People have talked about it. Some say it's unfair, while others say it's long overdue.
And it's coming. Under pressure from constituents and our new governor, it's looming closer and closer.
I'm talking about welfare reform.
Usually, the first ones crying foul are those who are truly in need of it. Namely, senior citizens and those who are physically or mentally disabled.
However, those are also the same groups that read only the headline and not the whole story, or are just unable to comprehend it.
And the whole story is this...welfare reform is designed to discourage those who take advantage of a system designed to assist, not support.
The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania has one of the highest numbers in the nation of able-bodied people under the age of 65 who receive public assistance.
Here in western Pennsylvania, we have a growing number of people moving here from sunbelt states because they've either exhausted their benefits there or the laws have changed requiring them to work for a living, rather than wait until the 3rd of each month for their check.
And the system here is cruelly and shamelessly abused. EBT cards (which replaced food stamps) are sold on the street for cash or traded for drugs, as are WIC checks intended to feed infants, the most helpless members of society cast aside like dirty socks so mommy and daddy can get a fix in between their visits to the methadone clinic across the street from where I work. And I'm not exaggerating when I say this...I see them with their baby carriers in tow.
My native Michigan has one of the strictest welfare reform programs in the country. You draw from the system, and don't eventually find success getting a job on your own, they will find a job for you.
Whether its sweeping floors, flipping burgers, or anything you might feel is 'beneath' you, you're gonna do it. And if you think they can't make you do it and don't show up, guess what...you're not getting your check.
Not that it's completely infallible. People do find a way around it, but it's much more difficult than it is here. It never ceases to amaze me...those who work so hard trying to buck the system would probably be quite successful if they applied that same philosophy to honest work.
Notwithstanding, I've still found that the vast majority of people who are on welfare, don't want to be on it. Mentally and physically challenged people who are unable to hold a typical full-time job and have to depend on 'the system', do sincerely want to give back what they take to sustain them.
And they do.
You'll find them ringing the bell at the Salvation Army kettles each holiday season. Or working at your local Goodwill Industries store. Or sweeping floors at the courthouse. Perhaps even doing volunteer work at a nursing home.
Though Bill Clinton was a pretty liberal Democrat, he also instituted a national welfare reform policy (even endorsed by conservatives) that helped single mothers enter the workforce by not only finding them jobs, but providing them with childcare assistance while at work. The latter especially is what was needed and the results were overwhelmingly positive.
This is what the system needs to be...one of assistance, and not total support.
Welfare reform has to happen NOW in Pennsylvania. Drug testing, work assistance for the able-bodied, you name it. We need to get back on the job and off the dole.
NEXT WEEK: Why Work Works
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
The Traditions You Make
I'll preface this week's column with a sincere thanks to those of you who cut me some slack last week with the death of a family friend, and especially to those who left messages of condolence. It was much appreciated.
Now back to the ranch.
One of my favorite holiday traditions has been to have dinner with my family.
Both my own and the one I married into.
I still remember the days as a child when my paternal grandmother hosted Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas Eve dinner in the finished basement of my grandparents' home. She did all the cooking herself, because like any good Polish woman of her generation, that's just what you did. And Grandma prided herself on that.
Then, as the years went by, Thanksgiving was left up to the children, because Grandpa felt that Thanksgiving and Christmas were too close together and it was too much work for Grandma's advancing years.
Then Easter went. Then Christmas Eve one year, but Grandma missed it so much she pledged to do it until she died.
I'm proud to say that at 91, she still cooks the feast at Christmas. However, there's no set time to eat. The food's out if anyone wants to come.
So my dad and stepmom have done the holiday meals in recent years. My wife Margie and I had kicked around the idea, but never really decided firmly on anything.
Until right before this past Thanksgiving.
Her parents were going to Hilton Head Island for the holiday. Her brother was having dinner with his own in-laws. My dad's home is relatively small, not exactly the right size for a sit-down family dinner.
And now that he's retired and on a fixed income, they're getting to be expensive.
I kicked around the idea in my own head, but didn't verbalize it. But I didn't have to.
Margie beat me to the punch and suggested it.
It only made sense to me, since we have a bigger house, and a non-human dishwasher. My only concern was the work involved, as my wife will only allow me so much to do, for she likes some things done 'her way'.
I was in charge of the deep-fried turkey, a rather skilled art I've been perfecting since receiving a turkey fryer in an office Christmas party in 2008.
Two boneless breasts, thoroughly injected with garlic and herb marinade, along with lasagna, cornbread casserole, homemade stuffing, mashed potatoes and rolls, with apple pie and chocolate cake for dessert, it was more than enough for me, my wife, our daughter, my mom and dad and my younger brother.
I'm more than happy to keep Thanksgiving dinner a tradition at my house. And perhaps Savannah will want to pick it up when she gets older.
I can only hope so.
NEXT WEEK: Fare Thee Well
Now back to the ranch.
One of my favorite holiday traditions has been to have dinner with my family.
Both my own and the one I married into.
I still remember the days as a child when my paternal grandmother hosted Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas Eve dinner in the finished basement of my grandparents' home. She did all the cooking herself, because like any good Polish woman of her generation, that's just what you did. And Grandma prided herself on that.
Then, as the years went by, Thanksgiving was left up to the children, because Grandpa felt that Thanksgiving and Christmas were too close together and it was too much work for Grandma's advancing years.
Then Easter went. Then Christmas Eve one year, but Grandma missed it so much she pledged to do it until she died.
I'm proud to say that at 91, she still cooks the feast at Christmas. However, there's no set time to eat. The food's out if anyone wants to come.
So my dad and stepmom have done the holiday meals in recent years. My wife Margie and I had kicked around the idea, but never really decided firmly on anything.
Until right before this past Thanksgiving.
Her parents were going to Hilton Head Island for the holiday. Her brother was having dinner with his own in-laws. My dad's home is relatively small, not exactly the right size for a sit-down family dinner.
And now that he's retired and on a fixed income, they're getting to be expensive.
I kicked around the idea in my own head, but didn't verbalize it. But I didn't have to.
Margie beat me to the punch and suggested it.
It only made sense to me, since we have a bigger house, and a non-human dishwasher. My only concern was the work involved, as my wife will only allow me so much to do, for she likes some things done 'her way'.
I was in charge of the deep-fried turkey, a rather skilled art I've been perfecting since receiving a turkey fryer in an office Christmas party in 2008.
Two boneless breasts, thoroughly injected with garlic and herb marinade, along with lasagna, cornbread casserole, homemade stuffing, mashed potatoes and rolls, with apple pie and chocolate cake for dessert, it was more than enough for me, my wife, our daughter, my mom and dad and my younger brother.
I'm more than happy to keep Thanksgiving dinner a tradition at my house. And perhaps Savannah will want to pick it up when she gets older.
I can only hope so.
NEXT WEEK: Fare Thee Well
Sunday, December 4, 2011
We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Column...
...with a special report this week. I promised you one on traditions, but sorry, this just can't wait.
This week's column deals with one of the greatest women I never knew.
Yet I salute her in this week's column.
Why? Because my wife knew her, as did my sister-in-law.
No, she's not a family member. But to those whose lives she touched, she may as well have been.
Amy Monteleone ended her 11-year battle with breast cancer this past Friday at the age of 42, leaving behind her parents, step-parents, and her 12-year-old son.
Eleven years is a long time to have to fight for your own life. Amy spent about half that time making a difference.
Many people who are diagnosed with a life-threatening illness tend to withdraw, or cling only to the most immediate family, internalizing their suffering and struggling through the battle alone.
Not Amy. With the help of her friend Bonnie Forsythe, together they organized Spring for a Cure. It's an annual luncheon held at the Atrium in Prospect, Pennsylvania to benefit the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and the Susan G. Komen Pittsburgh Race for the Cure. This year's goal was to raise $25,000.
They exceeded that goal by $2,000. This brings the grand total of money raised to $84,000 since its inception in 2008.
The event quickly gained momentum since its beginnings. My colleagues Bonny Diver (who founded Hair Peace charities after her own battle with cancer) and Shelly Duffy have made appearances in support of it.
Despite frequent visits to the hospital for chemotherapy and other 'niceties' that go hand-in-hand with battling cancer, Amy still worked hard to make a difference in the lives of women with cancer and those touched by this terrible disease that still somehow manages to survive the advances of the most modern medical science.
This despite the fact that her cancer returned with a vengeance five months after being given a clean bill of health. Just a few months prior to her death, I had heard from her pastor that Amy stopped her chemo treatments.
My wife Margie, her mother, and my sister-in-law were staunch supporters of Spring for a Cure since its inception. I found myself touched simply by association.
Because that could very well have been Margie receiving that proverbial death sentence. It still hurts to even think about it as a possibility...because one in eight women have now been diagnosed with breast cancer.
I too felt the tears well up in my eyes when I held my wife as she told me that night that Amy had passed away.
It made me all the more grateful for what I have in this life and never to take it for granted.
Amy, we can all learn something from you.
I know I did.
Thank you.
NEXT WEEK: Back on Schedule
This week's column deals with one of the greatest women I never knew.
Yet I salute her in this week's column.
Why? Because my wife knew her, as did my sister-in-law.
No, she's not a family member. But to those whose lives she touched, she may as well have been.
Amy Monteleone ended her 11-year battle with breast cancer this past Friday at the age of 42, leaving behind her parents, step-parents, and her 12-year-old son.
Eleven years is a long time to have to fight for your own life. Amy spent about half that time making a difference.
Many people who are diagnosed with a life-threatening illness tend to withdraw, or cling only to the most immediate family, internalizing their suffering and struggling through the battle alone.
Not Amy. With the help of her friend Bonnie Forsythe, together they organized Spring for a Cure. It's an annual luncheon held at the Atrium in Prospect, Pennsylvania to benefit the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and the Susan G. Komen Pittsburgh Race for the Cure. This year's goal was to raise $25,000.
They exceeded that goal by $2,000. This brings the grand total of money raised to $84,000 since its inception in 2008.
The event quickly gained momentum since its beginnings. My colleagues Bonny Diver (who founded Hair Peace charities after her own battle with cancer) and Shelly Duffy have made appearances in support of it.
Despite frequent visits to the hospital for chemotherapy and other 'niceties' that go hand-in-hand with battling cancer, Amy still worked hard to make a difference in the lives of women with cancer and those touched by this terrible disease that still somehow manages to survive the advances of the most modern medical science.
This despite the fact that her cancer returned with a vengeance five months after being given a clean bill of health. Just a few months prior to her death, I had heard from her pastor that Amy stopped her chemo treatments.
My wife Margie, her mother, and my sister-in-law were staunch supporters of Spring for a Cure since its inception. I found myself touched simply by association.
Because that could very well have been Margie receiving that proverbial death sentence. It still hurts to even think about it as a possibility...because one in eight women have now been diagnosed with breast cancer.
I too felt the tears well up in my eyes when I held my wife as she told me that night that Amy had passed away.
It made me all the more grateful for what I have in this life and never to take it for granted.
Amy, we can all learn something from you.
I know I did.
Thank you.
NEXT WEEK: Back on Schedule
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Unhappy Valley...Part II
NOTE: The views and opinions expressed in the following are strictly that of the author. Reader discretion is advised.
You read last week's column explaining in part, my stand on the Penn State sex abuse scandal. However, that was directed to those who feel that my character was/is morally flawed.
I'll only say that the sole apology I will make at this time is I'm sorry that those who feel that way, do.
I'm not reversing my stand. And here it is.
Jerry Sandusky should be punished to the fullest extent of the law for what he did to those young boys. It's pretty much been proven beyond a reasonable doubt that he did what he did. It's an absolute disgrace, and unfortunately, it cast suspicion on a number of people, with very extreme ramifications despite the fact that the allegations against them still have yet to be proven.
And let's talk about hearsay for a moment.
Merriam-Webster defines hearsay, or more specifically, hearsay evidence, as "evidence based not on a witness' personal knowledge, but on another's statement not made under oath".
In short, you HEAR what someone SAYs. Hence the name.
And it is not, repeat, NOT admissible in any court of law.
And a law enforcement officer can't do anything in cases of hearsay, either. I should know...I'm the son of a former police officer and my cousin is a career law enforcement officer. I'm proud of them both.
This would be like someone calling the police and accusing you of sexually assaulting a child. The cop would then ask that person how they came upon that knowledge.
"Well, I have it from a reliable source."
"Is that reliable source willing to come in and talk to us?"
"Well, no. But I know it to be true."
This person is accusing you of a very serious offense. Wouldn't you want to know why?
This is your life and reputation we're talking about. And someone with third-party information trying to ruin it.
Enter Mike McQueary, wide receiver coach one day in 2002.
"Hey coach, I saw Sandusky doing something in the shower...you're not gonna like it."
Joe sits down and listens. He takes the information to AD Tim Curley, and the head of the university's campus police.
And apparently nothing happens for almost a decade, until the story breaks.
Pennsylvania's attorney general expresses satisfaction by Paterno's testimony before the grand jury. The court of public opinion (as in not FACT) has already ordered him hung by his thumbs.
Why didn't he do more, some of us lament? Well, why didn't McQueary do more?
He honored the chain of command by going up the ladder, even reaching the man who was ultimately responsible.
So did Joe...who took it another step and notified the AD. As for the campus police, they too were notified. Gary Schultz, as Penn State's senior VP of finance and business, was also supervisor of the campus' police. He did not relay this information he would later receive directly from McQueary to any officer on the force, and was allowed to retire quietly two years ago.
I should also mention that the university is paying for his attorney.
Paterno offered to finish out the season and slip quietly into retirement, wanting to spare his beloved football program any further embarassment and spare the board of trustees from having to debate the matter.
Yet Joe, who only knew what he was TOLD, was the one who was abruptly and unceremoniously fired. And the man who did SEE it happen was put on an indefinite period of PAID vacation. THAT attracted the attention of Attorney General Linda Kelly.
Though McQueary told his team "I'm done", he has yet to formally hand in his resignation.
If Paterno's termination isn't an obvious "business firing", I don't know what is.
We still don't know all the facts of this case, and there will be more details released as the weeks unfold. It may be months, if not years, when all of the facts come out.
There is still, however, a time and place for everything. The football program needs a complete overhaul to salvage the university's reputation. That means cleaning house. And it could have waited until the end of the season.
If it turns out that JoePa knew more than what he let on to, let that be proven in a court of law. The Court of Public Opinion is nothing other than just that. Otherwise, it would be the Court of Public Facts, right?
If Coach is proven guilty in this matter, I'll be the first in line chanting for his head.
Not until.
There's people in this case who are far more guilty than Joe Paterno.
Like Gary Schultz and Jerry Sandusky.
You can direct your shock, anger and whatever emotions you have at them.
Let's not lose sight of the fact that this is still, the United States of America, where EVERYONE, like it or not, is entitled to due process. And it's guaranteed by the Constitution.
Not due process of public opinion. Due process of LAW.
And Joe Paterno was tried, convicted, and executed - at least professionally - by the Penn State University Board of Trustees.
This is not what our country is about.
God help us all if it becomes so.
NEXT WEEK: Holiday Traditions
You read last week's column explaining in part, my stand on the Penn State sex abuse scandal. However, that was directed to those who feel that my character was/is morally flawed.
I'll only say that the sole apology I will make at this time is I'm sorry that those who feel that way, do.
I'm not reversing my stand. And here it is.
Jerry Sandusky should be punished to the fullest extent of the law for what he did to those young boys. It's pretty much been proven beyond a reasonable doubt that he did what he did. It's an absolute disgrace, and unfortunately, it cast suspicion on a number of people, with very extreme ramifications despite the fact that the allegations against them still have yet to be proven.
And let's talk about hearsay for a moment.
Merriam-Webster defines hearsay, or more specifically, hearsay evidence, as "evidence based not on a witness' personal knowledge, but on another's statement not made under oath".
In short, you HEAR what someone SAYs. Hence the name.
And it is not, repeat, NOT admissible in any court of law.
And a law enforcement officer can't do anything in cases of hearsay, either. I should know...I'm the son of a former police officer and my cousin is a career law enforcement officer. I'm proud of them both.
This would be like someone calling the police and accusing you of sexually assaulting a child. The cop would then ask that person how they came upon that knowledge.
"Well, I have it from a reliable source."
"Is that reliable source willing to come in and talk to us?"
"Well, no. But I know it to be true."
This person is accusing you of a very serious offense. Wouldn't you want to know why?
This is your life and reputation we're talking about. And someone with third-party information trying to ruin it.
Enter Mike McQueary, wide receiver coach one day in 2002.
"Hey coach, I saw Sandusky doing something in the shower...you're not gonna like it."
Joe sits down and listens. He takes the information to AD Tim Curley, and the head of the university's campus police.
And apparently nothing happens for almost a decade, until the story breaks.
Pennsylvania's attorney general expresses satisfaction by Paterno's testimony before the grand jury. The court of public opinion (as in not FACT) has already ordered him hung by his thumbs.
Why didn't he do more, some of us lament? Well, why didn't McQueary do more?
He honored the chain of command by going up the ladder, even reaching the man who was ultimately responsible.
So did Joe...who took it another step and notified the AD. As for the campus police, they too were notified. Gary Schultz, as Penn State's senior VP of finance and business, was also supervisor of the campus' police. He did not relay this information he would later receive directly from McQueary to any officer on the force, and was allowed to retire quietly two years ago.
I should also mention that the university is paying for his attorney.
Paterno offered to finish out the season and slip quietly into retirement, wanting to spare his beloved football program any further embarassment and spare the board of trustees from having to debate the matter.
Yet Joe, who only knew what he was TOLD, was the one who was abruptly and unceremoniously fired. And the man who did SEE it happen was put on an indefinite period of PAID vacation. THAT attracted the attention of Attorney General Linda Kelly.
Though McQueary told his team "I'm done", he has yet to formally hand in his resignation.
If Paterno's termination isn't an obvious "business firing", I don't know what is.
We still don't know all the facts of this case, and there will be more details released as the weeks unfold. It may be months, if not years, when all of the facts come out.
There is still, however, a time and place for everything. The football program needs a complete overhaul to salvage the university's reputation. That means cleaning house. And it could have waited until the end of the season.
If it turns out that JoePa knew more than what he let on to, let that be proven in a court of law. The Court of Public Opinion is nothing other than just that. Otherwise, it would be the Court of Public Facts, right?
If Coach is proven guilty in this matter, I'll be the first in line chanting for his head.
Not until.
There's people in this case who are far more guilty than Joe Paterno.
Like Gary Schultz and Jerry Sandusky.
You can direct your shock, anger and whatever emotions you have at them.
Let's not lose sight of the fact that this is still, the United States of America, where EVERYONE, like it or not, is entitled to due process. And it's guaranteed by the Constitution.
Not due process of public opinion. Due process of LAW.
And Joe Paterno was tried, convicted, and executed - at least professionally - by the Penn State University Board of Trustees.
This is not what our country is about.
God help us all if it becomes so.
NEXT WEEK: Holiday Traditions
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Unhappy Valley...Part I
NOTE: The views and opinions expressed in the following are strictly that of the author. Reader discretion is advised.
"Say it ain't so, Joe!"
"Joe, Don't Go!"
"Screw U, PSU!"
Placards like this were seen all through State College, Pennsylvania over the past couple weeks.
By the way, State College is the centrally-located home of the Pennsylvania State University, also known as Penn State.
This fine institution was stained by a serious scandal recently, as assistant coach Jerry Sandusky was charged with a series of sexual assaults involving young boys, with one episode witnessed in a shower by a graduate assisant.
Though Sandusky had been retired for some time, heads rolled.
An emergency meeting was called by the university's board of trustees. That meeting resulted in the resignation of university President Graham Spanier and the firing of its legendary head football coach, Joe Paterno.
Not long after the scandal broke, I took a stand on social media in support of the man I and countless others affectionately refer to as "JoePa".
And I knew the can of worms I was potentially opening. And I was all but dragged out to the streets and crucified for it.
Some who have known me for years, including some family members, have viciously attacked me for taking this stand, including a self-admitted victim of child abuse herself. Others took the more merciful route and expressed their disappointment or messaged me privately, asking me to explain myself, which I did.
I also have my fair share of supporters.
Those of you who don't agree with me, and those who really, really, REALLY don't agree with me, I understand. Especially the latter.
And I'm not angry about it. You're still cool with me.
Because that's what this country is about. Free speech.
It's also about due process.
But before we go any further, I sincerely sympathize with those who were victimized by this terrible tragedy. I always have since this story broke. I want them to receive their due justice and hope that they get it.
We have a very sophisticated judicial system that's one of the best in the world. It's not flawless, but it's the best one we have.
If you read up on your American and world history, you'll find that most judges actually served three roles as opposed to one...judge, jury, and executioner.
Pontius Pilate, great example of this.
And in most cases, judges were clergymen.
Because hey, who was a better judge of morality? Right?
Wrong.
A judge in those days had the power to simply kill someone they did not like.
Whether he or she did really anything wrong was immaterial. He'd find something to nail them for. Yep, he'll show 'em!
We have a word for this...corruption.
Not to say it doesn't exist today. But let's face it, it's been a part of human nature since the book of Genesis.
Morality is what writes the laws of this country. "In God We Trust". Morality came first, then the law. Carefully crafted in writing.
"You shall not bear false witness against thy neighbor"...translation..."Thou shall not lie".
And in a court of law, we call that perjury. Before or after the time of arrest, we call it unsworn falsification to law enforcement. Sign off on that bold-faced lie, and you're in big-time trouble.
These are all outlined in the Constitution of the United States of America, the law of the land which the men and women of our armed forces are sworn to protect, preserve and defend. Our public servants and elected leaders are also sworn to this oath.
Now that my moral foundation has been explained, so will my stand on the matter surrounding the scandal. But you'll have to wait until next week to read it.
NEXT WEEK: Part II
"Say it ain't so, Joe!"
"Joe, Don't Go!"
"Screw U, PSU!"
Placards like this were seen all through State College, Pennsylvania over the past couple weeks.
By the way, State College is the centrally-located home of the Pennsylvania State University, also known as Penn State.
This fine institution was stained by a serious scandal recently, as assistant coach Jerry Sandusky was charged with a series of sexual assaults involving young boys, with one episode witnessed in a shower by a graduate assisant.
Though Sandusky had been retired for some time, heads rolled.
An emergency meeting was called by the university's board of trustees. That meeting resulted in the resignation of university President Graham Spanier and the firing of its legendary head football coach, Joe Paterno.
Not long after the scandal broke, I took a stand on social media in support of the man I and countless others affectionately refer to as "JoePa".
And I knew the can of worms I was potentially opening. And I was all but dragged out to the streets and crucified for it.
Some who have known me for years, including some family members, have viciously attacked me for taking this stand, including a self-admitted victim of child abuse herself. Others took the more merciful route and expressed their disappointment or messaged me privately, asking me to explain myself, which I did.
I also have my fair share of supporters.
Those of you who don't agree with me, and those who really, really, REALLY don't agree with me, I understand. Especially the latter.
And I'm not angry about it. You're still cool with me.
Because that's what this country is about. Free speech.
It's also about due process.
But before we go any further, I sincerely sympathize with those who were victimized by this terrible tragedy. I always have since this story broke. I want them to receive their due justice and hope that they get it.
We have a very sophisticated judicial system that's one of the best in the world. It's not flawless, but it's the best one we have.
If you read up on your American and world history, you'll find that most judges actually served three roles as opposed to one...judge, jury, and executioner.
Pontius Pilate, great example of this.
And in most cases, judges were clergymen.
Because hey, who was a better judge of morality? Right?
Wrong.
A judge in those days had the power to simply kill someone they did not like.
Whether he or she did really anything wrong was immaterial. He'd find something to nail them for. Yep, he'll show 'em!
We have a word for this...corruption.
Not to say it doesn't exist today. But let's face it, it's been a part of human nature since the book of Genesis.
Morality is what writes the laws of this country. "In God We Trust". Morality came first, then the law. Carefully crafted in writing.
"You shall not bear false witness against thy neighbor"...translation..."Thou shall not lie".
And in a court of law, we call that perjury. Before or after the time of arrest, we call it unsworn falsification to law enforcement. Sign off on that bold-faced lie, and you're in big-time trouble.
These are all outlined in the Constitution of the United States of America, the law of the land which the men and women of our armed forces are sworn to protect, preserve and defend. Our public servants and elected leaders are also sworn to this oath.
Now that my moral foundation has been explained, so will my stand on the matter surrounding the scandal. But you'll have to wait until next week to read it.
NEXT WEEK: Part II
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Assuring Your Insured
Comedian Chris Rock once called insurance "in case (stuff) happens".
And if stuff does happen, just hope you get what's coming to you.
One rainy morning in early September, I was on my way to the radio station to air the early morning news. It was shortly before 4am, and on my way to the police precinct to pore over reports, a car coming out of a back alley way crossed my path and left me little time or space to avoid hitting him.
Police were called. Information was exchanged. Insurance companies were notified. Repairs were arranged and rental vehicles were authorized.
Now a month has passed.
I'm still waiting to hear back from the other guy's insurance.
Plus, my insurance company's recovery department is working on my behalf to get it. There's pictures of the intersection, plus my verbal and written statements. No reason why I shouldn't get 100 percent liability in my favor, at least according to me and my insurance company.
Naturally, the other guy's insurance doesn't feel the same way.
I already paid for the repairs out of my own pocket, because I couldn't stand to see my truck battle-scarred any longer, and felt I could wait to be reimbursed. Hint...don't do this close to Christmas and your wife's birthday...both within a month of each other.
That doesn't mean I'll give up.
Not by a long shot.
Most people who do know me know I can be anything from tenacious to a downright pain-in-the-dupa (yes I am of Polish ancestry), when it comes to me getting what I want. Most times I do get it.
And I don't want much. Only what's fair. I didn't call Edgar Snyder and fake a neck injury. I didn't take advantage of our great Commonwealth's "lottery" court system to try and make a lot of money I didn't earn.
I once saw a bumper sticker that said "Hit me! I need the money!"
Uh...no. You won't find it on the back of my truck.
Because I could very well have been on the wrong end of this crash myself.
And the other guy could have done just that...and ruined me in the process.
I won't do that. The guy at fault seemed OK and didn't lie to the cops or immediately deny responsibility.
What goes around comes around. Guaranteed.
While it might sound tempting to take advantage of a situation like this, can you live with the fact that you lied and cheated to get something you knew you didn't deserve?
If you believe the world owes you something just because you're here, that only means you're going out the same way you came in.
There's only one thing you take with you when you leave this world.
Your integrity.
That, in and of itself, is priceless.
NEXT WEEK: Not-so Happy Valley
And if stuff does happen, just hope you get what's coming to you.
One rainy morning in early September, I was on my way to the radio station to air the early morning news. It was shortly before 4am, and on my way to the police precinct to pore over reports, a car coming out of a back alley way crossed my path and left me little time or space to avoid hitting him.
Police were called. Information was exchanged. Insurance companies were notified. Repairs were arranged and rental vehicles were authorized.
Now a month has passed.
I'm still waiting to hear back from the other guy's insurance.
Plus, my insurance company's recovery department is working on my behalf to get it. There's pictures of the intersection, plus my verbal and written statements. No reason why I shouldn't get 100 percent liability in my favor, at least according to me and my insurance company.
Naturally, the other guy's insurance doesn't feel the same way.
I already paid for the repairs out of my own pocket, because I couldn't stand to see my truck battle-scarred any longer, and felt I could wait to be reimbursed. Hint...don't do this close to Christmas and your wife's birthday...both within a month of each other.
That doesn't mean I'll give up.
Not by a long shot.
Most people who do know me know I can be anything from tenacious to a downright pain-in-the-dupa (yes I am of Polish ancestry), when it comes to me getting what I want. Most times I do get it.
And I don't want much. Only what's fair. I didn't call Edgar Snyder and fake a neck injury. I didn't take advantage of our great Commonwealth's "lottery" court system to try and make a lot of money I didn't earn.
I once saw a bumper sticker that said "Hit me! I need the money!"
Uh...no. You won't find it on the back of my truck.
Because I could very well have been on the wrong end of this crash myself.
And the other guy could have done just that...and ruined me in the process.
I won't do that. The guy at fault seemed OK and didn't lie to the cops or immediately deny responsibility.
What goes around comes around. Guaranteed.
While it might sound tempting to take advantage of a situation like this, can you live with the fact that you lied and cheated to get something you knew you didn't deserve?
If you believe the world owes you something just because you're here, that only means you're going out the same way you came in.
There's only one thing you take with you when you leave this world.
Your integrity.
That, in and of itself, is priceless.
NEXT WEEK: Not-so Happy Valley
Sunday, November 6, 2011
The Old Man Came for a Visit
It's the first time I ever remember such an event during my 42 years on this planet.
On Halloween weekend, as much as five inches of snow fell upon southwestern Pennsylvania. While we didn't get quite that much in my part of the region, it was still unusual to see snow this early in the fall.
I woke up that Saturday after our daughter decided she no longer was in need of sleep. It was one of those times where I wished that she was a teenager and would need a crowbar to pry her out of bed.
Sometimes I like snuggle weather!
Notwithstanding, we got out of bed and prepared for our usual Saturday morning ritual of going out for breakfast.
After our food arrived, my wife posed the question:
"What's on your agenda for today?"
While 'nothing' would have been my preferred response, I was faced with a rather unpleasant task that I wanted nothing to do with...simply because it meant capitulation.
More specifically, removing the mower deck from the tractor and replacing it with the snow blade.
It also reminded me of the letters I send out to local school districts this time of year. They contain the password they use to cancel or delay school in the event of inclement weather. I usually wait until November to mail them out, but this year's snowstorm made me rethink whether I should sent them out earlier.
Like August.
After all, this is western Pennsylvania we-unz are living in.
And Old Man Winter decided to show up a little early.
He didn't stay long though. Just enough to say "I'm here".
Not that we'd ever forget it.
NEXT WEEK: Insurance vs. Assurance
On Halloween weekend, as much as five inches of snow fell upon southwestern Pennsylvania. While we didn't get quite that much in my part of the region, it was still unusual to see snow this early in the fall.
I woke up that Saturday after our daughter decided she no longer was in need of sleep. It was one of those times where I wished that she was a teenager and would need a crowbar to pry her out of bed.
Sometimes I like snuggle weather!
Notwithstanding, we got out of bed and prepared for our usual Saturday morning ritual of going out for breakfast.
After our food arrived, my wife posed the question:
"What's on your agenda for today?"
While 'nothing' would have been my preferred response, I was faced with a rather unpleasant task that I wanted nothing to do with...simply because it meant capitulation.
More specifically, removing the mower deck from the tractor and replacing it with the snow blade.
It also reminded me of the letters I send out to local school districts this time of year. They contain the password they use to cancel or delay school in the event of inclement weather. I usually wait until November to mail them out, but this year's snowstorm made me rethink whether I should sent them out earlier.
Like August.
After all, this is western Pennsylvania we-unz are living in.
And Old Man Winter decided to show up a little early.
He didn't stay long though. Just enough to say "I'm here".
Not that we'd ever forget it.
NEXT WEEK: Insurance vs. Assurance
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Getting My "Fash" On
I'm too sexy for Milan...too sexy for Milan, New York and Japan...
I wish.
But those lyrics, immortalized by the one-hit English pop band Right Said Fred, did have their impact.
Especially me.
That year, I decided to try my hand at fashion modeling, signing with an agency, but getting no paid work.
The best you got was experience, or if you were lucky, you got to keep your wardrobe or maybe some products you were pushing.
The Paul Mitchell gig was pretty nice, I must admit.
But I decided to stick with what I knew best, and that was radio.
Yet more than five years ago, I got my chance at the catwalk once again.
St. Barnabas Health System is a faith-based organization that provides nursing home, hospice, and assisted living facilities for the elderly and infirm, with many of them unable to afford care.
Thus the creation of the St. Barnabas Free Care Fund.
And the fund-raising events relative to it, like the annual Fashion Gala.
This is now my third year.
Because of my involvement with the radio station, I, like my co-workers, have community service obligations that need fulfillment in support of the station that scores us points in the community and with the FCC at license renewal time.
I became involved with St. Barnabas shortly after my arrival in the summer of 2006. After taking time out for the birth of my daughter more than two years ago, I was back on the Kean Theatre's catwalk a week ago yesterday modeling three outfits...one casual, one business casual, and one evening.
And like those other years, I had a blast doing it. Since I've become heavier and grayer since those earlier years, it's nice to know they still want me.
And I might even be OK with being upstaged in coming years.
My wife suggested my daughter march with me on the catwalk in a couple years.
As much as I've promised that I wouldn't exploit Savannah's cuteness, I can't help but want to.
Because I can't help but want to show off that beautiful little girl.
After all, it's one of the things I can truly say I've gotten right.
NEXT WEEK: Winter Winner
I wish.
But those lyrics, immortalized by the one-hit English pop band Right Said Fred, did have their impact.
Especially me.
That year, I decided to try my hand at fashion modeling, signing with an agency, but getting no paid work.
The best you got was experience, or if you were lucky, you got to keep your wardrobe or maybe some products you were pushing.
The Paul Mitchell gig was pretty nice, I must admit.
But I decided to stick with what I knew best, and that was radio.
Yet more than five years ago, I got my chance at the catwalk once again.
St. Barnabas Health System is a faith-based organization that provides nursing home, hospice, and assisted living facilities for the elderly and infirm, with many of them unable to afford care.
Thus the creation of the St. Barnabas Free Care Fund.
And the fund-raising events relative to it, like the annual Fashion Gala.
This is now my third year.
Because of my involvement with the radio station, I, like my co-workers, have community service obligations that need fulfillment in support of the station that scores us points in the community and with the FCC at license renewal time.
I became involved with St. Barnabas shortly after my arrival in the summer of 2006. After taking time out for the birth of my daughter more than two years ago, I was back on the Kean Theatre's catwalk a week ago yesterday modeling three outfits...one casual, one business casual, and one evening.
And like those other years, I had a blast doing it. Since I've become heavier and grayer since those earlier years, it's nice to know they still want me.
And I might even be OK with being upstaged in coming years.
My wife suggested my daughter march with me on the catwalk in a couple years.
As much as I've promised that I wouldn't exploit Savannah's cuteness, I can't help but want to.
Because I can't help but want to show off that beautiful little girl.
After all, it's one of the things I can truly say I've gotten right.
NEXT WEEK: Winter Winner
Sunday, October 23, 2011
The Basics of Radio
NOTE: The views and opinions contained herein are strictly that of the author.
In my line of work, the bare essence of it often invites criticism.
From the turkey at where I buy my coffee each morning telling me why he chooses to listen to Sirius XM instead of our one AM station to the person who can't fathom why we don't play country on our FM station notwithstanding an oversaturated country music market in Pittsburgh.
Time for Radio 101.
Commercial radio programming is, for the most part, not dictated by listener feedback, contrary to popular belief and what's been marketed to suggest otherwise. It never has been and it never will be.
Ultimately, programming is decided by thorough research into the market that it serves. Things like listener race, age, gender, occupation and even marital status are factored in when it comes to deciding what gets on the air and what doesn't.
Also considered is the economic base of said market. Virtually all revenue generated on any broadcast entity is without exception, from the support of small retail business. A very small percentage comes from national or regional advertising often placed through third-party advertising agencies.
To make your radio station palatable to those businesses that support your station, you program your station to satisfy answers to some very important questions those businesses may have.
Who listens to your station? What do you have to offer that I can't get from another radio station? What can your station do for me that direct mail, the internet, newspaper or TV station can't? How do you support the local community? How do I know your product will make me money?
Until the 1960s, there was a time when a radio station could be all things to all people. Then one day, a group of renegade program directors branding themselves as 'consultants' decided "hey, let's try playing ONE kind of music form full-time!"
Thus the term "format" was born.
You could have a Top 40 station, a country station, a rock and roll station, a black station, whatever. Then years later, fragmentation was born as other music choices became available. You could have an Adult Top 40 station, a mainstream Top 40 station, an urban Top 40 (called "churban") station, a hit country station, a classic country station, a classic rock station, etc.
Even so-called 'we play everything' stations don't truly live by this philosophy. Though they're starting to say 'no polka' in their marketing, try calling the request line and ask if they'll play all 25 minutes of the "Alice's Restaurant" masacree by Arlo Guthrie. It ain't gonna happen. Unless they divide the song into five parts so they can play commercials.
But that's the essence of radio. Stations that often change formats start with a broad playlist, just for the sake of inviting listeners to tune in. Over time, the playlist begins to shrink as consultants continue to test audiences. They learn which songs played in that auditorium are strong and which ones are weak.
That said, it's not unusual to start with a list of anywhere between 500 and 700 titles, and then after a year, trim that list down to 300.
If you're lucky.
And forget requests.
"Sure, I'll get that on for you," I've said this familiar lie many times myself.
That's not to say this is the case everywhere.
Small market radio, where I've spent the majority of my career, has a degree of more flexibility.
If you're a radio station in a small town, here's what people expect of you:
What happened at last night's city council meeting where they were to vote on the new budget? Did the high school football team make the playoffs after last night's game? Why did the fire truck race down main street with its lights and sirens going nuts? Should I be worried about what looked like a funnel cloud a couple miles north of town?
Despite all the advances we have in technology, people still call my own station, wanting to know answers to these questions. And we'd better have answers if we want to stay in business.
This is why it's important to not just support your local radio station, but the advertisers that support it as well. You'll see them all up and down Main Street.
And ask yourself this, at today's gas prices, is it worth driving ten miles down the road to save five bucks on something the local store can sell to you?
NEXT WEEK: Get Your Fash On!
In my line of work, the bare essence of it often invites criticism.
From the turkey at where I buy my coffee each morning telling me why he chooses to listen to Sirius XM instead of our one AM station to the person who can't fathom why we don't play country on our FM station notwithstanding an oversaturated country music market in Pittsburgh.
Time for Radio 101.
Commercial radio programming is, for the most part, not dictated by listener feedback, contrary to popular belief and what's been marketed to suggest otherwise. It never has been and it never will be.
Ultimately, programming is decided by thorough research into the market that it serves. Things like listener race, age, gender, occupation and even marital status are factored in when it comes to deciding what gets on the air and what doesn't.
Also considered is the economic base of said market. Virtually all revenue generated on any broadcast entity is without exception, from the support of small retail business. A very small percentage comes from national or regional advertising often placed through third-party advertising agencies.
To make your radio station palatable to those businesses that support your station, you program your station to satisfy answers to some very important questions those businesses may have.
Who listens to your station? What do you have to offer that I can't get from another radio station? What can your station do for me that direct mail, the internet, newspaper or TV station can't? How do you support the local community? How do I know your product will make me money?
Until the 1960s, there was a time when a radio station could be all things to all people. Then one day, a group of renegade program directors branding themselves as 'consultants' decided "hey, let's try playing ONE kind of music form full-time!"
Thus the term "format" was born.
You could have a Top 40 station, a country station, a rock and roll station, a black station, whatever. Then years later, fragmentation was born as other music choices became available. You could have an Adult Top 40 station, a mainstream Top 40 station, an urban Top 40 (called "churban") station, a hit country station, a classic country station, a classic rock station, etc.
Even so-called 'we play everything' stations don't truly live by this philosophy. Though they're starting to say 'no polka' in their marketing, try calling the request line and ask if they'll play all 25 minutes of the "Alice's Restaurant" masacree by Arlo Guthrie. It ain't gonna happen. Unless they divide the song into five parts so they can play commercials.
But that's the essence of radio. Stations that often change formats start with a broad playlist, just for the sake of inviting listeners to tune in. Over time, the playlist begins to shrink as consultants continue to test audiences. They learn which songs played in that auditorium are strong and which ones are weak.
That said, it's not unusual to start with a list of anywhere between 500 and 700 titles, and then after a year, trim that list down to 300.
If you're lucky.
And forget requests.
"Sure, I'll get that on for you," I've said this familiar lie many times myself.
That's not to say this is the case everywhere.
Small market radio, where I've spent the majority of my career, has a degree of more flexibility.
If you're a radio station in a small town, here's what people expect of you:
What happened at last night's city council meeting where they were to vote on the new budget? Did the high school football team make the playoffs after last night's game? Why did the fire truck race down main street with its lights and sirens going nuts? Should I be worried about what looked like a funnel cloud a couple miles north of town?
Despite all the advances we have in technology, people still call my own station, wanting to know answers to these questions. And we'd better have answers if we want to stay in business.
This is why it's important to not just support your local radio station, but the advertisers that support it as well. You'll see them all up and down Main Street.
And ask yourself this, at today's gas prices, is it worth driving ten miles down the road to save five bucks on something the local store can sell to you?
NEXT WEEK: Get Your Fash On!
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Lion Through Your Teeth
I thought she was kidding me when she said it.
However, I'm not one to argue with my sportsically-gifted spouse.
The Detroit Lions are undefeated.
Say what???
I was born in the Motor City and have spent time in and out of it through the years.
Aside from the Red Wings and Pistons, our football and baseball teams have been
at best, a yawn in the pro sports world.
Until recently.
The Tigers have rebounded (thanks to some Pittsburgh faces in the management office), and now the Lions, once the worst team in the NFL, is making a comeback in a big big way.
And I wasn't about to argue with my wife when she predicted a playoff berth.
My wife knows something about every kind of sport. If she doesn't particularly like it, she knows the basics enough to hold her own in any conversation.
Not me. I've written sports stories in my 23-year career, and the only thing I haven't done is on-air sports-by-play or color commentary. Not even sideline reporting.
But I'm taking Margie's word for it. Maybe this could be the year for the Lions.
Owned by the Ford family's deep pockets, winning has never been a priority. Like our Pittsburgh Pirates, the franchise has had a loyal fan base to keep the seats at Ford Field filled and the franchise profitable.
It used to be that fans would shun their team once they were out of the pennant races after so many consecutive losses.
Not anymore.
Guess we've become more about 'unconditional love' in recent years.
In Pittsburgh, yeah, we get our panties in a twist when the Steelers play a bad game and we're out for blood.
Because we still come back. Sometimes with egg on our faces.
We may whine and complain about bad plays, but if the black-and-gold were to pack up and move tomorrow, we'd fight it tooth and nail.
It's just what we do.
We're the spoiled children indulged at will. Then mom and dad decide to stop.
We throw the temper tantrum.
But we get over it.
Most of the time anyway.
NEXT WEEK: Radio 101
However, I'm not one to argue with my sportsically-gifted spouse.
The Detroit Lions are undefeated.
Say what???
I was born in the Motor City and have spent time in and out of it through the years.
Aside from the Red Wings and Pistons, our football and baseball teams have been
at best, a yawn in the pro sports world.
Until recently.
The Tigers have rebounded (thanks to some Pittsburgh faces in the management office), and now the Lions, once the worst team in the NFL, is making a comeback in a big big way.
And I wasn't about to argue with my wife when she predicted a playoff berth.
My wife knows something about every kind of sport. If she doesn't particularly like it, she knows the basics enough to hold her own in any conversation.
Not me. I've written sports stories in my 23-year career, and the only thing I haven't done is on-air sports-by-play or color commentary. Not even sideline reporting.
But I'm taking Margie's word for it. Maybe this could be the year for the Lions.
Owned by the Ford family's deep pockets, winning has never been a priority. Like our Pittsburgh Pirates, the franchise has had a loyal fan base to keep the seats at Ford Field filled and the franchise profitable.
It used to be that fans would shun their team once they were out of the pennant races after so many consecutive losses.
Not anymore.
Guess we've become more about 'unconditional love' in recent years.
In Pittsburgh, yeah, we get our panties in a twist when the Steelers play a bad game and we're out for blood.
Because we still come back. Sometimes with egg on our faces.
We may whine and complain about bad plays, but if the black-and-gold were to pack up and move tomorrow, we'd fight it tooth and nail.
It's just what we do.
We're the spoiled children indulged at will. Then mom and dad decide to stop.
We throw the temper tantrum.
But we get over it.
Most of the time anyway.
NEXT WEEK: Radio 101
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Plank Goodness
AUTHOR'S NOTE: On vacation last week.
I'll never understand these kids today.
Yep, I've got my Grumpy Old Man hat on.
I had only a vague idea of what planking involved, until a couple weeks ago.
It was the week of season-premieres on TV, and my wife and I are big fans of
"The Office", the top-rated mockumentary on NBC.
The show began with one of the characters, Meredith, face down in the parking lot
of the Dunder-Mifflin paper company. I laughed at this only because the character is
a fall-down drunk known for waking up in strange places.
Then others in the office were also in this position. Ah...they're planking!
The fad seems to be winding down, but nonetheless, I jumped on board just a few weeks ago.
Planking.
In case you haven't heard, it's where a person gets up on an unusual place, lying face down with their arms perpendicular to their sides, upon a narrow surface. There is some risk involved, hence the stories you've been reading in the news, mostly involving young people.
My wife and I joined her parents and her brother's family at Grove City College for homecoming. He's an alum, and not having anything better to do that Saturday other than stop at the candy, coffee and nuts store up there, what the hell.
My wife and I were standing next to the 'spacewalk' set up on campus with several other 'reunion' tents, and she turned to me and said 'I double-dare you to plank from that wall'.
Really?
Margie knows that I don't back down from a dare. Not easily anyway.
So with some guidance from a watchful coed, I managed to climb my way to the top of an eight-foot wall, then lay face down and motionless while my wife snapped the picture.
What's more pathetic than a kid planking? A 42-year-old man in the presence of said kids doing said activity.
I told my best friend about this the next day as I ran into him and his family while grocery shopping.
He looked puzzled..."why?"
Good question.
The same reason why people climb mountains. Or carve six-foot statues made of butter. Or take classes for the most asanine majors you could ever find in college.
Because we can.
I did offer to plank at the top of the railing of our balcony from our third-story condo, during our most recent trip to South Carolina.
No takers.
So I'll quit while I'm ahead.
NEXT WEEK: The Lionhearted
I'll never understand these kids today.
Yep, I've got my Grumpy Old Man hat on.
I had only a vague idea of what planking involved, until a couple weeks ago.
It was the week of season-premieres on TV, and my wife and I are big fans of
"The Office", the top-rated mockumentary on NBC.
The show began with one of the characters, Meredith, face down in the parking lot
of the Dunder-Mifflin paper company. I laughed at this only because the character is
a fall-down drunk known for waking up in strange places.
Then others in the office were also in this position. Ah...they're planking!
The fad seems to be winding down, but nonetheless, I jumped on board just a few weeks ago.
Planking.
In case you haven't heard, it's where a person gets up on an unusual place, lying face down with their arms perpendicular to their sides, upon a narrow surface. There is some risk involved, hence the stories you've been reading in the news, mostly involving young people.
My wife and I joined her parents and her brother's family at Grove City College for homecoming. He's an alum, and not having anything better to do that Saturday other than stop at the candy, coffee and nuts store up there, what the hell.
My wife and I were standing next to the 'spacewalk' set up on campus with several other 'reunion' tents, and she turned to me and said 'I double-dare you to plank from that wall'.
Really?
Margie knows that I don't back down from a dare. Not easily anyway.
So with some guidance from a watchful coed, I managed to climb my way to the top of an eight-foot wall, then lay face down and motionless while my wife snapped the picture.
What's more pathetic than a kid planking? A 42-year-old man in the presence of said kids doing said activity.
I told my best friend about this the next day as I ran into him and his family while grocery shopping.
He looked puzzled..."why?"
Good question.
The same reason why people climb mountains. Or carve six-foot statues made of butter. Or take classes for the most asanine majors you could ever find in college.
Because we can.
I did offer to plank at the top of the railing of our balcony from our third-story condo, during our most recent trip to South Carolina.
No takers.
So I'll quit while I'm ahead.
NEXT WEEK: The Lionhearted
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Falling into Autumn
Where has all the summer gone?
The flip-flops, suntan oil, shorts and pool gear will soon be packed away for another year, if you haven't done so already.
Fortunately, my wife and I will have a bit of a lease on the summer during the month of October.
We spend a week at Hilton Head Island, South Carolina each year, courtesy of my in-laws, who own a condo on the island.
Over the past few years, we've chosen to take the trip during mid-September, around the time of our anniversary. Not being fond of crowded beaches peopled with a thousand or more screaming kids in near triple-digit temperatures, we enjoy September and the nearly-deserted beaches the post-tourist season brings.
But since we had a half-decade marker this year, we opted to stay closer to home and take the trek down south a month later.
One of the beauties of Hilton Head is the fairly consistent mild weather, and the ability to enjoy summertime activities after the kiddos return to class.
This will be our third trip down there with our now-two-year-old daughter, and what we've enjoyed are the changes we've seen in her ability to travel since she was a baby.
It's still hit or miss, but lately we've had success with a portable DVD player set-up in the back seat. She enjoys that while Margie and I indulge in a Jeff Foxworthy or Bill Engvall CD or a game of Mad Libs.
Since Savannah's vocabulary has all but exploded since the Fourth of July, it's going to make me wonder if she's learned that well-known phrase that's all but music to every parent's ears:
"Are we there yet?"
I'll find out for sure this trip.
And if she has learned it, I'm sure I'll yearn for the days when she was two months old, screaming her head off, and my wife and I unable to find our hotel because the GPS doesn't recognize the address.
Because "Are we there yet" will be heard every hour on the hour (if I'm lucky) for all 13 hours of the trip.
Happy Motoring.
NEXT WEEK: Walk the Plank
The flip-flops, suntan oil, shorts and pool gear will soon be packed away for another year, if you haven't done so already.
Fortunately, my wife and I will have a bit of a lease on the summer during the month of October.
We spend a week at Hilton Head Island, South Carolina each year, courtesy of my in-laws, who own a condo on the island.
Over the past few years, we've chosen to take the trip during mid-September, around the time of our anniversary. Not being fond of crowded beaches peopled with a thousand or more screaming kids in near triple-digit temperatures, we enjoy September and the nearly-deserted beaches the post-tourist season brings.
But since we had a half-decade marker this year, we opted to stay closer to home and take the trek down south a month later.
One of the beauties of Hilton Head is the fairly consistent mild weather, and the ability to enjoy summertime activities after the kiddos return to class.
This will be our third trip down there with our now-two-year-old daughter, and what we've enjoyed are the changes we've seen in her ability to travel since she was a baby.
It's still hit or miss, but lately we've had success with a portable DVD player set-up in the back seat. She enjoys that while Margie and I indulge in a Jeff Foxworthy or Bill Engvall CD or a game of Mad Libs.
Since Savannah's vocabulary has all but exploded since the Fourth of July, it's going to make me wonder if she's learned that well-known phrase that's all but music to every parent's ears:
"Are we there yet?"
I'll find out for sure this trip.
And if she has learned it, I'm sure I'll yearn for the days when she was two months old, screaming her head off, and my wife and I unable to find our hotel because the GPS doesn't recognize the address.
Because "Are we there yet" will be heard every hour on the hour (if I'm lucky) for all 13 hours of the trip.
Happy Motoring.
NEXT WEEK: Walk the Plank
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Keep on Keepin' On...
...Keep on Truckin', Keep the faith, Stand by your man, etc.
It's all about resilience.
The ability to withstand adversity to overcome the curveballs life throws at you.
We did that just last week. For that reason, there was no column.
We observed the ten-year anniversary of a deliberate and unprovoked planned attack on the United States, and how forty people on board a hijacked jet airliner, in a display of unswerving patriotism, turned the tables on their captors and gave their lives so that others may be saved.
We now call it Patriot Day.
We don't close school. It's not a national holiday. To even request it to be designated as such would be just plain tacky.
Our forefathers put it on paper in Philadelphia. It would be paid for in blood in many places over the years. Especially in Pennsylvania. Valley Forge, Brandywine, Germantown. A couple centuries later, Shanksville would be added to the list.
Despite the root word, it's never been 'free'. Nor will it ever be.
Americans have been called many things...fat, lazy, entitled, pick your own adjective.
Threaten our freedom and our way of life, and we'll show you just how fat, lazy and entitled we are...as we pick up our guns and fire a couple rounds of lead, tin and antimony into your sorry backside.
And despite how much we complain about the younger generation, many women and men still answer the call of our country. They take the oath to 'preserve, protect and defend' the constitution of the United States.
Those who are willing to fight for those who can't.
Usually when I hear about a young person's desire to enter into the armed forces, I often have a sit-down with them to find out why.
And I usually leave with a smile on my face.
Because while the benefits they offer these young people nowadays, it's more of an afterthought to them.
It's about a cause greater than they ever imagined. One that requires discipline, duty, honor and courage to be successful. The willingness to lay down one's life for someone you may not even care for.
Remember what Patriot Day is.
It celebrates the American Patriot. Not just the ones who led the Revolutionary War, but countered the so-called 'revolutionaries' in 2001 who believed that their acts would bring America to its knees.
To paraphrase an Elton John song from the early 80s, "we're still standing".
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
NEXT WEEK: Ain't it the Fall
It's all about resilience.
The ability to withstand adversity to overcome the curveballs life throws at you.
We did that just last week. For that reason, there was no column.
We observed the ten-year anniversary of a deliberate and unprovoked planned attack on the United States, and how forty people on board a hijacked jet airliner, in a display of unswerving patriotism, turned the tables on their captors and gave their lives so that others may be saved.
We now call it Patriot Day.
We don't close school. It's not a national holiday. To even request it to be designated as such would be just plain tacky.
Our forefathers put it on paper in Philadelphia. It would be paid for in blood in many places over the years. Especially in Pennsylvania. Valley Forge, Brandywine, Germantown. A couple centuries later, Shanksville would be added to the list.
Despite the root word, it's never been 'free'. Nor will it ever be.
Americans have been called many things...fat, lazy, entitled, pick your own adjective.
Threaten our freedom and our way of life, and we'll show you just how fat, lazy and entitled we are...as we pick up our guns and fire a couple rounds of lead, tin and antimony into your sorry backside.
And despite how much we complain about the younger generation, many women and men still answer the call of our country. They take the oath to 'preserve, protect and defend' the constitution of the United States.
Those who are willing to fight for those who can't.
Usually when I hear about a young person's desire to enter into the armed forces, I often have a sit-down with them to find out why.
And I usually leave with a smile on my face.
Because while the benefits they offer these young people nowadays, it's more of an afterthought to them.
It's about a cause greater than they ever imagined. One that requires discipline, duty, honor and courage to be successful. The willingness to lay down one's life for someone you may not even care for.
Remember what Patriot Day is.
It celebrates the American Patriot. Not just the ones who led the Revolutionary War, but countered the so-called 'revolutionaries' in 2001 who believed that their acts would bring America to its knees.
To paraphrase an Elton John song from the early 80s, "we're still standing".
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
NEXT WEEK: Ain't it the Fall
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Class Reunion
Man, I love Facebook.
It makes me wonder how we lived without it.
Especially when it comes to reconnecting with those whom we haven't seen in years.
My 20-year high school reunion is a great example. I got the invite, sent in the money, then waited for the date.
During that time the anxiety set in...did I do enough with my life to really serve any purpose there? Would anyone remember me? Would it be like "Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion"? Would an old adversary from 'back then' want to finish some unfinished business?
So I went. To my surprise, it was different than what I expected, not having any idea of what to expect in the first place. Oh well.
Then I heard talk of a 25th reunion. I would have liked to see that happen, but doubted it would, only five years from the last one and with busy lives and family, who has time to plan it.
Apparently, I hadn't reckoned with two women from my graduating class, with a more determined work ethic that I had ever imagined, putting out an invite to attend a planning meeting on Facebook.
They weren't part of the 'popular preppy' cliques in school. But they weren't the outcasts, either. They were the girl-next-door types who cherished their high school years, despite the 'hardships' of being a teenager, and were willing to find the time to do the work that few were able or willing to carry on.
Once I learned who was leading the planning, I decided to try and do my part to help.
We all met at a popular tavern near the high school where our parents likely frequented then as well as now. There were six of us. We came from a graduating class of more than 400.
We spent about two hours over drinks and appetizers, trying to come up with ideas for a venue, a printer, name tags, and gifts.
"The girls", were way ahead of me, in terms of planning. So I offered to help by getting prices on a couple of things the next day, which was my day off.
We made arrangements to meet again in another month, and kept in touch over the weekend as to how we were progressing.
Since I had attended my 20-year, I had attended two more reunions. What we did with our twenty year clearly outclassed the next two, which looked and felt 'thrown together'. While better than nothing at all, I thought more could have been done.
It made me all the more determined to do my part to make sure our 'silver anniversary' reunion reached a 'gold-standard'.
It reminded me of an old Beach Boys tune:
"Be True to Your School"
I would come to see those years as some of the best in my life. While they won't come back, we can gather together to revere all the crazy things we did.
And how far we've come since then.
Love ya, Kiski.
NEXT WEEK: Keep on Truckin'
It makes me wonder how we lived without it.
Especially when it comes to reconnecting with those whom we haven't seen in years.
My 20-year high school reunion is a great example. I got the invite, sent in the money, then waited for the date.
During that time the anxiety set in...did I do enough with my life to really serve any purpose there? Would anyone remember me? Would it be like "Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion"? Would an old adversary from 'back then' want to finish some unfinished business?
So I went. To my surprise, it was different than what I expected, not having any idea of what to expect in the first place. Oh well.
Then I heard talk of a 25th reunion. I would have liked to see that happen, but doubted it would, only five years from the last one and with busy lives and family, who has time to plan it.
Apparently, I hadn't reckoned with two women from my graduating class, with a more determined work ethic that I had ever imagined, putting out an invite to attend a planning meeting on Facebook.
They weren't part of the 'popular preppy' cliques in school. But they weren't the outcasts, either. They were the girl-next-door types who cherished their high school years, despite the 'hardships' of being a teenager, and were willing to find the time to do the work that few were able or willing to carry on.
Once I learned who was leading the planning, I decided to try and do my part to help.
We all met at a popular tavern near the high school where our parents likely frequented then as well as now. There were six of us. We came from a graduating class of more than 400.
We spent about two hours over drinks and appetizers, trying to come up with ideas for a venue, a printer, name tags, and gifts.
"The girls", were way ahead of me, in terms of planning. So I offered to help by getting prices on a couple of things the next day, which was my day off.
We made arrangements to meet again in another month, and kept in touch over the weekend as to how we were progressing.
Since I had attended my 20-year, I had attended two more reunions. What we did with our twenty year clearly outclassed the next two, which looked and felt 'thrown together'. While better than nothing at all, I thought more could have been done.
It made me all the more determined to do my part to make sure our 'silver anniversary' reunion reached a 'gold-standard'.
It reminded me of an old Beach Boys tune:
"Be True to Your School"
I would come to see those years as some of the best in my life. While they won't come back, we can gather together to revere all the crazy things we did.
And how far we've come since then.
Love ya, Kiski.
NEXT WEEK: Keep on Truckin'
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Over Your Head
During my days of "Gravely Therapy", I take advantage of the time I spend on my tractor to look for things that need improved upon or even replaced.
Since my wife and I bought our house almost two and a half years ago, I've made a mental list of things I needed done around the house, and prioritized them likewise.
One of them was the roof. I noticed a shingle had pulled itself loose from the roof last fall. No worries. Just nail it back in place come spring.
Then came other projects. Trimming hedges. Weeding out overgrown vegitation. Putting in a work bench. Removing unused appliances. The patio pad. My daughter's swing set. Remodeling the bathroom. Fixing the A/C which chose to go on the blink in the midst of a heat wave pushing the mercury near 100.
Oh, yeah...the roof.
A couple more shingles came loose, I noticed. I've got to remember to get that ladder from my dad.
Then a couple weeks later and a few very windy thunderstorms too.
Uh-oh. Exposed wood on the roof.
We're in trouble now. I could just feel dollar signs jumping in my head.
Fortunately, the former owner of my home is on Facebook. I should also take this time to mention that not only did he meticulously care for this house while he lived in it, he kept meticulous records of updates and repairs he did over the years.
I sent him a message asking him about the roof. He gladly replied and told me that what I was seeing was in fact a cemented-on panel 'for appearance only' over an older 'shake style' roof and that the shingles were part of the design.
Oh.
His email went on to tell me that he had the roofer who installed it to come out and simply re-attach the shingles. It had happened before and there should be paperwork on it.
I found the paperwork. This wasn't so bad. They came out in 2007 and reattached the shingles and resealed the roof, which according to the proposal, had a life of 15 years left on it. Which would mean 11 now.
So I called the roofer. He said the 11 years was probably a conservative figure, but it could last 15, more than likely.
Bullet dodged. What I estimated to be a $5,000 job would possibly end up to be $500 or less.
Whew.
At least we can put that money we didn't have in the first place towards the tap-in for the new sewer line that supposed to go through this year or next.
Until something else breaks or is in need of repair.
Such is the life of a 'happy' homeowner.
NEXT WEEK: Reunited
Since my wife and I bought our house almost two and a half years ago, I've made a mental list of things I needed done around the house, and prioritized them likewise.
One of them was the roof. I noticed a shingle had pulled itself loose from the roof last fall. No worries. Just nail it back in place come spring.
Then came other projects. Trimming hedges. Weeding out overgrown vegitation. Putting in a work bench. Removing unused appliances. The patio pad. My daughter's swing set. Remodeling the bathroom. Fixing the A/C which chose to go on the blink in the midst of a heat wave pushing the mercury near 100.
Oh, yeah...the roof.
A couple more shingles came loose, I noticed. I've got to remember to get that ladder from my dad.
Then a couple weeks later and a few very windy thunderstorms too.
Uh-oh. Exposed wood on the roof.
We're in trouble now. I could just feel dollar signs jumping in my head.
Fortunately, the former owner of my home is on Facebook. I should also take this time to mention that not only did he meticulously care for this house while he lived in it, he kept meticulous records of updates and repairs he did over the years.
I sent him a message asking him about the roof. He gladly replied and told me that what I was seeing was in fact a cemented-on panel 'for appearance only' over an older 'shake style' roof and that the shingles were part of the design.
Oh.
His email went on to tell me that he had the roofer who installed it to come out and simply re-attach the shingles. It had happened before and there should be paperwork on it.
I found the paperwork. This wasn't so bad. They came out in 2007 and reattached the shingles and resealed the roof, which according to the proposal, had a life of 15 years left on it. Which would mean 11 now.
So I called the roofer. He said the 11 years was probably a conservative figure, but it could last 15, more than likely.
Bullet dodged. What I estimated to be a $5,000 job would possibly end up to be $500 or less.
Whew.
At least we can put that money we didn't have in the first place towards the tap-in for the new sewer line that supposed to go through this year or next.
Until something else breaks or is in need of repair.
Such is the life of a 'happy' homeowner.
NEXT WEEK: Reunited
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Grill Master
Though I am the king of my castle, the queen outranks me. That much is true.
However, no one beats me on the grill.
NOBODY.
OK, at least at my house, anyway.
Our grill, though only five years, has seen the use of one used perhaps a decade, if not more.
We received it as a wedding present from my in-laws. This has survived gale-force winds at our former home on top of a hill overlooking the city of Butler, Pennsylvania, which have knocked it to the ground and even off its perch.
Let's not forget the grease and spatter of many a meal.
Plus the times when no one was watching it as it was pre-heating, pegging the temperature gauge on the front to well over 900 degrees...which is the working temperature of most self-cleaning ovens.
That would be why the paint has peeled off the inside.
And there's the symptom of where it's blazing hot in some areas of the grill area, and barely warm in others.
Oh yeah, and the touch-and-go igniter that sometimes requires the necessary push from a lighter.
The temperature had come to my attention as I was cooking some pork chops over the grill one weekend.
I noticed that some of the flame was coming out of a place too big to be a burner hole.
"What's wrong?" my wife asked as I looked at the burner rather quizzically.
"Looks like the burner's going to need replaced," I said.
"I think we might need to replace the whole grill, honey."
Mmmm...time to go shopping.
So many to choose. Fortunately for me, there's plenty of shopping days left until next grilling season.
And I stumbled upon something I never knew existed.
An inline propane fuel tank gauge.
Connected between the LP gas cylinder and the gas line running from the burner, this will tell you how much propane you have left in your tank.
This will save you the $50 you'd have to shell out for a spare propane tank to have in the event you run out in the middle of cooking.
The gauge sells for $10 at Sam's Club. You may be able to find it at some high-end home improvement stores.
But in the meantime, we'll keep our present grill busy, as there are plenty of grill days left in the season.
And if it doesn't last, I can always cook dinner over a spit I can rig up in the backyard.
The way the caveman intended.
NEXT WEEK: Rough Roof
However, no one beats me on the grill.
NOBODY.
OK, at least at my house, anyway.
Our grill, though only five years, has seen the use of one used perhaps a decade, if not more.
We received it as a wedding present from my in-laws. This has survived gale-force winds at our former home on top of a hill overlooking the city of Butler, Pennsylvania, which have knocked it to the ground and even off its perch.
Let's not forget the grease and spatter of many a meal.
Plus the times when no one was watching it as it was pre-heating, pegging the temperature gauge on the front to well over 900 degrees...which is the working temperature of most self-cleaning ovens.
That would be why the paint has peeled off the inside.
And there's the symptom of where it's blazing hot in some areas of the grill area, and barely warm in others.
Oh yeah, and the touch-and-go igniter that sometimes requires the necessary push from a lighter.
The temperature had come to my attention as I was cooking some pork chops over the grill one weekend.
I noticed that some of the flame was coming out of a place too big to be a burner hole.
"What's wrong?" my wife asked as I looked at the burner rather quizzically.
"Looks like the burner's going to need replaced," I said.
"I think we might need to replace the whole grill, honey."
Mmmm...time to go shopping.
So many to choose. Fortunately for me, there's plenty of shopping days left until next grilling season.
And I stumbled upon something I never knew existed.
An inline propane fuel tank gauge.
Connected between the LP gas cylinder and the gas line running from the burner, this will tell you how much propane you have left in your tank.
This will save you the $50 you'd have to shell out for a spare propane tank to have in the event you run out in the middle of cooking.
The gauge sells for $10 at Sam's Club. You may be able to find it at some high-end home improvement stores.
But in the meantime, we'll keep our present grill busy, as there are plenty of grill days left in the season.
And if it doesn't last, I can always cook dinner over a spit I can rig up in the backyard.
The way the caveman intended.
NEXT WEEK: Rough Roof
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Mowed Over
A couple of months before my wife and I bought the house we live in now, I went shopping for a riding mower.
I told Margie that I had something very specific in mind for mowing grass around the near-acre of property we were about to close on. It was a tractor that I had grown up with almost exclusively since 1978.
You may have heard of it, and you may have not.
Gravely.
For those of you who are not familiar with Gravely, they are, without a doubt, the best-built tractors money can buy. In recent years, folks have been scouring places like eBay and Craigslist, either as collectors or those wanting a built-to-last tractor to restore to showroom-new glory or near it.
You won't find these at places like Home Depot or Lowe's. They're solidly built, with transaxle-type transmissions, front tires that would dwarf the rear tires on the bigbox-store machines, and an average weight of three-quarters of a ton.
Rank them up there with the likes of New Holland, Kubota, and the higher-end John Deere machines.
My dad has a reputation of punishing equipment and vehicles. If a Gravely can survive my dad and his 18 acres of rolling hills and trees, it surely can survive my yard, a postage stamp by comparison.
And as I found out recently, it's been able to survive my wife.
I make it a point to offer Margie the tractor and mow the grass if she so desires every now and then.
I find a lot of freedom in mowing the grass with the tractor...especially when I cue up the tunes on my iPhone and enjoy some good music while doing a chore. I call it "Gravely Therapy".
And about a month ago, this session of therapy was especially brutal.
She came into the house as I was on the computer in our living room.
"I think I broke the tractor, please don't be mad".
As she explained what happened on the way to the garage, I thought it might not be so bad.
Then she handed me one of the mower's three blades. Something told me there was a bigger story to tell under the mower deck.
After pulling the deck off, I saw the shaft for the blade spindle was broken off at the bolt that held it in place.
She was not familiar with the cleanout drain in our septic leach bed. Some grass had grown over the cover, and the blade struck the terra cotta pipe going through the ground's surface. At around 10 miles an hour, she didn't know what had happened until after the fact.
I managed to find the part on eBay, after getting a couple of outrageous quotes from some local dealers, who told me that since these parts are no longer produced, prices are going up.
Turned out the part didn't fit the mower, but my dad, knowing these machines inside and out, was able to make it fit rather effortlessly.
To him, that's what a hole saw is for.
"This was a freak thing," he said about the incident that resulted in its breakage. "This couldn't happen again in a million years."
Margie's been reluctant to get back on it since I got it put back together earlier this week.
Of course, I anticipate that changing later on.
When you've got an iPod or iPhone (actually any MP3 player) to help pass the time, it's hard to resist.
NEXT WEEK: Grill me up, Scotty
I told Margie that I had something very specific in mind for mowing grass around the near-acre of property we were about to close on. It was a tractor that I had grown up with almost exclusively since 1978.
You may have heard of it, and you may have not.
Gravely.
For those of you who are not familiar with Gravely, they are, without a doubt, the best-built tractors money can buy. In recent years, folks have been scouring places like eBay and Craigslist, either as collectors or those wanting a built-to-last tractor to restore to showroom-new glory or near it.
You won't find these at places like Home Depot or Lowe's. They're solidly built, with transaxle-type transmissions, front tires that would dwarf the rear tires on the bigbox-store machines, and an average weight of three-quarters of a ton.
Rank them up there with the likes of New Holland, Kubota, and the higher-end John Deere machines.
My dad has a reputation of punishing equipment and vehicles. If a Gravely can survive my dad and his 18 acres of rolling hills and trees, it surely can survive my yard, a postage stamp by comparison.
And as I found out recently, it's been able to survive my wife.
I make it a point to offer Margie the tractor and mow the grass if she so desires every now and then.
I find a lot of freedom in mowing the grass with the tractor...especially when I cue up the tunes on my iPhone and enjoy some good music while doing a chore. I call it "Gravely Therapy".
And about a month ago, this session of therapy was especially brutal.
She came into the house as I was on the computer in our living room.
"I think I broke the tractor, please don't be mad".
As she explained what happened on the way to the garage, I thought it might not be so bad.
Then she handed me one of the mower's three blades. Something told me there was a bigger story to tell under the mower deck.
After pulling the deck off, I saw the shaft for the blade spindle was broken off at the bolt that held it in place.
She was not familiar with the cleanout drain in our septic leach bed. Some grass had grown over the cover, and the blade struck the terra cotta pipe going through the ground's surface. At around 10 miles an hour, she didn't know what had happened until after the fact.
I managed to find the part on eBay, after getting a couple of outrageous quotes from some local dealers, who told me that since these parts are no longer produced, prices are going up.
Turned out the part didn't fit the mower, but my dad, knowing these machines inside and out, was able to make it fit rather effortlessly.
To him, that's what a hole saw is for.
"This was a freak thing," he said about the incident that resulted in its breakage. "This couldn't happen again in a million years."
Margie's been reluctant to get back on it since I got it put back together earlier this week.
Of course, I anticipate that changing later on.
When you've got an iPod or iPhone (actually any MP3 player) to help pass the time, it's hard to resist.
NEXT WEEK: Grill me up, Scotty
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Who's Got My Back?
Ever have pain so intense that you feel nauseous?
Anyone who's ever had a migraine will agree with this. If the pain isn't enough to make you upchuck, then the shot of Imitrex to kill it just might.
Last week, an old 'friend' came back for a visit.
For the past 14 years, I've been putting up with lower back pain. Some days are better than others, and the 'others' sometimes flare up as if to say "hey! didja miss me?"
Prompting me to reply "if I say yes, will you go away and never come back?"
Rrrrright.
It started Tuesday morning of last week with a little nausea. Then the nausea graduated into stiffness. Then the stiffness took its graduate degree by manifesting itself in the worst pain in the world.
I ended up leaving work early that day. I called in sick the next day and went to see my doctor. He wasn't there, but I ended up seeing his associate instead.
Vicodin and Prednisone became my new best friends. After another day to allow myself to heal to something close to normalcy, I began to feel better by the end of last Friday. By this past Tuesday, it was the closest I'd ever be to feeling back to 100 percent.
During my doctor's visit, I began to realize just how many doctors out there have back issues of their own. My own had two back operations that all but failed, and his associate that saw me had broken his own back at one point.
The doc suggested gentle yoga that included some mild stretching that would keep my lower back in line.
A former classmate of mine who teaches it also offered me some mild yoga exercises to consider as well.
"Us old farts gotta keep in shape," said the doc rather wryly.
Ugh.
I hate it when he's right.
I might have to snag my wife's Pilates video and give that a try.
That might be the closest you'll get me to a yoga class.
I might reconsider that stand...after I'm loaded on a stretcher.
NEXT WEEK: Mowed Over
Anyone who's ever had a migraine will agree with this. If the pain isn't enough to make you upchuck, then the shot of Imitrex to kill it just might.
Last week, an old 'friend' came back for a visit.
For the past 14 years, I've been putting up with lower back pain. Some days are better than others, and the 'others' sometimes flare up as if to say "hey! didja miss me?"
Prompting me to reply "if I say yes, will you go away and never come back?"
Rrrrright.
It started Tuesday morning of last week with a little nausea. Then the nausea graduated into stiffness. Then the stiffness took its graduate degree by manifesting itself in the worst pain in the world.
I ended up leaving work early that day. I called in sick the next day and went to see my doctor. He wasn't there, but I ended up seeing his associate instead.
Vicodin and Prednisone became my new best friends. After another day to allow myself to heal to something close to normalcy, I began to feel better by the end of last Friday. By this past Tuesday, it was the closest I'd ever be to feeling back to 100 percent.
During my doctor's visit, I began to realize just how many doctors out there have back issues of their own. My own had two back operations that all but failed, and his associate that saw me had broken his own back at one point.
The doc suggested gentle yoga that included some mild stretching that would keep my lower back in line.
A former classmate of mine who teaches it also offered me some mild yoga exercises to consider as well.
"Us old farts gotta keep in shape," said the doc rather wryly.
Ugh.
I hate it when he's right.
I might have to snag my wife's Pilates video and give that a try.
That might be the closest you'll get me to a yoga class.
I might reconsider that stand...after I'm loaded on a stretcher.
NEXT WEEK: Mowed Over
Sunday, July 31, 2011
HVAC Hell
Anyone who wanted to visit Hell's Kitchen didn't have to go to midtown Manhattan to get there. All you had to do was come to our house recently.
A week ago this past Monday, I came home and barely had my foot over the kitchen threshold when I was met by my scowling wife.
Uh-oh.
I know that look.
"There's no air conditioning in this house," she said testily.
The house did seem a little sticky, now that she mentioned it.
As temperatures were in the lower to mid-90s that day, I thought perhaps the warm weather was pushing our central air to the limit.
While the outside unit was humming along, I went downstairs to check the furnace, which was silent.
I went over to the furnace and flipped the switch on the side to OFF. Then I flipped it back on. A loud snap and half the lights in the house went dark.
I went to the fusebox and hunted for the pesky breaker, snapping it back on as Margie came to the basement door to question this next round of malady.
I tried a couple other things...definite electrical problem.
My dad agreed to come out the following day. He took off the control panel and was greeted by a torrent of water. He concluded that the IC board drowned in a backed-up drain that carried water removed from the air to an evaporator unit.
That meant a call to the Rheem guy. After speaking with the former owner of my house, I called the same people who installed the furnace and maintained it since. They came out the next morning...about 20 minutes after I placed the call.
They confirmed my dad's suspicions. They got the system working temporarily until they were able to come out the following day. They replaced a completely-clogged drain trap and the IC board.
Between the AC issues, our daughter's birthday, and her birthday party to be held later in the week, it made for a very stressful week.
"We need a do-over," Margie said.
But it's times like that that make that glass of wine taste that much better.
NEXT WEEK: I Need Backup!
A week ago this past Monday, I came home and barely had my foot over the kitchen threshold when I was met by my scowling wife.
Uh-oh.
I know that look.
"There's no air conditioning in this house," she said testily.
The house did seem a little sticky, now that she mentioned it.
As temperatures were in the lower to mid-90s that day, I thought perhaps the warm weather was pushing our central air to the limit.
While the outside unit was humming along, I went downstairs to check the furnace, which was silent.
I went over to the furnace and flipped the switch on the side to OFF. Then I flipped it back on. A loud snap and half the lights in the house went dark.
I went to the fusebox and hunted for the pesky breaker, snapping it back on as Margie came to the basement door to question this next round of malady.
I tried a couple other things...definite electrical problem.
My dad agreed to come out the following day. He took off the control panel and was greeted by a torrent of water. He concluded that the IC board drowned in a backed-up drain that carried water removed from the air to an evaporator unit.
That meant a call to the Rheem guy. After speaking with the former owner of my house, I called the same people who installed the furnace and maintained it since. They came out the next morning...about 20 minutes after I placed the call.
They confirmed my dad's suspicions. They got the system working temporarily until they were able to come out the following day. They replaced a completely-clogged drain trap and the IC board.
Between the AC issues, our daughter's birthday, and her birthday party to be held later in the week, it made for a very stressful week.
"We need a do-over," Margie said.
But it's times like that that make that glass of wine taste that much better.
NEXT WEEK: I Need Backup!
Sunday, July 24, 2011
The Swing Era
No, I'm not reminiscing about the years of "Frankie Boy" and the decades that preceded Rock and Roll.
Maybe another time.
My daughter turned two this past week. We celebrated by giving her probably her most expensive birthday gift ever.
We found a super-colossal swing set made of cedar, with three different swings, a rock-climb ladder, overhead bars and of course a slide.
Here's the problem...we received the slide on Thursday and had until Savannah's birthday party yesterday to put this monstrosity together.
We had ordered it late last week, but were fighting with the shipping agent over delivery times, which delayed in our receiving it.
We enlisted the help of my younger brother Heath in getting this put together, as there was nowhere near enough time to get this put together on my own.
This turned out to be more involved than I ever imagined.
Add temperatures hovering close to 100 into the mix.
Now add hardware issues...too much of one screw, not enough of one bolt, and hoping Heath had enough spare hardware to get us by.
Savannah's party was at 4pm. And the clock was ticking.
At 3:30, when it finally appeared done, I asked Heath if we could call this project done. He said yes.
I took a quick shower, got dressed, shaved and was ready to welcome our guests.
And then...
"Honey, are those clamps staying at the bottom of the swings?"
Oops.
I rushed outside and found that my brother still had the drill out. I found the hardware I needed and quickly drilled the holes for the bottom support beam for the swing half of the set...right as my brother-in-law and his brood showed up.
Aside from the tiedown stakes, I called it done. As long as no one got too crazy on it, the stakes could wait a day or two.
And as it turned out, the fun on the swing lasted about five minutes, if that, before the kids tired of the Death Valley-grade heat and sought shelter in our air-conditioned house.
Even Savannah tired of it rather quickly.
She would have much rather spent time getting a bath than be out there.
And she did just that after company left...with her new bath toys.
NEXT WEEK: AC...ACK!!!
Maybe another time.
My daughter turned two this past week. We celebrated by giving her probably her most expensive birthday gift ever.
We found a super-colossal swing set made of cedar, with three different swings, a rock-climb ladder, overhead bars and of course a slide.
Here's the problem...we received the slide on Thursday and had until Savannah's birthday party yesterday to put this monstrosity together.
We had ordered it late last week, but were fighting with the shipping agent over delivery times, which delayed in our receiving it.
We enlisted the help of my younger brother Heath in getting this put together, as there was nowhere near enough time to get this put together on my own.
This turned out to be more involved than I ever imagined.
Add temperatures hovering close to 100 into the mix.
Now add hardware issues...too much of one screw, not enough of one bolt, and hoping Heath had enough spare hardware to get us by.
Savannah's party was at 4pm. And the clock was ticking.
At 3:30, when it finally appeared done, I asked Heath if we could call this project done. He said yes.
I took a quick shower, got dressed, shaved and was ready to welcome our guests.
And then...
"Honey, are those clamps staying at the bottom of the swings?"
Oops.
I rushed outside and found that my brother still had the drill out. I found the hardware I needed and quickly drilled the holes for the bottom support beam for the swing half of the set...right as my brother-in-law and his brood showed up.
Aside from the tiedown stakes, I called it done. As long as no one got too crazy on it, the stakes could wait a day or two.
And as it turned out, the fun on the swing lasted about five minutes, if that, before the kids tired of the Death Valley-grade heat and sought shelter in our air-conditioned house.
Even Savannah tired of it rather quickly.
She would have much rather spent time getting a bath than be out there.
And she did just that after company left...with her new bath toys.
NEXT WEEK: AC...ACK!!!
Sunday, July 17, 2011
There's No Business Like Shoe Business
For my regular readers who give me a few minutes of their time Sundays to spout off on anything and everything, this goes hand-in-hand with last week's column, "The Second Time Around".
Almost every town had a neighborhood cobbler. Or a shoe repair shop, plying their trade with posters of 'Give us three minutes, we'll give you new heels', or pictures of new shoes with high price tags, with the caption at the bottom that said 'See Me Instead'.
And it was always busy.
When you walked in, the place reeked of shoe polish and Lysol disinfectant.
But for very little money, those old shoes could shine like new yet retain the 'broken in' feel that often takes months, if not years, to accomplish.
I had purchased my first pair of all-leather dress shoes with my own money in 1984, when I was 15. Size 10 1/2 Stuart Holmes Presidents, which were moc-toe loafers sold by Kinney Shoes.
At the then-princely sum of $48, I was determined to properly care for them, and did so for about four years, and then about freaked out when I saw a seam bursting near the vamp.
By this time I was in college. The last thing I had money for was for new dress shoes. As I was pondering this on one sunny day, I walked past the neighborhood cobbler.
Wonder if he can help, I thought. I brought the shoe in the next day.
And the shop was busy. A woman in her 30s with big hair and a gray business suit with a poofy bowtie was ahead of me.
"Three minutes?" is what she asked the cobbler. "I'm on my lunch break."
"Five today," the cobbler replied. "I'm a little busy today. It shouldn't be more than ten."
The woman nodded approvingly. "Fine." She briskly removed the gray slingbacks she was wearing, handed them to the cobbler, and settled into a chair in her stocking feet and buried her face in a magazine.
He handed the gray heels off to his waiting assistant, then turned to me. I handed him the shoe. He checked it over, and said he could have them ready first thing in the morning. Shouldn't be more than five bucks.
I agreed and filled out a claim slip. Then out came the assistant, holding the woman's slingbacks.
Elapsed time: Four minutes...tops. She probably didn't finish the article she was reading.
"Ma'am, you're all set," he said. "Eight dollars."
"Already?" she said. "I love coming here. You guys work fast."
She handed the assistant a $10 bill and refused her change, jamming her feet into the shoes while walking out the door, obviously in a hurry.
By this time I was sold.
The Stuarts lasted until 1991, when the fourth round of soles finally outlasted the uppers. And perhaps could have lasted longer had I given them the same attention I did as a teenager. But once I got into the working world, free time became a sort of luxury.
Phil Donahue once bragged on his talk show in the mid-80s that his own black loafers he wore almost exclusively on the set were purchased in 1957 and that he regularly had them professionally shined and resoled throughout the years.
President John F. Kennedy was another. For someone coming from so much wealth, this was especially comforting to know.
Unfortunately, the cobbling business is fast becoming a lost art.
Many of the shoe repair shops I know of have either gone out of business or the owner has retired. Other than Gene Montemurro of New Kensington, I don't know of any other shoe repair shops in the area. No apprentices are being trained in this profession.
Think of how many shoes end up in landfills today. More than that, think about how much you spend on shoes nowadays.
Maybe you should "see him instead".
If you can find one, that is.
NEXT WEEK: Swing Shift
Almost every town had a neighborhood cobbler. Or a shoe repair shop, plying their trade with posters of 'Give us three minutes, we'll give you new heels', or pictures of new shoes with high price tags, with the caption at the bottom that said 'See Me Instead'.
And it was always busy.
When you walked in, the place reeked of shoe polish and Lysol disinfectant.
But for very little money, those old shoes could shine like new yet retain the 'broken in' feel that often takes months, if not years, to accomplish.
I had purchased my first pair of all-leather dress shoes with my own money in 1984, when I was 15. Size 10 1/2 Stuart Holmes Presidents, which were moc-toe loafers sold by Kinney Shoes.
At the then-princely sum of $48, I was determined to properly care for them, and did so for about four years, and then about freaked out when I saw a seam bursting near the vamp.
By this time I was in college. The last thing I had money for was for new dress shoes. As I was pondering this on one sunny day, I walked past the neighborhood cobbler.
Wonder if he can help, I thought. I brought the shoe in the next day.
And the shop was busy. A woman in her 30s with big hair and a gray business suit with a poofy bowtie was ahead of me.
"Three minutes?" is what she asked the cobbler. "I'm on my lunch break."
"Five today," the cobbler replied. "I'm a little busy today. It shouldn't be more than ten."
The woman nodded approvingly. "Fine." She briskly removed the gray slingbacks she was wearing, handed them to the cobbler, and settled into a chair in her stocking feet and buried her face in a magazine.
He handed the gray heels off to his waiting assistant, then turned to me. I handed him the shoe. He checked it over, and said he could have them ready first thing in the morning. Shouldn't be more than five bucks.
I agreed and filled out a claim slip. Then out came the assistant, holding the woman's slingbacks.
Elapsed time: Four minutes...tops. She probably didn't finish the article she was reading.
"Ma'am, you're all set," he said. "Eight dollars."
"Already?" she said. "I love coming here. You guys work fast."
She handed the assistant a $10 bill and refused her change, jamming her feet into the shoes while walking out the door, obviously in a hurry.
By this time I was sold.
The Stuarts lasted until 1991, when the fourth round of soles finally outlasted the uppers. And perhaps could have lasted longer had I given them the same attention I did as a teenager. But once I got into the working world, free time became a sort of luxury.
Phil Donahue once bragged on his talk show in the mid-80s that his own black loafers he wore almost exclusively on the set were purchased in 1957 and that he regularly had them professionally shined and resoled throughout the years.
President John F. Kennedy was another. For someone coming from so much wealth, this was especially comforting to know.
Unfortunately, the cobbling business is fast becoming a lost art.
Many of the shoe repair shops I know of have either gone out of business or the owner has retired. Other than Gene Montemurro of New Kensington, I don't know of any other shoe repair shops in the area. No apprentices are being trained in this profession.
Think of how many shoes end up in landfills today. More than that, think about how much you spend on shoes nowadays.
Maybe you should "see him instead".
If you can find one, that is.
NEXT WEEK: Swing Shift
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The Second Time Around
I buy lots of things secondhand...you know, homes, cars, even music and DVDs.
I just can't justify spending money on something new when good pre-owned or gently-used can do the job just fine.
My late great paternal grandfather was a perfect example of this.
Like many of his generation, which history would come to remember as 'the greatest generation', he came out of the Great Depression. And times were anything but great.
One of seven children in his home, he was expected to help contribute to the family income, being the son of Polish and Russian immigrants. He began working in the coal mines at the age of 11, and ended his formal schooling in eighth grade. And when his prematurely aged back could no longer withstand the rigors of coal mining, he took a job as a crane operator for Allegheny Ludlum and worked in this same capacity until taking an early retirement in 1972.
He also had a family to support, made up of a stay-at-home mom, four sons and a daughter.
So for extra income, he often worked as a neighborhood handyman, fixing things as they became broken...for far less than a house call would charge. To help his neighbors even further, he stripped discarded appliances and automobiles of any salvageable parts.
He kept these parts in what he called 'shanties' on the two-acre plot he owned where his house still sits. The house had been a former gas and service station that he completely renovated himself.
The parts were often kept in buckets or boxes, most often labeled with the contents.
"I NEVER throw anything away!" I remember hearing him say.
He sure didn't.
Car radios and tape decks. Gas and radiator caps. Ignition switches. Electric motors, timers and capacitors from washers and dryers. Vacuum cleaners. TV channel tuners. Car batteries, starters and alternators. Wheels. Drive belts. Appliance and extension cords. Even rusted out hand tools and cord-worn power tools were worth a little elbow grease and some time before they were made like new again.
Fortunately, they had a house and yard big enough to hold these things...because, as my grandfather would proudly attest, you never knew when you were going to need something.
And he believed that things made long ago were better than the present model, and if he had the parts to fix something, why not?
If there was any legacy he left to my family, it was never to waste anything. Three of his sons, including my dad, followed suit.
Anytime I need to fix anything, I usually call my dad. Nine chances out of ten, he'll have the part or the know-how to fix it.
Or at least the confidence to try.
That's something I'm still working on.
And hopefully it'll get done in this lifetime.
Because there is no 'second time around'.
NEXT WEEK: Shoe Business
I just can't justify spending money on something new when good pre-owned or gently-used can do the job just fine.
My late great paternal grandfather was a perfect example of this.
Like many of his generation, which history would come to remember as 'the greatest generation', he came out of the Great Depression. And times were anything but great.
One of seven children in his home, he was expected to help contribute to the family income, being the son of Polish and Russian immigrants. He began working in the coal mines at the age of 11, and ended his formal schooling in eighth grade. And when his prematurely aged back could no longer withstand the rigors of coal mining, he took a job as a crane operator for Allegheny Ludlum and worked in this same capacity until taking an early retirement in 1972.
He also had a family to support, made up of a stay-at-home mom, four sons and a daughter.
So for extra income, he often worked as a neighborhood handyman, fixing things as they became broken...for far less than a house call would charge. To help his neighbors even further, he stripped discarded appliances and automobiles of any salvageable parts.
He kept these parts in what he called 'shanties' on the two-acre plot he owned where his house still sits. The house had been a former gas and service station that he completely renovated himself.
The parts were often kept in buckets or boxes, most often labeled with the contents.
"I NEVER throw anything away!" I remember hearing him say.
He sure didn't.
Car radios and tape decks. Gas and radiator caps. Ignition switches. Electric motors, timers and capacitors from washers and dryers. Vacuum cleaners. TV channel tuners. Car batteries, starters and alternators. Wheels. Drive belts. Appliance and extension cords. Even rusted out hand tools and cord-worn power tools were worth a little elbow grease and some time before they were made like new again.
Fortunately, they had a house and yard big enough to hold these things...because, as my grandfather would proudly attest, you never knew when you were going to need something.
And he believed that things made long ago were better than the present model, and if he had the parts to fix something, why not?
If there was any legacy he left to my family, it was never to waste anything. Three of his sons, including my dad, followed suit.
Anytime I need to fix anything, I usually call my dad. Nine chances out of ten, he'll have the part or the know-how to fix it.
Or at least the confidence to try.
That's something I'm still working on.
And hopefully it'll get done in this lifetime.
Because there is no 'second time around'.
NEXT WEEK: Shoe Business
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Marathon Madness
Rrrrrright...like you're going to see ME run 26 miles for no particular reason.
This is a different kind of marathon.
This one involves completing a list of several 'honey do' projects, while the other 'honey' is in Virginia on business.
This can be a bit of a challenge, especially when you have a soon-to-be two-year-old daughter under your feet demanding Daddy's undivided attention.
So, I enlisted the help of my younger brother Heath, who, as a self-employed computer whiz, sets his own hours.
He was only too happy to oblige after I assured him there would be no dirty demolition work like when we remodeled the one bathroom.
I don't think any amount of money would have enticed him back for a second round of that.
But with both of us working (OK, with him working and me helping only after getting Savannah off to bed), we did as much together as the remaining daylight would allow, and from Tuesday to the time Margie returned home Friday night, we had the grass mowed, hedges trimmed, two out-of-control rhododendron bushes tamed to some sembalance of order, a mini-patio laid for the fire pit, the Intex pool cleaned, an unwanted bathroom vanity in the basement cleared out, an erosion-worn gully near the driveway resodded and reseeded, weeds cleared from the side and back of the house, as well as the driveway, and two ceiling fans put up.
Margie was pleased, to say the least. One thing I didn't want to do was spend our entire summer doing outdoor chores, since we have so few good weekends during the summer in western Pennsylvania to have fun with. And I want to make the most of them.
The last thing I want to do in this life is forget how to kick back, relax, and enjoy life when I have the opportunity to do so.
TWO WEEKS FROM TODAY: The Second Time Around
This is a different kind of marathon.
This one involves completing a list of several 'honey do' projects, while the other 'honey' is in Virginia on business.
This can be a bit of a challenge, especially when you have a soon-to-be two-year-old daughter under your feet demanding Daddy's undivided attention.
So, I enlisted the help of my younger brother Heath, who, as a self-employed computer whiz, sets his own hours.
He was only too happy to oblige after I assured him there would be no dirty demolition work like when we remodeled the one bathroom.
I don't think any amount of money would have enticed him back for a second round of that.
But with both of us working (OK, with him working and me helping only after getting Savannah off to bed), we did as much together as the remaining daylight would allow, and from Tuesday to the time Margie returned home Friday night, we had the grass mowed, hedges trimmed, two out-of-control rhododendron bushes tamed to some sembalance of order, a mini-patio laid for the fire pit, the Intex pool cleaned, an unwanted bathroom vanity in the basement cleared out, an erosion-worn gully near the driveway resodded and reseeded, weeds cleared from the side and back of the house, as well as the driveway, and two ceiling fans put up.
Margie was pleased, to say the least. One thing I didn't want to do was spend our entire summer doing outdoor chores, since we have so few good weekends during the summer in western Pennsylvania to have fun with. And I want to make the most of them.
The last thing I want to do in this life is forget how to kick back, relax, and enjoy life when I have the opportunity to do so.
TWO WEEKS FROM TODAY: The Second Time Around
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Summer Splashdown
Do you remember your first time?
I was maybe four.
It was hot. And wet.
And made of plastic.
My first experience in a swimming pool.
Oh, you thought I was talking about something else? Shame on you.
My daughter's first time was ten months.
It was Memorial Day weekend, and my wife Margie had Savannah dressed in a little bathing suit with her hair done in a fountain ponytail as she splashed in her inflatable pool, having the time of her life.
I even took a movie of it. All while doing so, I couldn't help but think about how fast she was going to outgrow this thing. Should I invest now in something bigger?
But then I didn't have to. Or so I thought.
My brother-in-law had two of those Intex Easy Set pools that he bought for his two young children. Unsuccessful attempts to sell them online led to our subsequent ownership gratis.
I was pretty psyched. I gave one to my parents, who watch my nephew during the week over the summer. Maybe they could use it.
Then came the first snap of warm weather, after it sat in the garage for about six months. Time to put it up.
Let me tell you that no matter how level a portion of your yard looks, for some reason, it never is.
That's when you have to settle for 'as level as you can get it'.
After we got it level to our satisfaction, time to inflate it.
That's the fun part...when you find out just how many leaks there are in this thing and go through the process of trying to fix them.
Let me also say that even patch kits aren't fully capable of properly repairing an air leak in that top ring.
Oh...and did I mention the accessories?
You know, chemicals? Little cheap pool, big price tag chlorine and other maintenance items to keep your little one's swimming water safe.
Then there's skimmers, a pool vacuum that works about as well as the latest Palestinian peace accord, oh...and little toys to keep my daughter amused until we drag her out kicking and screaming.
"NOOOOO!!!!! I don't care if my lips ARE turning blue!!!"
But as she spends time splashing around, she's also working on her tan, which happens fairly easy for her since her mother and I are both dark-complected people.
And learning to swim. She likes to think she can, but only pushes herself to her threshold of comfort. But she's undeterred.
And so am I.
Even if she's not Donna DeVarona, she will succeed at anything she does.
And I certainly enjoy watching her try.
NEXT WEEK: Marathon Madness
I was maybe four.
It was hot. And wet.
And made of plastic.
My first experience in a swimming pool.
Oh, you thought I was talking about something else? Shame on you.
My daughter's first time was ten months.
It was Memorial Day weekend, and my wife Margie had Savannah dressed in a little bathing suit with her hair done in a fountain ponytail as she splashed in her inflatable pool, having the time of her life.
I even took a movie of it. All while doing so, I couldn't help but think about how fast she was going to outgrow this thing. Should I invest now in something bigger?
But then I didn't have to. Or so I thought.
My brother-in-law had two of those Intex Easy Set pools that he bought for his two young children. Unsuccessful attempts to sell them online led to our subsequent ownership gratis.
I was pretty psyched. I gave one to my parents, who watch my nephew during the week over the summer. Maybe they could use it.
Then came the first snap of warm weather, after it sat in the garage for about six months. Time to put it up.
Let me tell you that no matter how level a portion of your yard looks, for some reason, it never is.
That's when you have to settle for 'as level as you can get it'.
After we got it level to our satisfaction, time to inflate it.
That's the fun part...when you find out just how many leaks there are in this thing and go through the process of trying to fix them.
Let me also say that even patch kits aren't fully capable of properly repairing an air leak in that top ring.
Oh...and did I mention the accessories?
You know, chemicals? Little cheap pool, big price tag chlorine and other maintenance items to keep your little one's swimming water safe.
Then there's skimmers, a pool vacuum that works about as well as the latest Palestinian peace accord, oh...and little toys to keep my daughter amused until we drag her out kicking and screaming.
"NOOOOO!!!!! I don't care if my lips ARE turning blue!!!"
But as she spends time splashing around, she's also working on her tan, which happens fairly easy for her since her mother and I are both dark-complected people.
And learning to swim. She likes to think she can, but only pushes herself to her threshold of comfort. But she's undeterred.
And so am I.
Even if she's not Donna DeVarona, she will succeed at anything she does.
And I certainly enjoy watching her try.
NEXT WEEK: Marathon Madness
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Dancin' Across the USA
Who can forget that catchy little ditty Lindsey Buckingham sang in the closing credits of "National Lampoon's Vacation"?
This memorable cinema classic, which spawned several sequels, details the life of the Griswold family and every conceivable disaster that can go wrong on a family vacation...does.
And the thing of it is, we've ALL been there. Hopefully, not all of these crises happened at once. Not every vacation has been debacle-free.
My mind still flashes back to September 2009, two months after our daughter Savannah was born. You who have children can understand the sudden crying fits (of the baby, yours come later) where nothing seems to make the situation better. There's things like finding the brand-new hotel that's so new, no GPS device has the ability to find it. When you have a two-month-old baby who wanted fed an hour ago, never mind their diaper changed, four-letter words can be exchanged and even the most perfect marriage can be put to a severe test.
But it did get easier the following year...sorta.
This year, my wife and I are hoping for another easier trip, as we pack a portable DVD player to keep our daughter entertained during the six-hour trip to Detroit this summer, followed by another three hours to Houghton Lake.
I've also resigned myself to the fact that my own sense of adventure is not shared by my family. While I'm comfortable going to a different destination every couple of days, my wife and daughter prefer to stay in one place and focus on destinations that keep in-car time to a minimum. Anywhere beyond that can be saved for another year.
And I'm OK with that.
Most disasters happen on the road. While I do intend to take the tribe cross-country in the Wagon Queen Family Truckster someday, it doesn't have to be today.
But the year will come where I'll feel the need to challenge myself. Hopefully my wife will be able to talk me out of it.
NEXT WEEK: Pool party
This memorable cinema classic, which spawned several sequels, details the life of the Griswold family and every conceivable disaster that can go wrong on a family vacation...does.
And the thing of it is, we've ALL been there. Hopefully, not all of these crises happened at once. Not every vacation has been debacle-free.
My mind still flashes back to September 2009, two months after our daughter Savannah was born. You who have children can understand the sudden crying fits (of the baby, yours come later) where nothing seems to make the situation better. There's things like finding the brand-new hotel that's so new, no GPS device has the ability to find it. When you have a two-month-old baby who wanted fed an hour ago, never mind their diaper changed, four-letter words can be exchanged and even the most perfect marriage can be put to a severe test.
But it did get easier the following year...sorta.
This year, my wife and I are hoping for another easier trip, as we pack a portable DVD player to keep our daughter entertained during the six-hour trip to Detroit this summer, followed by another three hours to Houghton Lake.
I've also resigned myself to the fact that my own sense of adventure is not shared by my family. While I'm comfortable going to a different destination every couple of days, my wife and daughter prefer to stay in one place and focus on destinations that keep in-car time to a minimum. Anywhere beyond that can be saved for another year.
And I'm OK with that.
Most disasters happen on the road. While I do intend to take the tribe cross-country in the Wagon Queen Family Truckster someday, it doesn't have to be today.
But the year will come where I'll feel the need to challenge myself. Hopefully my wife will be able to talk me out of it.
NEXT WEEK: Pool party
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Smart Phones, Dumb Users
I think I revered technology a lot more when it was priced out of reach.
That way, only smart people who earned enough money were able to manage it properly.
Today, I see the most sophisticated technology being utilized by the least important people.
I'm pretty much on call 24 hours a day in my line of work. However, do I have a bluetooth hanging out of my head or my iPhone 4 growing out of my ear? Absolutely not.
I'm one of the few people left that still has a landline phone. Anyone who needs to get in touch with me can call that number first. Then call the cell as a backup.
My iPhone was a gift from my wife, who bought it for me to use for work. Because it can record audio and video, as well as take pictures and text, we're able to deduct a portion of its cost at tax time, since much of its use is for professional, rather than personal use.
Outside of my profession, I wouldn't have much use for it. Even I'm not 100 percent sure of its features. Just this past week, one of my colleagues from KDKA-TV was in town for a news story big enough to invite the local TV stations. She was trying to figure hers out, and I could only suggest, having no idea of how to deal with the problem myself.
Yet I see people who look like the Smart Phones they possess is probably the most valuable piece of personal property they own. While at the store, I saw a guy in the parking lot chatting away on his own iPhone while behind the wheel of an early 90s model Ford Escort.
Hey pal, how 'bout takin' that $650 you spent for the phone and buying a better set of wheels?
They're the same people who have bluetooths and other devices.
However, common sense tells me not to rush to judgement. With today's lax dress codes, the guy could be an eccentric software engineer pulling down half a million a year.
Nah.
NEXT WEEK: Vacationland
That way, only smart people who earned enough money were able to manage it properly.
Today, I see the most sophisticated technology being utilized by the least important people.
I'm pretty much on call 24 hours a day in my line of work. However, do I have a bluetooth hanging out of my head or my iPhone 4 growing out of my ear? Absolutely not.
I'm one of the few people left that still has a landline phone. Anyone who needs to get in touch with me can call that number first. Then call the cell as a backup.
My iPhone was a gift from my wife, who bought it for me to use for work. Because it can record audio and video, as well as take pictures and text, we're able to deduct a portion of its cost at tax time, since much of its use is for professional, rather than personal use.
Outside of my profession, I wouldn't have much use for it. Even I'm not 100 percent sure of its features. Just this past week, one of my colleagues from KDKA-TV was in town for a news story big enough to invite the local TV stations. She was trying to figure hers out, and I could only suggest, having no idea of how to deal with the problem myself.
Yet I see people who look like the Smart Phones they possess is probably the most valuable piece of personal property they own. While at the store, I saw a guy in the parking lot chatting away on his own iPhone while behind the wheel of an early 90s model Ford Escort.
Hey pal, how 'bout takin' that $650 you spent for the phone and buying a better set of wheels?
They're the same people who have bluetooths and other devices.
However, common sense tells me not to rush to judgement. With today's lax dress codes, the guy could be an eccentric software engineer pulling down half a million a year.
Nah.
NEXT WEEK: Vacationland
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Honey Don't
You've heard of the fabled "honey-do" list, right? The imaginary (or written) list of home improvement chores a wife bestows upon her hubby to accomplish on the weekends?
For me personally, it didn't exist before we had our child. We always were able to find the time. Now having a small one that demands constant attention at this stage of her young life, we have to take the time as we can get it.
And it's not always when we're full of pep and energy.
This fatigue sometimes makes projects go awry...thus spawning the 'honey-don't" list. Why don't we have more of these?
The 'honey-don't' list can be best described like this...if you remember the ABC sitcom "Home Improvement" at all during the 1990s, remember every mishap that Tim Allen had on the show and at home.
"Honey, you're not qualified to re-wire the house...let's call someone. I mean, your dad's a retired electrician, right? Let's call him!"
Most men wouldn't heed a warning like this. But growing up in the house of an electrician, even I know when I'm licked.
My latest project has been a patio pad in the backyard. It was "finished" yesterday, or supposed to be anyway. After seeing its lumps and dips underneath the patio stones, it became inevitably clear that I would have to borrow a tamping tool from my dad to finish it properly.
Fortunately, I have a very understanding wife who's patient enough in times like these. She always understands when I bring up the point of saving money by taking up certain tasks on my own.
However, there will come the day where one of my around-the-house blunders will lead to a medical bill that will far exceed what we could have paid a professional to do the job right in the first place.
And we've all had them, right guys?
Come on...'fess up!
Proof positive that we're the weaker sex.
We won't give up on our right to exercise our male right to home improvement independence.
Fire and personal injury be damned!
NEXT WEEK: If it's a 'smart' phone...
For me personally, it didn't exist before we had our child. We always were able to find the time. Now having a small one that demands constant attention at this stage of her young life, we have to take the time as we can get it.
And it's not always when we're full of pep and energy.
This fatigue sometimes makes projects go awry...thus spawning the 'honey-don't" list. Why don't we have more of these?
The 'honey-don't' list can be best described like this...if you remember the ABC sitcom "Home Improvement" at all during the 1990s, remember every mishap that Tim Allen had on the show and at home.
"Honey, you're not qualified to re-wire the house...let's call someone. I mean, your dad's a retired electrician, right? Let's call him!"
Most men wouldn't heed a warning like this. But growing up in the house of an electrician, even I know when I'm licked.
My latest project has been a patio pad in the backyard. It was "finished" yesterday, or supposed to be anyway. After seeing its lumps and dips underneath the patio stones, it became inevitably clear that I would have to borrow a tamping tool from my dad to finish it properly.
Fortunately, I have a very understanding wife who's patient enough in times like these. She always understands when I bring up the point of saving money by taking up certain tasks on my own.
However, there will come the day where one of my around-the-house blunders will lead to a medical bill that will far exceed what we could have paid a professional to do the job right in the first place.
And we've all had them, right guys?
Come on...'fess up!
Proof positive that we're the weaker sex.
We won't give up on our right to exercise our male right to home improvement independence.
Fire and personal injury be damned!
NEXT WEEK: If it's a 'smart' phone...
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Get on Board the Bus
"Bus!"
That's the voice of my daughter, who recently celebrated her 22nd month on this cherished planet, as she watches a tractor-trailer roll by.
"No, honey. That's a tractor trailer. A semi. Can you say semi?"
"Bus!"
Then comes a school bus.
"Bus!"
"Yes, honey. That is a bus."
Savannah is beginning to form words and some very small sentences. However, she needs to get her vernacular straight if she's to make the fourth generation of motorheads in the family.
"Bus!"
"That's a van, Savannah."
"Van...van...van."
"There you go."
She knows words like "truck" and "car", and can use those correctly, but vehicles like box trucks, motorhomes, tractor-trailers, and coal trucks, she hasn't quite figured out yet. Minivans are even a little tricky.
"Bus!"
Go with what you know, right kid?
Then on the way to go shopping one day, we passed the local school bus garage not far from our home.
"Bus!"
We pointed out how many there were parked at the garage.
She had the time of her life, so excited by the find.
It gets me thinking that in another three years, she will be boarding one for the very first time as she goes to her very first day of school.
And my mind will flash back to those days when she was saying those one-word sentences...most of them "Bus!"
Will she cling to Daddy and not want to leave, or will she fly out of the house and through the door of the school bus?
Either way, I'll be thinking of one word.
"Bus!"
NEXT WEEK: The Honey-do List
That's the voice of my daughter, who recently celebrated her 22nd month on this cherished planet, as she watches a tractor-trailer roll by.
"No, honey. That's a tractor trailer. A semi. Can you say semi?"
"Bus!"
Then comes a school bus.
"Bus!"
"Yes, honey. That is a bus."
Savannah is beginning to form words and some very small sentences. However, she needs to get her vernacular straight if she's to make the fourth generation of motorheads in the family.
"Bus!"
"That's a van, Savannah."
"Van...van...van."
"There you go."
She knows words like "truck" and "car", and can use those correctly, but vehicles like box trucks, motorhomes, tractor-trailers, and coal trucks, she hasn't quite figured out yet. Minivans are even a little tricky.
"Bus!"
Go with what you know, right kid?
Then on the way to go shopping one day, we passed the local school bus garage not far from our home.
"Bus!"
We pointed out how many there were parked at the garage.
She had the time of her life, so excited by the find.
It gets me thinking that in another three years, she will be boarding one for the very first time as she goes to her very first day of school.
And my mind will flash back to those days when she was saying those one-word sentences...most of them "Bus!"
Will she cling to Daddy and not want to leave, or will she fly out of the house and through the door of the school bus?
Either way, I'll be thinking of one word.
"Bus!"
NEXT WEEK: The Honey-do List
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Four Generations
The week before last marked the arrival of my grandmother-in-law.
"Nanny", as she's affectionately called by her grandkids (including my wife, who also is Nanny's namesake), arrived in Pennsylvania from Brandon, Florida on Thursday, May 5th.
Nanny is no stranger to our locale, but this marked the first visit she would make to the new home my wife and I moved into Memorial Day weekend of 2009.
Lots to be done, of course. Cleaning the house thoroughly is one thing, and making sure the outside is free of weeds and other debris, of course. But then came an even bigger project.
The bathroom.
Specifically, the bathroom I've called 'mine' since we've moved in. Our house has two and a half baths, and one had been pretty much untouched since it was first built in 1966.
Pink wallpaper, and pink and white tile. My wife and I talked about eventually updating it, but with Nanny's visit coming up, she wanted it done sooner, rather than later.
And the clock was ticking.
We recruited my brother to do the demolition work to the concrete bunker that doubled as the shower, as well as remove the fixtures and assemble some of the new furniture. We hired a drywall contractor to put up new drywall, the shower insert, and lay the new floor tiles.
Margie and I took care of everything else, with my Dad buttoning up some minor plumbing and electrical issues.
The paint had barely dried when Nanny arrived.
We did it.
Margie promised that she'd wait a few weeks before giving me another time-limited home improvement project.
My drywaller told me there's two things that women look at when buying a house...the bathrooms and the kitchen.
That should give you a hint, he said.
He also said "A happy wife is a happy life".
Another hint.
NEXT WEEK: The Magic Bus
"Nanny", as she's affectionately called by her grandkids (including my wife, who also is Nanny's namesake), arrived in Pennsylvania from Brandon, Florida on Thursday, May 5th.
Nanny is no stranger to our locale, but this marked the first visit she would make to the new home my wife and I moved into Memorial Day weekend of 2009.
Lots to be done, of course. Cleaning the house thoroughly is one thing, and making sure the outside is free of weeds and other debris, of course. But then came an even bigger project.
The bathroom.
Specifically, the bathroom I've called 'mine' since we've moved in. Our house has two and a half baths, and one had been pretty much untouched since it was first built in 1966.
Pink wallpaper, and pink and white tile. My wife and I talked about eventually updating it, but with Nanny's visit coming up, she wanted it done sooner, rather than later.
And the clock was ticking.
We recruited my brother to do the demolition work to the concrete bunker that doubled as the shower, as well as remove the fixtures and assemble some of the new furniture. We hired a drywall contractor to put up new drywall, the shower insert, and lay the new floor tiles.
Margie and I took care of everything else, with my Dad buttoning up some minor plumbing and electrical issues.
The paint had barely dried when Nanny arrived.
We did it.
Margie promised that she'd wait a few weeks before giving me another time-limited home improvement project.
My drywaller told me there's two things that women look at when buying a house...the bathrooms and the kitchen.
That should give you a hint, he said.
He also said "A happy wife is a happy life".
Another hint.
NEXT WEEK: The Magic Bus
Sunday, May 8, 2011
We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Column...
...for this important bulletin.
Osama is dead.
Little did I know when I got up Monday morning and checked my email, that I would find the headline screaming at me that the most hated man in the free world had finally been brought to his knees and swiftly executed.
It was a great day for our military. Those in combat troops, and those in Special Forces involved in the Navy SEAL operation that found Osama Bin Laden hiding in Afghanistan.
And some thanks goes to President Barack Obama. Though I am a Republican, and he is a Democrat, I believe credit is due to the man who helped finish the job that we started in the Middle East in 2003, about a year and a half after the chain of events that started it all.
And our job is far from over.
Our worst enemy in human form has been obliterated. We now have a new one.
Complacency.
We live in the greatest country on earth. We are feared, respected, and even revered, at the same time. But as the events of September 11, 2001 have proven, even we're not immune to the most carefully planned attack against us.
Since then, we've been vigilant against those who have tried to repeat the terror of September 11th. Thus far, we've been successful.
Al-Qaeda has been in existence since the late 1980s. Their mere presence has only been inked in every American's mind since the events of September 11th. Osama Bin Laden's end is not the end of al-Qaeda. Nor is it the end of terrorism as we know it. These operations are still in existence, and they are well-funded. It's only a matter of time before another Osama Bin Laden rises to the ranks where he too will try to carry on the mission of terror on America and the rest of the world...all in the name of God.
President Obama must stay the course and not give in to those who say it's time now to focus on domestic issues. We can't ignore what happens at home, but at the same time, we can't ignore what happens overseas with an agenda focused on destroying our home.
This is our home.
And, as the most powerful nation on earth, we have an obligation to fight for those who are willing, but unable to fight for themselves.
The war on terror is not over. It won't be over for some time.
This is our home.
And I will protect it with my life.
So should you.
NEXT WEEK: Nanny's Visit
Osama is dead.
Little did I know when I got up Monday morning and checked my email, that I would find the headline screaming at me that the most hated man in the free world had finally been brought to his knees and swiftly executed.
It was a great day for our military. Those in combat troops, and those in Special Forces involved in the Navy SEAL operation that found Osama Bin Laden hiding in Afghanistan.
And some thanks goes to President Barack Obama. Though I am a Republican, and he is a Democrat, I believe credit is due to the man who helped finish the job that we started in the Middle East in 2003, about a year and a half after the chain of events that started it all.
And our job is far from over.
Our worst enemy in human form has been obliterated. We now have a new one.
Complacency.
We live in the greatest country on earth. We are feared, respected, and even revered, at the same time. But as the events of September 11, 2001 have proven, even we're not immune to the most carefully planned attack against us.
Since then, we've been vigilant against those who have tried to repeat the terror of September 11th. Thus far, we've been successful.
Al-Qaeda has been in existence since the late 1980s. Their mere presence has only been inked in every American's mind since the events of September 11th. Osama Bin Laden's end is not the end of al-Qaeda. Nor is it the end of terrorism as we know it. These operations are still in existence, and they are well-funded. It's only a matter of time before another Osama Bin Laden rises to the ranks where he too will try to carry on the mission of terror on America and the rest of the world...all in the name of God.
President Obama must stay the course and not give in to those who say it's time now to focus on domestic issues. We can't ignore what happens at home, but at the same time, we can't ignore what happens overseas with an agenda focused on destroying our home.
This is our home.
And, as the most powerful nation on earth, we have an obligation to fight for those who are willing, but unable to fight for themselves.
The war on terror is not over. It won't be over for some time.
This is our home.
And I will protect it with my life.
So should you.
NEXT WEEK: Nanny's Visit
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Spring Has Sprung
Finally, it's here.
Yeah, I know what you're saying.
"Whatever, Ken".
Rightfully said. All it's been is snow in liquid form, as a couple of my colleagues have alluded to.
Whatever.
Yes, I promised to touch on this a couple weeks ago. However, I'll thank you to forgive me for that, as we were still 'iffy' about the weather situation.
I now believe it can't be any safer to say we've left Old Man Winter in the dust for another year.
Yeah, I'm optimistic.
What-EVER!
Spring has also borne the honey-do list at my house. However, it's been somewhat modified due to the high volume of rain we've been receiving.
Case in point...my brother repaired a leak we discovered in the rusty wheel of my tractor's tire. As I went out to test it, I discovered I had to keep the tractor moving in order to keep it from sinking into the rain-saturated ground, splashing mud all over the chassis and mower deck.
Yesterday marked the first day we've had thus far that's afforded enough time for the ground to absorb the rain. With this, I was able to go out and do my first 'cutting' of the season before it got tall enough for a mama bunny to nest her babies and it being too late for me to react when I came at them with my mower.
Yeah, I killed Thumper and his siblings. Bad Ken.
Nonetheless, spring is here.
And it ultimately gives way to summer.
But as I stated earlier, the honey-do list hasn't been eliminated because of the weather. Simply modified.
Margie and I are in a race against time to finish our one bathroom, as this week will mark a rare visit by her 84-year-old maternal grandmother from Tampa. It will also be her first visit to our new home.
This is not an easy task in a full-time two-paycheck household with a 21-month-old child.
Here's how you do it...after you put the kid to bed, use your 'alone time' to finish one piece at a time. Then get up early before the kid does, and get more done. Use personal days or vacation time if necessary.
Let's face it, if you have to be sleep-deprived, you might as well be productive about it.
NEXT WEEK: Nanny's Visit
Yeah, I know what you're saying.
"Whatever, Ken".
Rightfully said. All it's been is snow in liquid form, as a couple of my colleagues have alluded to.
Whatever.
Yes, I promised to touch on this a couple weeks ago. However, I'll thank you to forgive me for that, as we were still 'iffy' about the weather situation.
I now believe it can't be any safer to say we've left Old Man Winter in the dust for another year.
Yeah, I'm optimistic.
What-EVER!
Spring has also borne the honey-do list at my house. However, it's been somewhat modified due to the high volume of rain we've been receiving.
Case in point...my brother repaired a leak we discovered in the rusty wheel of my tractor's tire. As I went out to test it, I discovered I had to keep the tractor moving in order to keep it from sinking into the rain-saturated ground, splashing mud all over the chassis and mower deck.
Yesterday marked the first day we've had thus far that's afforded enough time for the ground to absorb the rain. With this, I was able to go out and do my first 'cutting' of the season before it got tall enough for a mama bunny to nest her babies and it being too late for me to react when I came at them with my mower.
Yeah, I killed Thumper and his siblings. Bad Ken.
Nonetheless, spring is here.
And it ultimately gives way to summer.
But as I stated earlier, the honey-do list hasn't been eliminated because of the weather. Simply modified.
Margie and I are in a race against time to finish our one bathroom, as this week will mark a rare visit by her 84-year-old maternal grandmother from Tampa. It will also be her first visit to our new home.
This is not an easy task in a full-time two-paycheck household with a 21-month-old child.
Here's how you do it...after you put the kid to bed, use your 'alone time' to finish one piece at a time. Then get up early before the kid does, and get more done. Use personal days or vacation time if necessary.
Let's face it, if you have to be sleep-deprived, you might as well be productive about it.
NEXT WEEK: Nanny's Visit
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Easter Break
That's the excuse I'm giving for no column last week, other than my parenting column, whom many of you know as "Old School Dad".
Yeah, and I know what you're thinking...c'mon Ken, what are you, in high school? I wish. Things were a little more simple then.
As opposed to today? You bet.
You know today is Easter. We celebrate the obvious in the Christian world, but I also celebrate the end of my Lenten obligation of giving up all sweets for the past 40 days.
And I have reaped some benefits. While I won't get on a scale to confirm this, I'm sure I've lost a few pounds because of it. While going outside to work in the yard with my wife, my pants sagged right as where my butt began. And they're not designed that way either, to the younger generation.
I knew it was bad when I went across the road to fetch the mail and someone in a passing car blew the horn and shouted "Hey, Kool Moe Dee!"
After that little episode, I went off to the store to pick up a few last-minute items for Easter.
As I walked to the front door I saw the sign "We're Open! Easter Sunday 8am to 7pm".
Is nothing sacred?
Just seeing that made me nostalgic for Pennsylvania's now-defunct "Blue Law", which meant stores closing their doors altogether or having very limited hours on Sunday.
Open on holidays? Forget it!
After the Blue Laws were relaxed, I welcomed the newfound convenience, but it wouldn't be until years later when I would see the ramifications it has on today's society.
Convenience breeds the mentality "I want what I want when I want it", and in the name of the Almighty Dollar, you get it. Most of the time.
And woe to the ones who say you have to wait.
Now that gas prices are making the oil embargoes of 1973 and 1979 seem like a Girl Scout picnic, I've found myself planning my trips ahead of time to save gas.
Do I really need to run here or there? Can it wait until the following day, when I can swing by on my way to or from work?
I think more and more people are finally being made aware of this. More families are going down to one car, downsizing their SUV in favor of compact models, and planning family vacations either closer to home or eliminating them completely.
Living in rural western Pennsylvania, I don't really have the luxury of giving up my four-wheel-drive pickup. What I can do is eliminate unnecessary trips or plan them out ahead of time to make the most of my gas.
While I'm doing this, I'm also showing my daughter that we can't always get what we want. It costs a lot to live in this world, but we can make the most of our resources by showing how prudent we can be with what we have.
Yet we still benefit.
Put away the credit card.
And the Sunday Shopper mentality.
Spend that Sunday with your family. As I do with mine each Sunday.
And let's put the "Son" back in "Sunday".
NEXT WEEK: Whatever
Yeah, and I know what you're thinking...c'mon Ken, what are you, in high school? I wish. Things were a little more simple then.
As opposed to today? You bet.
You know today is Easter. We celebrate the obvious in the Christian world, but I also celebrate the end of my Lenten obligation of giving up all sweets for the past 40 days.
And I have reaped some benefits. While I won't get on a scale to confirm this, I'm sure I've lost a few pounds because of it. While going outside to work in the yard with my wife, my pants sagged right as where my butt began. And they're not designed that way either, to the younger generation.
I knew it was bad when I went across the road to fetch the mail and someone in a passing car blew the horn and shouted "Hey, Kool Moe Dee!"
After that little episode, I went off to the store to pick up a few last-minute items for Easter.
As I walked to the front door I saw the sign "We're Open! Easter Sunday 8am to 7pm".
Is nothing sacred?
Just seeing that made me nostalgic for Pennsylvania's now-defunct "Blue Law", which meant stores closing their doors altogether or having very limited hours on Sunday.
Open on holidays? Forget it!
After the Blue Laws were relaxed, I welcomed the newfound convenience, but it wouldn't be until years later when I would see the ramifications it has on today's society.
Convenience breeds the mentality "I want what I want when I want it", and in the name of the Almighty Dollar, you get it. Most of the time.
And woe to the ones who say you have to wait.
Now that gas prices are making the oil embargoes of 1973 and 1979 seem like a Girl Scout picnic, I've found myself planning my trips ahead of time to save gas.
Do I really need to run here or there? Can it wait until the following day, when I can swing by on my way to or from work?
I think more and more people are finally being made aware of this. More families are going down to one car, downsizing their SUV in favor of compact models, and planning family vacations either closer to home or eliminating them completely.
Living in rural western Pennsylvania, I don't really have the luxury of giving up my four-wheel-drive pickup. What I can do is eliminate unnecessary trips or plan them out ahead of time to make the most of my gas.
While I'm doing this, I'm also showing my daughter that we can't always get what we want. It costs a lot to live in this world, but we can make the most of our resources by showing how prudent we can be with what we have.
Yet we still benefit.
Put away the credit card.
And the Sunday Shopper mentality.
Spend that Sunday with your family. As I do with mine each Sunday.
And let's put the "Son" back in "Sunday".
NEXT WEEK: Whatever
Sunday, April 10, 2011
The Sweetest Thing
For me, the sweetest thing for me will be the end of the Lenten season.
As a practicing Roman Catholic, I partake in the annual ritual of giving up a particular vice for the forty days preceding Easter Sunday. I've given up candy, soda, pizza, and other things I normally would crave in favor of being a better person through self-denial.
But this year, I took things to a whole new level. I gave up sweets.
This includes, but is not limited to, candy, chocolate, pastries, cakes, and pies. I not only wanted to give up something I liked, but I wanted to make it count over all the other times.
And it's been tough. There's been days where I've had a chocolate monkey on my back. Fortunately, the rules have changed in the Catholic church that now grant dispensation on Sundays during Lent.
Yay! On Sundays, the monkey's gone. Bedtime for Bonzo.
The sacrifice has had its merits.
I've found that when I've been away from sweets long enough, and then indulge, they're not as appealing. And I may have even shed a few pounds because of it.
My pants aren't as tight. But don't ask me to climb aboard that scale just yet. I have a certain phobia when it comes to weight measuring instruments.
And if I'm not seen consuming sweets in front of my daughter, she's not going to beg her daddy to share.
Don't get me wrong on that one. The Easter Bunny's bringing her chocolate in her little basket for the first time this year...and she will only get it in moderation.
So I'm counting down the days until Sunday, April 24th. Two weeks from today.
Margie suggested that maybe I could give up wine next year.
I may be crazy...but I'm not insane.
NEXT WEEK: Spring has Sprung...at long last.
As a practicing Roman Catholic, I partake in the annual ritual of giving up a particular vice for the forty days preceding Easter Sunday. I've given up candy, soda, pizza, and other things I normally would crave in favor of being a better person through self-denial.
But this year, I took things to a whole new level. I gave up sweets.
This includes, but is not limited to, candy, chocolate, pastries, cakes, and pies. I not only wanted to give up something I liked, but I wanted to make it count over all the other times.
And it's been tough. There's been days where I've had a chocolate monkey on my back. Fortunately, the rules have changed in the Catholic church that now grant dispensation on Sundays during Lent.
Yay! On Sundays, the monkey's gone. Bedtime for Bonzo.
The sacrifice has had its merits.
I've found that when I've been away from sweets long enough, and then indulge, they're not as appealing. And I may have even shed a few pounds because of it.
My pants aren't as tight. But don't ask me to climb aboard that scale just yet. I have a certain phobia when it comes to weight measuring instruments.
And if I'm not seen consuming sweets in front of my daughter, she's not going to beg her daddy to share.
Don't get me wrong on that one. The Easter Bunny's bringing her chocolate in her little basket for the first time this year...and she will only get it in moderation.
So I'm counting down the days until Sunday, April 24th. Two weeks from today.
Margie suggested that maybe I could give up wine next year.
I may be crazy...but I'm not insane.
NEXT WEEK: Spring has Sprung...at long last.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
House Beautiful...in time
Someone once said it takes wood, brick and other materials to make a house, but it takes a family to build a home.
I couldn't agree more.
But that's not the focus this week.
One of my two and half bathrooms currently resembles the aftermath of Fallujah's Operation Phantom Fury, as Margie and I have hired my brother to 'redecorate' our circa 1977 pink bathroom...with implements of destruction.
Little did we know just how involved this task was going to be.
Building something to last is one thing. However, if you want it to survive future generations, don't decorate it in such a manner that it's going to scream a particular decade in a decade's time. The previous owner hadn't had the foresight to consider this, and the decor was dated probably less than half a decade after it was built.
Think of Harvest Gold, Brown and Avocado-colored kitchen appliances. Need I say more?
I came home to find my living room shrouded in a cloud of smoke and my brother on his back on the floor, wincing in pain.
Apparently he was no match for the concrete walls that were put up for the shower. This thing was built a little more sturdy than any of us could have ever imagined.
A lot more sturdy, actually. They sure don't build 'em like this anymore.
Fortunately, we're not in any hurry to have this done. Especially since the masonite paneling we wanted was discontinued from the manufacturer and no longer available...anywhere. Unfortunately, we weren't told this when we went to pick it up, after being told it would be special ordered for us.
Now back to the home improvement center (this time a different one) to find an appropriate substitute. Had to special order it again, but this time we were assured that it was still available and would arrive within the week.
And by the time it arrives, hopefully my brother will have recovered physically.
And us mentally.
NEXT WEEK: Sour Deal for Sweetness
I couldn't agree more.
But that's not the focus this week.
One of my two and half bathrooms currently resembles the aftermath of Fallujah's Operation Phantom Fury, as Margie and I have hired my brother to 'redecorate' our circa 1977 pink bathroom...with implements of destruction.
Little did we know just how involved this task was going to be.
Building something to last is one thing. However, if you want it to survive future generations, don't decorate it in such a manner that it's going to scream a particular decade in a decade's time. The previous owner hadn't had the foresight to consider this, and the decor was dated probably less than half a decade after it was built.
Think of Harvest Gold, Brown and Avocado-colored kitchen appliances. Need I say more?
I came home to find my living room shrouded in a cloud of smoke and my brother on his back on the floor, wincing in pain.
Apparently he was no match for the concrete walls that were put up for the shower. This thing was built a little more sturdy than any of us could have ever imagined.
A lot more sturdy, actually. They sure don't build 'em like this anymore.
Fortunately, we're not in any hurry to have this done. Especially since the masonite paneling we wanted was discontinued from the manufacturer and no longer available...anywhere. Unfortunately, we weren't told this when we went to pick it up, after being told it would be special ordered for us.
Now back to the home improvement center (this time a different one) to find an appropriate substitute. Had to special order it again, but this time we were assured that it was still available and would arrive within the week.
And by the time it arrives, hopefully my brother will have recovered physically.
And us mentally.
NEXT WEEK: Sour Deal for Sweetness
Sunday, March 27, 2011
New Beginnings
After doing this on two different social networking sites for almost five years now, it's time for a change.
Let me preface by saying that I want to thank all of you for taking time every Sunday morning to read this extraordinary rubbish. Most importantly, I want to thank those of you who took the extra time to provide me with feedback either by your comments on my writings or by private email. It means more than you can ever imagine.
Especially when more than one person tells you to post your writings to a 'real' blogging site...and perhaps get paid for it.
I never did my blogs with the intent of making any money. In fact, I hate the word 'blog'. Not only do I think it's a word that just sounds disgusting, but I don't like the word connected with it.
I've always seen blogs as forums for people to rant about their jobs, families, politics, pop culture, or even a bad case of gout. You'll find a story in the news every once in a while about how someone loses their job over something they rant about. Nobody wants to listen to (or in this case read about) someone else's issues. Especially me.
But then again, that pretext is what keeps reality TV shows on the air.
They call it "Survivor" because you're still alive despite having wasted an hour of your life that you'll never get back.
Come on, that deserved an LOL! Humor me!
Thank you.
Fortunately, blogs have come a long way, having talked to some folks who have made money doing this. One in particular writes several on parenting and makes a modest living of it.
So, why not expose my drivelous diatribe to a bigger audience?
That said, you will find all future columns (yes, I'm still going to call them that) through blogger.com, and I will post them to my Facebook profile for your convenience.
Oh...and don't forget to patronize my advertisers, who soon will actually pay for what I have to say.
What a scary thought.
Also check out my sister column..."Old School Dad", on this same site.
NEXT WEEK: House Beautiful
Let me preface by saying that I want to thank all of you for taking time every Sunday morning to read this extraordinary rubbish. Most importantly, I want to thank those of you who took the extra time to provide me with feedback either by your comments on my writings or by private email. It means more than you can ever imagine.
Especially when more than one person tells you to post your writings to a 'real' blogging site...and perhaps get paid for it.
I never did my blogs with the intent of making any money. In fact, I hate the word 'blog'. Not only do I think it's a word that just sounds disgusting, but I don't like the word connected with it.
I've always seen blogs as forums for people to rant about their jobs, families, politics, pop culture, or even a bad case of gout. You'll find a story in the news every once in a while about how someone loses their job over something they rant about. Nobody wants to listen to (or in this case read about) someone else's issues. Especially me.
But then again, that pretext is what keeps reality TV shows on the air.
They call it "Survivor" because you're still alive despite having wasted an hour of your life that you'll never get back.
Come on, that deserved an LOL! Humor me!
Thank you.
Fortunately, blogs have come a long way, having talked to some folks who have made money doing this. One in particular writes several on parenting and makes a modest living of it.
So, why not expose my drivelous diatribe to a bigger audience?
That said, you will find all future columns (yes, I'm still going to call them that) through blogger.com, and I will post them to my Facebook profile for your convenience.
Oh...and don't forget to patronize my advertisers, who soon will actually pay for what I have to say.
What a scary thought.
Also check out my sister column..."Old School Dad", on this same site.
NEXT WEEK: House Beautiful
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