats arrive to join me in a hot, no-wait cup of afternoon coffee. I am warm-instantly.

Instant coffee is also welcome at work. I am thankful that coffee is provided at my workplace but the truth is that by the time it gets to human lips it’s well past prime and oxidized to the point it no longer chemically resembles coffee. I like to call it “government gin” to borrow a term from the book, “1984” that describes a poorly-made, homogenized alcohol fed to the oppressed people of a totalitarian government. Instant coffee is so consistent and it is protected from the ravages of time through the very process by which it is made-plus the jar is so cute. It is the perfect stimulant at three in the morning; in my most tired moments, I wished I could wash my eyeballs in the stuff.

I will always have a place in my heart for regular coffee, even the half caf/half de-caf stuff Lisa makes me drink. There’s nothing like making the full twelve cup decanter on the week-end with a big breakfast and watching the CBS Sunday show. That much coffee takes times to make and time to drink; it’s demands a sort of commitment that seems justified and in proportion to the pleasure it gives us. However, when the mood strikes me and I want a lot of coffee taste in a hurry; make my coffee instant- it’s not just for visiting insurance salesmen anymore.