A Few Friendly Words

I have to admit, I've jumped on the bandwagon.
I used to play Scrabble on my smartphone.  However, I've deferred to my wife, who has chosen to play words with Friends.
I'm still trying to decipher the difference between the two.
I can get multiple games going with several people.
I'm still trying to get the hang of it all.  It's addictive.
Plus the strategy of creating words in the right places to get the most points possible.  This is where I need work.
I've also learned that some people I do play with are in real life, notoriously poor spellers.  Yet, somehow, their misspellings (at least that's how I see them) turn out to be real words.
And yet the best I can do sometimes turns out to be one to maybe three letters at best.  Plus there's all those rules about putting words against each other.
But every once in a while, I surprise even myself with a humdinger that made a then-girlfriend ten years ago stalk off in a huff after a word I used garnered about 50 points.
The word...P-I-X-Y.
Oh, and this was the old-school board version of Scrabble.  Didn't have them newfangled smartyphones in them days, Sonny.
We agreed at the beginning of the game that a Webster's Elementary Edition Dictionary would be the official source for determining whether or not a word could be used.
I spelled the word and saw her jaw drop and her eyebrows rise.
"What?  NO!" was her response.
I quickly looked up the word and presented the open page to her.
She scowled and quickly left the room.  She didn't come back.
Yep, I can sure pick 'em, can't I?
Not the words, the women in my life prior to meeting the woman who would become my wife.
And yes, I've played my wife too.
She's managed to beat me all but one time, but I don't mind at all.
And she lost well on that one occasion.
Probably because my victory was a skin-of-my-teeth margin.
All the more reason to do better.


"Ken's Korner" will go on hiatus until Sunday, January 6th.

"The Buzz" in Pottstown

DISCLAIMER:  The views and opinions in the following are strictly that of the author.

There's been a lot of 'buzz' over the past couple years in a small community nestled in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, about half the distance between Reading and Philadelphia.
It actually has a little claim of fame to it...Daryl Hall of Hall and Oates was born and raised there.
Notwithstanding, Pottstown is a community of about 22,000.  Slightly larger than the city of Butler, Pennsylvania, the Pittsburgh suburb out of which I'm based.
Like Butler, it has seen better days.  A struggling Main Street that is starting to show signs of recovery and even gentrification.  A tax base that has dwindled with the demise of smokestack industry.
But still strong, nonetheless.
But this isn't Daryl Hall's life story.  Nor the tale of two cities.  It's the tale of two radio stations.
Despite the size of Butler, we still have a retail base strong enough to support two AM stations and an FM station, due to the diligence of our dedicated and experienced sales staff.
And so does Pottstown.
Both towns are unique in the sense that they are sandwiched between two larger radio markets that also happen to have television stations.  Butler is smack dab between Youngstown, Ohio and Pittsburgh.
In Butler, our radio stations are still strong.  We have to do a lot of high-visibility off-air functions to remind people we're their local radio station, but those functions still contribute to our bottom line.
Three years ago this month, WPAZ AM 1370 in Pottstown, the flagship station of Great Scott Broadcasting,  went dark.  That is, off the air indefinitely.
Company president Mitchell Scott, whose parents founded the station in 1951, said the station was starting to lose money and immediately put it up for sale.
The reaction from the local community was overwhelming.  A group of people came together and raised money through a series of local concerts to try and purchase the station.
They managed to scrape enough together to provide a down payment.  Another company, Four Rivers Broadcasting, agreed to carry the paper for the balance.  These efforts managed to purchase WPAZ from GSB for $50,000.
Not a bad price for an AM station.
It went back on the air a year later.
As time passed, it became evident what was happening here.
The "WPAZ Preservation Society" became intent on operating it as a non-profit, non-commercial entity, and opening it to the community.
Or simply put, public access.
Ever watch a public access channel on cable?  Better still, ever watch a show on public access and wonder how some people get their faces on TV?
Now think of this in a radio forum.
Yeah.
Uh-oh, I said to myself.  This might not last long.
Most of the airstaff was made of volunteers, who were more or less allowed to play what they themselves wanted to hear, rather than respond to the majority of the community.
And those in charge were surprised that they couldn't get anyone to advertise on their station, even going so far as to accuse Main Street of turning its back on the station.
I'll also point out that this little station used to be heard in just about every Main Street business.  Because they played what advertisers were willing to support.
A call letter change earlier this year to WBZH "1370 the Buzz" did practically nothing to reverse the station's fortunes, despite a shift to more Adult Contemporary music during the daytime, though with still a volunteer airstaff.
The damage had been done.  Off the air for a year by its previous owner, a lack of practical radio business experience at the helm under the new owners, and no programming direction all but guaranteed this little station's demise.
A great many factors went into play that reduced this little powerhouse to as much significance as a birthday candle.
WBZH went dark again last month, after being $35,000 in payment arrears to its noteholder.
Fortunately, the WPAZ call letters are parked in a safe place, and can be reassigned.
Even members of the Scott family have expressed interest in getting this little station back.
To whomever winds up with WPAZ, be ready to roll up your sleeves and do some recovery work yourself, because it will take a hands-on manager to get it done.
And for Heaven's sake, listen to your community.  Not the vocal minority, but those very active in the community.  You know who I mean.



NEXT WEEK:  Friendly words

Christmas Cheer...?

NOTE:  The views and opinions in the following column are strictly that of the author.


This time of year, we hear of radio stations programming all-Christmas music, most often concurrent with the start of the holiday shopping season, best known as Black Friday.
Our three-station group is no exception.  We've started the process of integrating holiday music into our own playlists.
However, it never ceases to amaze me how many songs still find their way onto playlists that just make me wonder if these songs were intentionally written to kill the Christmas spirit?
If you ever want to know how to torture me, lock me in a room, tie me to a chair and put a said of headphones on my head.  Play non-stop Muppets Christmas music in one ear, and non-stop Chipmunks Christmas music in the other.
I will likely be dead in minutes.
Cause of death:  liquified brain.
But these are tracks aren't the only ones that are enough to make me cringe.
"The Christmas Shoes" is one.  ANY Christmas song by Red Sovine is another.
And...some of you will likely hate me for this one.
"Happy Christmas (War is Over)" by John Lennon and the Plastic Ono Band.
I don't really hate it...I personally have mixed feelings over it.  It was one of my paternal grandfather's favorites, and it's a favorite of my wife as well.
While John and his completely talentless wife do wish the listener a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, they kind of lay a guilt trip on you for being happy.
"What have you done,"  "I hope you had fun", "the world is so wrong."
Hey, I know it's John and Yoko's thing.  They've been recording protest songs from before the official Beatles' dissolution until John's 1980 assassination.
They're reminding us of those not as fortunate as we.  There are many.  We get it.
Hey John...we're willing to give peace a chance.  But you're not leaving our consciences at peace.  Kind of a Catch 22, wouldn't you agree?
But I digress.  Only because I have to.
My mother reminded me why on Thanksgiving.
I had brought up my wife's 40th birthday that weekend, and my mom had said her own 40th didn't bother her any.  Not even 50.
60 did.  I was not prepared for the answer I received when I asked why.
"Because the people you love start dying," she said.
Friends.  Extended family members.  You name it.
Sadly, my mother has experienced this beginning at the age of 28, starting with the death of my maternal grandmother at 54 of cancer in 1977.  My maternal grandfather died of a stroke a few months shy of a decade later.  Then there were others.
At 43, many of those close to me have passed on.
The point of all this is, some day, we will be alone too.
Not a fun way to be at Christmastime.
As we grow older, our friends and family will die.  Even our friends that we may make in the assisted living facility will someday pass on.
And it makes me think that someday, I too will leave this world and leave my wife and daughter behind.
All the more reason to cherish them and make the most of the time I have with them.
Pause to think about those you know who are without family this time of year.
And reach out to them if you can.
Don't put off what you can do today.


NEXT WEEK:  Shop till ya Drop

If We Make it Through December

"...everything's gonna be all right, I know."
Those are lyrics from a song written and originally performed by Merle Haggard, titled the same as this column.  The track was released in 1973.
Though the subject matter deals with a blue-collar man dealing with the hardships of being laid off from his factory job at Christmastime, it also offers a glimmer of hope once he's through the Christmas holiday and the cold winter months, hoping to even resettle in a warmer climate.
Despite the bleakness, the protagonist has an eye towards the future, even hoping that things will be better elsewhere, because "Daddy can't afford no Christmas here."
Just this past week, one of my former co-workers at the radio station blogged about the state of the public welfare system in this country and those who shamelessly take advantage of the system.
If you hadn't read it, look on my facebook wall.  Scroll down.  You'll find it.
Many things needed to be said, and she said it best.
I have never been on any kind of food stamps or public assistance in my life.  She has.  Thus, she has a hell of a lot more room to talk about the subject than I do.
Not only that, she was a second-generation welfare recipient who was able to 'break the cycle.'
It's called 'assistance' for a reason.  To assist.  To help others who are going through a tough time until they can get back on their feet.
Or, for those who are physically or mentally unable to contribute, a means to survive.
Yet I see too many of the able-bodied dependent on 'the system' to carry them.
They shamelessly laugh about the fact about how they 'beat the system'.
Well, guess what.  I have news for you.
'The system', as you call it, just beat the crap out of you and came back for seconds.
You want to beat the system?  Fine.  Here's how you do it:
First, get yourself a piece of land.  Big enough to plant a vegetable garden.
Grow your own food, including a cotton crop.  Make your own clothing.  Build your own house using wood you felled from a tree.
Supplement your diet by hunting for game.  Rabbits are fairly easy to catch.  And who doesn't like the taste of hasenpfeffer?  Deer are a little more tricky, but not altogether impossible.  Ringneck pheasant is a good source of protein.  Tastes like chicken!
Or make your own fishing rod and head to the stream.
Learn a trade.  Carpentry, electrical, masonry, metallurgy, farming.
Ever wonder why it's called a 'trade'?  Yep, we bartered one for the other!  That's what we did in the olden days before we went from worshipping in church to worshipping Fort Knox.
And get this.  After each day of 'survival' the good old-fashioned way (like with no TV cameras or Jeff Probst), the only thing you'll want to do after the sun sets is sleep.  Because you'll need it when it starts all over again the following day.
If you can truly say you live off the land and off the grid, then congratulations.  You have indeed beaten the system.
I know times are hard.  But they could be much worse.
I hear stories about people who lose their jobs and then lose their homes.
How does this happen?
By taking on more debt that you can handle.  By having too much faith in job security.  By unwillingness to shelve personal pride to the point of taking ANY job, as long as it was still a means to provide.
When I was 'relieved of my duties' at my first radio job in 1989, I didn't 'hold out' for the Pittsburgh market or another radio job.
I had student loans that were coming due.  I had outstanding credit card bills from my freshman year.  Though I still lived at home, I was obligated to repay those debts that I alone created.
I didn't run off and declare bankruptcy either.
I went and applied at retail stores, six of them, and even mustered up the courage to apply at a convenience store.  The last place I ever wanted to work.
Guess who called...and nobody else.
I had to learn to tie on an apron for my job.  Scrub floors.  Clean toilets.  Deal with drunks on the graveyard shift.  Hope to hell I didn't get robbed in the middle of the night while in the store by myself.  Block and dust aisles.  Wipe down the counter with 409 about every 15 minutes.  Measure the fuel storage tank levels.
All for $3.70 an hour.  Part-time.  I did work 40 hours a week, but no vacation or health care benefits.
And I didn't up and quit when my phone did ring two months later from a radio station with a job offer, which was again, a part-time one.
I stayed on a few months longer (and properly resigned with advance notice).  I went home tired after my shift ended each night, but I felt I earned every penny of what I made.
Ironically, I was ashamed of it.
Maybe it was that classmate from high school that saw me in there, looking at me with the saddest eyes and saying "What the hell are YOU doing here?"
When I interviewed for the new radio job, I was reluctant to tell my prospective employers that I had another job and that I was not willing to 'advertise it'.
That was at my first interview with the program director, then another with the administrative assistant, and then finally a third with her and the station owner.
He asked me "are you working now?"  I said yes.
"What is it you're doing?" he asked.
The moment of truth.  I looked towards the admin.  She smiled and said "you can tell him, it's OK."
So I did.
His reaction:  "Oh, is that all?  I thought maybe you were a bagman for the Mafia!"
After a quick chuckle, he looked me in the eye and said something I'll never forget as long as I live.
"Listen.  Don't you ever be ashamed of what you do for a living.  As long as you work hard and it's honest work, you're all right by me.  Some people are OK to sit back and collect a welfare check."
The message I send to you is this:
Work done well, and done honestly, will never be done in vain.
No matter what it is.  Whether you build the floor, stand on it as you give a presentation, or clean it afterwards, you've contributed.
You will go to bed at night knowing that you've done something useful with your day.  
When you have that sense of accomplishment, nothing more matters.



NEXT WEEK:  Christmas Cheer

Birthday Blues

As a fan of the NBC sketchcom "30 Rock", it's enjoyable viewing.
For those of you who don't follow it, one of the characters, Jack Donaghy (played brilliantly by Alec Baldwin) is the fictional head of NBC.  In one episode, where he's ribbed about recently turning 50, he takes a beat and says "50 is the new 30."
Would that mean 40 is the new 20?
Uhhh...not quite.  When most of us were 20, we spent our days buried in thick, overpriced books we'd never get back our money for, and our nights trying to convince the bouncer at the door that it's a real ID we're producing.  And our weekends puking off balconies.
In reality, we'd read the book, then forget everything a half hour later (if that), we'd be ready for bed hours before the bar closed, and if we did puke off a balcony, we'd overshoot and the end results would be far more tragic.
No...40, NOT the new 20.
Nonetheless, it's still just a number.
My wife turns 40 one week from today.  She said to me just a day or so ago "this is my last week in my 30s."
I've known my wife since she was 32.  I had just turned 36.
After being together all these years, she never ceases to amaze me.
Despite being married for almost seven years, and having a child three and a half years ago, she's still not afraid to try new things, and still enjoys the things we used to do before kids, when we have time to do them.
Sometimes things have to wait in favor of household chores or the 'honey-do' list, but we never let each other fall by the wayside.
And my wife's sense of humor isn't lost on me.
I'm holding a football-themed birthday party for Margie one week from today.  Because her birthday falls on a Sunday this year, and it's a decade marker, what better way to celebrate than to do so in front of a 50" plasma TV, with the Steelers delivering a sound thrashing (hopefully) to the hated Cleveland Browns?
My wife works as an investigator for the feds.  I told her about the party because a) she can't handle Christmas, b) she'd find out about any kind of surprise party, and c) I'm just not that good a liar.
So she knows she's getting a party.
And she'll also know that her friends aren't about to let her forget about it.
Some of the gifts of my own 40th birthday party were:  Geriatric vitamins, antacids, hemorrhoid ointment pads, a pack of Depends, and a pilsner glass with all the niceties of turning 40 on it.
And I will see that no one leaves her out of that loop too.


NEXT WEEK:  December

The Voice of the People

The election is over, and I have to say, the political climate that surrounded this year's general election seemed to be the most hostile that I've seen in years, if ever.
So you'll excuse me for the delay in writing this week's column.  It takes me a while to figure out if there's any real way to write an unbiased article concerning the outcome of this year's election.
I have been a registered Republican since I registered to vote at the age of 18.  However, I have always voted for whom I felt was the best candidate, even if it meant taking the extra time to write in a candidate from another party.
That's right.  I'm a Republican, and I have voted for a Democrat in the past.  And an Independent.
And other third-party parties as well.
I was disappointed in the outcome of this year's Presidential election, but at the same time, I got over it.
I didn't resort to the hostility some had over the fact that their candidate didn't come out on top.
We have four more years of Barack Obama, people.
Like it or not, that's the way it is.
In the words of one of my former radio colleagues, "Bummer...deal with it."
Seriously, were some of you that convinced he didn't stand a chance at re-election?
We have not had a single-term President in office since George H.W. Bush lost his re-election bid in 1992 to  then-Arkansas Governor Bill Clinton.
That's going on twenty years now.
Prior to that, Jimmy Carter.
Two one-termers in 35 years.  You really have to do a bad job to not secure another term.
Or the people really have to despise you.
I prefer to see if Obama can work with the Congress he'll be faced with for the next four years.
Yes, it's bad right now.
But it could be a hell of a lot worse.
And I sure don't see anyone of the naysayers telling me they're moving to Canada making any effort to pack their bags.
Yes, we have a huge deficit in this nation's history.  But we dug our own grave years ago.  Someone had to dig us out.
To let Detroit's auto industry wither and die would have meant the loss of millions of jobs, directly AND indirectly.
Now the Big Three have learned their lesson and now run a leaner, meaner, tighter ship.
And Obama suffered the black eye from AIG's use of bailout money for executive perks.  He learned from it.
He could have pulled the troops out of the Middle East that George W. Bush put there.
And he didn't.
He wisely stayed the course until the strongest al-Qaeda leaders were killed or captured.  To do anything less would have meant the efforts after September 11th would have been in vain.
Obama has another four years to build a legacy.
He can do it.
We had a President who survived an impeachment trial, multiple sex scandals, a collapsed real estate development deal that sent people other than himself to jail, among other things.
But this man, a Democrat, was able to find a bi-partisan footing and reach across the table to his Republican colleagues and change this country for the better.
It didn't happen in four years.  It happened in eight years.
The hope for our future begins with the support we have for our country's leaders.
To those who disagree, I say this:
"Can you do better?"
Now I come back to another quote:
"If anybody's got a better idea, I'm all ears."
Yep, Ross Perot.
That said, I'M all ears.



NEXT WEEK:  Birthday Blues

Sandy Beach

I admit it, I do love the beach.
Unfortunately, the close proximity of the ocean means having to put up with hurricanes.
And it was in the news for the past couple of weeks.  Now it's all over.
Hurricane Sandy unleashed its fury on the Northeast, but fortunately for us on the western side of the Keystone State, it was more of a dalliance than a disaster.
We had some areas without power for a couple days due to some downed lines.  Basement pumpouts were keeping firefighters busy.  Electricity crews on call either slept in or were dispatched to help our more easterly neighbors.
Hurricanes have never been common in my part of Pennsylvania.  Aside from flooded roadways that all but marooned me at my hilltop house in Ford City during 2004's Hurricane Ivan, we've never had trouble with the two other close calls we've had in the past decade...Isabel in 2003 and most recently, Sandy.
This time, the lights didn't even blink.
Well, barely.  My wife reported a brief four-second interruption, but that was it.
The radio station I work for didn't even go off the air.
Schools responded by cancelling classes for the day.
I have friends in the New York City and Philadelphia areas who are still without power, and will be up until probably later on this week.
My prayers are with you folks.
New Yorkers, despite their negative reputation (a fabrication, in my opinion), are probably the most resilient people on the planet.  They have survived one of the highest murder rates in the country, the September 11th terrorist attacks, riots, gang warfare, you name it.
And they'll make it through this.
So will the folks in Philly.
And everywhere else.
Because we're Americans.
We complain about this country, the direction it's going economically, our weak foreign policy, our complacent elected leaders, and everything else under the sun.
But here's proof of our strength in numbers.
We as a people and a culture, stand united in the face of danger.
Whether it's from an enemy nation or natural disaster, we find the courage within ourselves to fight.
And win.
We've fought as a nation since 1775.  We're not about to stand still for a little bit of wind and water.


NEXT WEEK:  The People Have Spoken

Get My Fash On

"I'm too sexy for Milan, too sexy for Milan, New York or Japan..."
Enter the syncopated drum machine here, and you have the one-hit wonder Right Said Fred's 1991 smash, that still finds its way onto radio playlists, much to my chagrin.
It's also been the anthem for just about every fashion model on the planet.
For the past several years, I've modeled for an annual fashion show fundraiser for St. Barnabas Charities.   They ask for local celebrities to model clothes, and I was one of the "lucky" ones some time ago, and have done it ever since.
I enjoy it.  Who doesn't enjoy wearing clothes they can't really afford, if only for a moment?
I started wearing two outfits, then three as the years progressed.
The agenda changes each year.
Most of the same models participate, like me.  And we always try to find a way to be more efficient with our clothes-changing, only to see things change once again.
When we're out on the 'runway', we have literally SECONDS to change into our next outfit, if we're modeling another one.
The first outfits are usually casual, with the second or third becoming more formal.
When we model the first outfits, the audience is given a substantial bio on each one of us, in addition to the wardrobe we're modeling.  What we do for a living, how long we've done the fashion show, family and kids, even hobbies and interests.
Naturally, the powers-that-be like to keep the best for last.  As in, the more formal outfits as the very last ones we put on.
I said before that we have seconds to change into our next outfit.  Cut that amount in less than half if you're putting on a tuxedo.  It's the most time-consuming outfit to wear...so many accessories.
This year, I was pretty impressed with my outfits.
Especially the suit and the tuxedo.
You know why?
Because I learned I could run in them.
You have to.
I barely have my pants up on the suit when the knock comes on the dressing room door.
"Ken, we need you...you're on in a minute."
What the what?
I knotted my tie while walking (OK, running), and just had the other shoe tied when my cue came.
Now I understand why so many models fall on the runway.
They don't have enough time to get dressed, and then not enough time to maintain balance.
I'm so glad I don't do it for a living.


NEXT WEEK:   Sandy Beach

Zombie Apocolypse

I'm not a scary movie guy.
Even George Romero's "Night of the Living Dead", with its low-grade film quality and antiquated special effects, I still find off-putting.
But since it was filmed in Butler County, where I made my home, it still has a place in the massive shelf in our family room that stores our DVD collection.
And we have a ton of them.
Recently, my wife brought home a DVD of the first season of "The Walking Dead" on AMC.
I don't like gory.  The closest I'll get to gory on a recurring basis is watching old re-runs of the ABC gothic soap opera "Dark Shadows".
But I thought I'd give "Dead" a chance.
I didn't like the first episode.
But then after Margie watched an episode or two without me, I found myself curious as to what happened next.
I couldn't imagine a show like this as sustainable.
In the words of Major Lance (for you oldies fans), I was born with a curious mind.
So I plopped down on the couch next to her earlier this week (after putting the kid to bed of course), and went back to watching.
The backstory has been slow in coming about, as to how this happened.  Nonetheless, I enjoy seeing mankind's resourcefulness in dealing with a situation like this.
And with my curious mind, I somehow manage to find plot holes or inaccuracies here and there.
Like speed.
I asked Margie how a zombie, who walks with a limp and at a very slow pace, is somehow able to run at great speed in a forest?
Especially being partially devoured by one of their own before they 'come back' as the undead.
And did nobody among our most intelligent military people think of the benefits of a flame-thrower?
It was my understanding that these beings were highly flammable.  When one catches fire, isn't that an incentive for them to consider an alternate plan?
Obviously the writers knew they were treading a line when they put this show together.  I can see how a typical meeting would go.
"We don't want to go too Romero on this," one would say.
Because George scared the hell out of us on a shoestring budget in 1968 that's become a cult classic, despite  virtually no promotion dollars and no big-name actors other than Pittsburgh celebs.
In case you missed it, they were Bill Cardille (TV reporter) of WPXI, and Dave James (face-grabbing zombie), then of KQV, later at KDKA.
The baby-boomers had "Night of the Living Dead".  Could this be the next generation's comparison?
One thing I am sure of is this:
The scary movie has endured since the 1920s.
And it will as long as people have that thrill for the horror.
In the meantime, pass the popcorn.


NEXT WEEK:  Get Your Fash On

Family Matters...Part II

You'll recall I wrote about my cousin Tina's passing in last week's column.
I wrote mostly about the kind of person she was.
But I didn't truly reflect on that until Sunday, September 9, 2012.
Much like every Sunday, I was tapping away at my computer keyboard in my office at the radio station where I work.  I work a Sunday through Thursday work week, with Fridays and Saturdays off.
It was about 8:30 in the morning, and I was in the middle of typing a news story into our website portal when  I heard my cell phone ring.
I gazed at the caller ID.  It was my Dad's number.
Right away I knew something was amiss.
Number one, my dad's not really a phone guy.  Two, he returns calls, but doesn't necessarily initiate a phone conversation.  Then there was the hour at hand.
Immediately, I thought..."someone died."
My mind immediately flashed to my 92-year-old grandmother.  My last surviving grandparent.
She's survived two mild strokes, and aside from occasional forgetfulness, she's still very much well within her right frame of mind.
She still lives in the same house she raised her family in since 1955.  She still cooks for whomever stops over that happens to be hungry.
Fully independent.  But at 92, anything can happen.
Especially after she said on more than one occasion that she was 'ready to go'.  That was after my grandfather's passing in December of 2006.
But it wasn't Grandma.
"Tina passed away last night," my dad said.
My jaw dropped.  But I kept a firm grip on that phone as he gave me the details.
Nothing could have prepared me for that one.
Tina had survived ongoing health problems since first being diagnosed with kidney failure at the age of seven.
Once she survived her teen years, everyone relaxed a bit.
After all, it was Tina.
She was an example of "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger."
And strong she was.
But as she was approaching 40, the hospital visits were getting to be more frequent.  Middle age, I mused.
I somehow knew she wasn't going to live a full chronological life as the rest of us knew it.
45 or 50, I thought.
Never in a million years would I have dreamed that she would have left this world at 37.
The injustice of it all began to wash over me.
How does someone who used her ill health as a motivator to try harder than everyone else have to die, and those who throw away opportunity after opportunity to do better get to live?
I'm sure it was running through my Aunt Bev's mind as she wept over her daughter's lifeless body in the viewing room at the funeral home, with a strangled 'why' between stifled sobs.
That's when I began to remember my faith.
Our final rewards are not found on this earth.
We were not meant to inhabit this world forever.

"The man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life."  John 12:25

Now Tina no longer has to worry about things like dialysis, doctors, hospitals, frequent medications or anything else slowing her down.
I began to think of how Tina left this world.
My grandpa might have come to get her.
And she might have protested at first...at the thought of leaving everyone behind.
"They'll be OK, Tina," is what Grandpa would say.
And that would be enough for her.
I like to think of them sitting on a front porch like the one at my grandparents' home, with Grandpa still in his tank top shirt with his leather flyswatter in his hand.  Woe to any insect that came near him.
Or maybe she's reunited with Uncles Henry and Ed and cousin Joey at a pig roast at a camp just like Henry had in Pennsylvania when he came 'down' from Michigan.
Maybe Uncle Bill will be there too...and she'll say "Don't I know you?"
She was five when he died.
Then Uncle Frank.  He'll greet her with his usual stock line:  "So what's the good word?"
And maybe she's enjoying a beer or a shot with them all without worrying about 'paying for it later', and in a much more severe way than we would.
After the funeral, I took a gamble and told her brother's wife that she was going to give God a run for his money.  The gamble paid off...we were both able to laugh, as were a few others.
And before that, as we filed past her body, and while others were saying goodbye, I could think of only one thing to say:
I managed a slight smile through my still-hydrating eyes as I said "Give 'em hell, Tina."
And I felt her behind my back saying "Oh, don't you worry about that."
Because we know she will.
She wouldn't have it any other way.
After all, someone's gotta keep those other angels on their toes.


NEXT WEEK:   Adventures in Zombieland

Family Matters

You're probably wondering about the reason behind my unannounced 'hiatus' from my column last month, for those of you willing to give a few minutes of your time each Sunday to what it is I have to say.
An upcoming vacation, our daughter's beginning of preschool, and a sudden death in the family, are life changes that, when all happening simultaneously, can require the most seasoned journalist to need time to regroup.
The death in the family was the big one.
My cousin Tina had been battling kidney disease since the age of seven.  The daughter and youngest child of my father's younger brother Bob and his wife Bev, she had been used to fighting to live for almost her entire life.
Two kidney transplants still did little to restore the independence that we all too often take for granted.  Having the strong will of Uncle Bob, she didn't allow her illnesses to stop her from living.
To those of us who knew her, she was a fighter who never backed down from a challenge and if told she couldn't do something she would do it with all the passion she had for the sake of proving that person wrong.
And most often, she did.  Even if it meant putting her own health at risk.
To those who didn't know her, she might have been perceived as someone characterized with a five-letter word for a female dog that rhymes with 'pitch'.
Someone once told me that it's an acronym that means Babe In Total Control of Herself.
And Tina was just that.
Because I did know her.
She was very much in control of her own life.  She made some choices in life that put her health in jeopardy, but she was someone determined to live her life to the fullest.
She didn't just survive her illness for many years, she also survived a failed marriage, and despite her health challenges, she managed to find happiness the second time around with Mike.
I would later learn that Mike is a U.S. Marine.  He has been honorably discharged, but as all Marines know, "Semper Fi".  Once a Marine, always a Marine.
It would take that level of strength to endure her challenges with her.
He went into their marriage knowing of her poor health, the fact that children together would be impossible, if not potentially deadly, and that she might not live a full life as we knew it.
Tina had a couple 'close calls' during her teen years, and even became a Make-A-Wish kid.  She received an above-ground swimming pool that year.
But she didn't 'milk' her health problems for the sake of taking advantage.
And no one dared to complain about a headache or bad back in her presence.  I can still see her rolling her eyes and thinking to herself how she wished that's all she had.
Her often-brutal honesty was one of her defining characteristics.  But we all took it in stride.
I often do modeling for a fashion show to raise money for a personal care home concern in Pittsburgh's North Hills.  I was talking about it with my Aunt Bev at a family function one year and Tina overheard us.
"You were in a fashion show?  Their standards must be pretty low."
Then she walked away.  I couldn't help but raise my eyebrows and smile, turning to Aunt Bev.
Bev said "if she were any other way, you'd think there's something wrong" with a laugh.
Very true.  We still loved her nonetheless.
One week before she died, my wife and I, along with our three-year-old daughter, went to Bob and Bev's for a cookout.  Tina was there with her new puppy.  Having never met Savannah before, she approached her and put the little dog in Savannah's arms.
"Work on your parents," Tina said pointedly to Savannah.  "Get them to buy you a dog!"
And Tina knew a pet was not part of our plans.  But that didn't stop her.
"I don't really like little kids," Tina told us later, "but she's adorable."
She then walked off, but then turned around.
"She takes after her mom," she added.
And there it is.
Being in an ego-driven profession such as radio, she was helping me keep mine in check.
Then it came time to leave.
"Seriously," she stage-whispered to Savannah, "tell them you want a dog!"
Then the call came one week later.


NEXT WEEK:  Part II

Home is Where...Part III

We left off with my near-death experience in the attic, as I felt the fumes from the silicon caulking gradually closing up my sinuses.
OK, maybe that's a little far-fetched.
And we did wait for the rain to come.
It did...and so did water through the leak.
All else failed, so I called Phil.
He was up on the roof for about five minutes if that.
It looked like the water might have come through the Gutter Helmet, he said.
More rain fell.  Each time I shimmied up to the attic to check.
So far so good each time.
There are reasons why Handyman Phil does what he does, and why I do what I do.
I don't have ego problems.  I know when I'm licked.
But now that problem was done and over with.
That way, I could concentrate on renovating the half-bath.
Yeah I know, quit laughing.
It didn't have to be perfect, my wife insisted.  No one was going to see it other than us.
But I kind of wanted it to be PRETTY perfect.  I was thinking future resale value (not that we're planning to move), and I wanted to try and rival the performance of a pro if I could do it.
I wanted to keep it as simple as I could.
New sink, new toilet, new lights, and trim pieces.  Shouldn't be too hard.
We had to forego the medicine cabinet after we determined that we couldn't find one that was an exact replacement for our old one.
So we cleaned up the old medicine cabinet and re-used it.  
After all was said and done, everything worked, save for a slight drip in the sink drain, and all was good for hopefully, the next 20 years.
Hopefully longer.
The toilet and sink I removed had its date of manufacture cast into it.  The year...1957.
55 years of service.  That ain't bad.
Especially when the house was built in 1952.
And by the time my daughter grows up, she'll probably be making her own plans on what to do with the house if she wants to buy it.
That'll be just fine with me.
I still remember the years I spent at my paternal grandparents' home, which they had moved into in 1955.  My grandmother still lives there today, after my grandfather had passed six years ago.
It was like a second home to me.
I could go there at anytime.  Just walk in.  No appointment necessary.
Except on Mondays, when Grandma did her hair, and from 3 to 4pm weekdays, because that's when her 'story' (Guiding Light) was on TV.
Looking at it today, one can probably see things it needs.
A dishwasher.
Some kitchen cabinetry updates.
An upgrade to a dual-basin sink.
Replacing the wood paneling that's through most of the ground floor.
Painting the bedrooms.
New carpeting.
Central air.
Cable TV capability.
But I like it the way it is.
Much of my life and that of my family is wrapped up in that old house.  The same house that came with only two electrical outlets when it was first built.  Then grandpa installed several more.
"There used to be two plugs in this whole place," he'd say.  "There's more than 200 now!"
Grandpa exaggerates a little, but that's just fine.
Because it's still a home, nonetheless.
Plugs be damned.


NEXT WEEK:  I'll Explain Later

Home is where...Part II

With my wife going out of town with her best friend and college roommate for the weekend, and an offer by her family to take care of our daughter, it seemed to be the perfect opportunity to get some things done around the house.
And I had a lot to do.
I had written about the half-bath ceiling problem in my last column.  My wife suggested that if we're going to repair the ceiling, why don't we just remodel it while we're at it?
Not having ever done this before, I thought if she has faith in my abilities, why shouldn't I likewise.
This was the biggest of my home improvement project list that I intended to tackle.
Another one was a 70-foot red oak tree that had fallen in our backyard after a rash of heavy rains had uprooted it.  After no timber brokers wanted to take it (they won't come out for less than about half a dozen trees), it's fallen upon me (pardon the pun) to cut it up.
Half-bath.  Tree.  Pruning the walnut tree in the back yard.  Fixing a leak in the ceiling above the half-bath.  Oh, three loads of laundry needed doing too.
The roof project was to say the least, interesting.
After caulking a leak seam in the attic, I saw there was still dripping afterwards.  I told my dad about it and how difficult it was to access the area.
"Why not get it from the outside," he said.
Uh, I am your son, and you've obviously forgotten I have acrophobia.
But I wasn't going to verbalize those thoughts to a former cop and U.S. Army drill sergeant who built his own home.
So I sucked it up and went up on the roof.
I could find no visible place where water could come in easily.  The shingles were tight against the roof, and there were no signs of breakage.
However, I did see a couple of small areas on the roof that looked like they had been treated with rubber roof caulking.  Armed with my own caulk gun, I re-treated those areas, including a so-called 'no caulk' bit of flashing surrounding the attic vent pipe.  I was bound and determined not to let water get into this house.
Even the water well was shaking with fear.
But I was proud of myself.  I survived my fears of a twenty-foot fall and got down from the ladder without getting hurt.
Then into the attic I went, with my caulk gun, but with some new ammunition.
Silicon caulk...the same stuff I used before.
But I done used my noodle!  I had a system in place this time!
Take some netting and put it across the area to repair.  Then apply the caulk to a Bondo putty scraper and apply it to the repair area.
I had forgotten to consider the fact that I was doing this on a day when it was pushing 90 degrees outside, and it was much hotter in the attic.  Can you see where this is going?
If not, I'll press on.
I felt like I was breathing vinegar.  I had forgotten to consider the dangers of vapor on a hot day in an even hotter attic.
Uh-oh.
Not even the attic fan going at full tilt could have aired this out.
I had just made it to the attic opening before I thought I was going to pass out.
Now wait for the rain...


NEXT WEEK:  Yes, there is a Part III!

Home is where...

...you work the hardest on your day off from your regular job.
My wife brought this to my attention one day a few years ago.
It's true.  It seems like we work harder on the weekends than we do during the week.
Not that we don't do our jobs at our jobs.
Both of us work in offices, and for the most part, do our work at PCs, with occasional trips out of the office on work-related business.
At home, our duties are much more physical.
Managing a three-year-old daughter.  Keeping the house in decent shape.  Washing the mound of laundry that never seems to end.  Running around on errands to do the things we don't have time for during the week.
Keeping the house in decent shape is the big one.
Sometimes I absolutely hate being a homeowner.  Maintenance is one thing that never seems to end.
The grass needs cut.  Hedges need trimmed.  There's a leak in the roof.  Something needs done about that little knuckle of land between the rear sidewalk and the garage.  That vine needs trimmed back from the chimney.  Don't forget the one going up the other side of the house too.  The walnut tree behind the house needs pruning before those branches touching the roof lift the shingles.  The electric meter socket is slowly disintegrating.  Are we ever going to get the basement remodeled?  The water softener needs new 'stuff' in it.
The kid's play set needs stained.  The jambs on the garage doors need painted.  Oh, why is the garage door opener making that clunking noise, honey?
By my own admission, I'm not particularly handy around the house.  I do try to make an effort though.
But I always tell my wife that I don't guarantee success.
We had an episode where the ceiling over our half-bath was leaking until finally wearing a hole.  Not being familiar with the layout of my house (no longer the case), I was unable to find its source.
We got the ceiling re-done.  Then the leak started back up.
I was told by the previous homeowner that the attic could be accessed in the smaller bedroom.  I couldn't find it before.  My latent rage over this lack of control over such a thing finally got the best of me and I went on a quest, more than ever determined to find it.
I yanked open both closet doors, beating on the ceiling in the first one until I was sure I broke my hand.  No luck.  Then I went to the second one and beat even harder.  I felt something give way that didn't quite feel like a hole caused by my own fist.
It was an access panel.  Eureka!
After icing my hand, I went up to the attic and to the area where the leak was believed to have begun.
I saw where it was situated.  Wait till the next rain.
Then it came.  Back to the attic.
Found it.  And it was a doozy.
VERY difficult to get to.
Got some silicone caulk and smeared it into the leak seam.  Still a leak.
I shoved a board under where the drip was just to get through the rainstorm.
My wife was going out of town for the weekend for the annual trip to Chicago with her college roommate and best friend.  With my brother-in-law's family and my in-laws taking my daughter off my hands for a bit, it was a good time to get some of these things done.
Little did I know that this would be an adventure unto itself.


NEXT WEEK:  Part II

A Little Past Forty

Yeah, that's what I am.  A little past forty, but a long way from over the hill.
Sounds like a country song, doesn't it?
Am I that predictable?  Good.
Ronnie McDowell.  Not a chart-buster by any means, but a cute little ditty from 1990.
I like to think I'm a long way from over the hill.
However, my body sometimes disagrees with my mind.
Just last week, I turned 43.  "It's just a number," most people tell me.
Not that I was overly concerned about it.  I like to think I don't look or act my age.
But with each passing year, it becomes painfully obvious (pardon the pun) that what I took for granted all these decades is the groundwork for a cruel reminder of my advancing years.
Case in point...though people are waiting until their later years to have children, take it from me...don't wait as long as me.  Keeping up with a very active three-year-old when you're in your forties is hard.
Someone once said "Growing old ain't for sissies!"
The irony in that statement just kills me.
The good thing is, I still have all of my own hair, and my own teeth, sans a few that were 'enhanced' from root canal work, and other than bloodwork for my annual physical, I'm not on any 'maintenance' plan insofar as medication and whatnot.
My class reunion committee met several times since last fall until our reunion earlier this month.  One of the things we discussed was how late to hold the reunion.
Not one of us suggested going past midnight.
Keep in mind, we're all married working parents with children.  But we like to think we're still hip.
We also try to temper that with reality.
One of our committee members said it best when we settled on 11pm as an appropriate time to end it.
"We're 43...what are we going to do?"
That generated a few chuckles, but she was right.  What are these 40-somethings going to do?
Go on a pub crawl?  Go down to the Strip District and do some clubbing?
Too old for the nightclubs, too young for the bridge club.  That's us.
My wife and I (though she's not yet 40) have a hard time staying up past 10 these days.
Despite that, we still do our hardest work before breakfast.
Getting out of bed.
Hard work indeed, but that's what separates us from the young 'uns.
The fact that we still do it.


NEXT WEEK:  Home Front

Class Dismissed

My most recent column dealt with my 25th high school class reunion.
The planning, the logistics, the event itself, and the day after.
Now the aftermath.
Since we began the planning for this event last fall, the five of us on the planning committee, along with others who helped us out, had worked tirelessly to try and put together the best reunion we could, to ensure that our classmates felt they got their money's worth on Sunday, August 4th.
Now that it's all over, we've been a bit reluctant to break up the party.
Once a month, we managed to set aside a couple hours from our busy lives to discuss planning, which classmates we still had yet to round up, and how we were going to make this year's reunion better than those of years past.
Not an easy task by any means.
But we got through it.
And we set aside time just this past week to have dinner as a group, with a couple of us bringing our spouses along...so they could see that the time we were spending was indeed productive and not just a means of escape where we could drink our wine.
OK, it MIGHT have been that too.
But to a lesser extent.  Trust me on this one.
We discussed the outcome of the reunion, through our own observations.  Which classmates really enjoyed being there, which ones wanted to take part, but for whatever reason, didn't, and even a couple who paid for tickets but didn't make the trip in the end.
And what we did with the leftover desserts.
Here's a hint...some made it into my lunch box the following morning.
It was all part of what seemed at times to be an insurmountable task, but nonetheless, one we managed to overcome.
And we're going to be getting back together again probably in the next month or so.
Hopefully all the checks will have cleared the bank and we can talk about the future.
As long as we don't talk about goodbye.
The final verse of our school's alma mater says it all:

"As the graduating class, we promise to uphold all the standards and ideals that we will never let grow old.  Time has come for us to leave now.  Loving sadness fills our hearts.  Slowly now we turn away, sad but proudly we depart."

Class dismissed.


NEXT WEEK:   Lower Forty

Class Act

It's hard to believe it's been more than two and a half decades.  I cringe just thinking about it.
But hey, it's reality.
Last fall, I answered a mass email by the planning committee for my 20th high school reunion.  The members were soliciting classmates to join the committee for the 25th reunion we would hopefully have.
Knowing that there would be planning meetings for this, and addressing the challenges of handling a then two-year-old child alone, I asked my wife if she would object to my joining the committee, if they would have me.  She told me it was all good.
We discussed feedback from classmates about the last reunion, the costs of putting it on in 2007 compared to today's costs (which we would later learn to be quite a huge gap), what was a reasonable cost for putting on another reunion, and what ideas we could bring to the table to keep costs under control, while not appearing 'cheap' to attendees.
For those of you who have never done this before, it might not sound challenging.  But for the five of us, all business-oriented people, it seemed apropos that we held most of our planning meetings in serving-alcohol establishments.  The logistics of it all would drive anyone to drink.
I probably spent more on wine than I would have liked at these meetings.
I was a bit concerned, because the date we had chosen was competing for another event, and the turnout didn't seem very high.  I had read an MSN article not long ago that social networking sites like Facebook and MySpace were supplanting the high school reunions of the past, with many graduating classes choosing to forego the typical in-person brick-and-mortar reunions.
Who can blame them?  They're cheaper, and in an uncertain economy, that ain't bad.
Nonetheless, we pressed on.  This was a silver anniversary reunion for us.  Our class held the distinction of being the twenty-fifth that graduated after the district's official formation in 1962.  This year marks the fiftieth year of the district's existence.
We were determined that we were going to give something back to our classmates other than just a nice meal and an opportunity to get out of the house with our spouses.
We had discussed travel mugs, but replaced it with zippered pouch-style stadium blankets instead.  Most coffee cups and travel mugs usually clutter cupboard space, and most often get broken after awhile.
The blankets fold easily, are out of the way if not being used, and in my opinion much more useful.
And one of our members managed to get them 'at-cost' from the manufacturer.
Another member kept track of our spending, right down to the last penny, and wrote the checks.  Two others did the majority of tracking down classmates and went through responses like 'lose my address', 'not interested now or ever', or were downright rude.
The biggest push came in the last month.
Being in charge of entertainment, I put together a playlist for background music, as well as a slide show of pictures from the past.  With ten classmates who have died since graduation, three were especially difficult to find since they were pictured very little throughout our tenure in high school.  One of those three was nearly impossible.  I had to settle for a fishing photo taken of him not long before his death in a boating accident in North Carolina.  He and I weren't friends, but friend or not, I was determined to see that he was remembered properly.
I had my work finished the day of the reunion.  Not because I was slacking, but I went through two rough-draft presentations before the final cut.
Another member scoured every business she could possibly think of that was willing to help for gift cards and certificates as parting gifts for each classmate.  So that everyone would leave with a gift that said 'thank you for attending our reunion.'
We had about 60 people attend.  Not a huge number, but it was still a great turnout.
I say that because there was room to move around and mingle with everyone.  There were plenty of opportunities to take pictures, everyone got to talk to one another, even if only for a moment, and nobody got drunk or disorderly.
And we had a few that traveled quite a distance to be there.  The reunion would not have been the same without them.  Especially one now living within the Chicagoland area, a married mother of three, who brought her best friend from western Indiana to not just this reunion, but our 20 year as well.
Her 'plus one' is now facebook friends with half the class.
We've informally adopted her, despite her being two years younger.
I'm going to enjoy these next five years of quiet.
But I'll have plenty to keep me busy in the interim, I'm sure.


NEXT WEEK:  Class Dismissed

"Wood" You Like Some of This?

After weeks of hot and dry weather, that all but turned my grass brown from green, we received more rain than we could have ever hoped for during the last week of July.
As a newscaster for a small-town radio station, I have a police scanner in my office that keeps me informed of what all is happening with emergency fire and rescue crews.  Thursday night, July 26th, was particularly busy.
Downed wires.  Basement pumpouts.  Flooded roadways.  Trees and utility poles falling.
Never in a million years could I have been prepared for what awaited me when I heard the text tone on my iPhone.
It was from my wife, telling me that a tree had fallen in the back yard.  I didn't think it was that big a deal until  I got home.
It looked smaller in the picture she texted me.  Much smaller.  With the rain still falling, I didn't go out to investigate.  Since we had a handyman coming in the following afternoon to fix the ceiling in our half-bath, I didn't make it outside until late Friday afternoon after my wife came home.
She and I, along with our three year old, made it to the back yard by the property line.
The tree was probably sixty feet in height, and had a trunk of about two and a half to three feet in diameter.  The base of it, along with the uprooted soil, had to be about ten feet wide.
I looked at the ground.  the impact of the tree put several small craters in the back yard.
My mother-in-law urged us to call our insurance company and claim it under our homeowners policy.
The only problem with that was a $500 deductible.  Uh...no.
A much cheaper option and an idea had formed in my twisted little mind.
My best friend has a camp outside of Erie.  He often has to buy firewood on the way there, usually at $25 for a cord.  Not a bad deal, but why not make lemonade of this lemon?
So I called and left him a message on his machine.  He immediately called me back.
He said he wouldn't make it out for probably a few days, but he definitely wanted some.
Have at it, I told him.  It'll be here for awhile.
My next-door neighbor also stopped over.  He knew some people that might be willing to help cut it up if I would let them have the wood.
Uh...yeah!
I began to think that maybe I should have held a tree-cutting party.  Bring your own chainsaw and keep what you cut.  I wouldn't charge anyone for it.  That would be like asking money from people who would be helping me.
And I'm sure the word will spread.
The neighbor on the other side of me rents the house there.  The real-estate company that owns the house recently cut down a dying tree that would have tumbled onto my property and left the cut wood there.  They let me have some for my firepit activities.
And I was curious as to how long that wood would last.  Now I have more wood than I ever would have imagined.  Or wanted.
The bright side to all this is, there's less grass to cut for now.


NEXT WEEK:  Reunited

Pay it Forward

As my 25-year high school reunion draws near, I think about my days in high school.

And how far I've come since then.  

Last fall, I signed up for the planning committee for this reunion.  And thanks to the momentum of social media since my 20-year reunion, planning has been made much easier.

We've found people not on the committee, who are yet willing to help make our reunion even better than before.

One of them I've had lunch with twice over the summer, despite not having been in touch with him for 19 years prior, when he called my request line in the days when I was pulling an overnight on-air shift at a now-defunct hit country formatted radio station in Pittsburgh.  

And I've enjoyed both our lunch meetings thoroughly.

Tony is probably one of the most genuine people I know.  Groomed with a strong work ethic at an early age, he believed in hard work by his own hand, and that if you wanted something done right, you did it yourself and didn't blame others for your own failure.  

He built a business of his own on this very pretext, and is very much a hands-on person.

He had asked me for my advice to help his sons get started in their own business.  For some time in my native Detroit, I worked the club circuit as a DJ, playing everything from country to classic rock.  

I had also DJ'd my brother-in-law's reunion, and with the cash he advanced me, I purchased a used portable amplified speaker system to fit the bill.  I would later learn the secrets to running a complete show automated from a laptop.  

Tony had gotten wind of this and asked me what he needed to help his boys get started.

I was surprised by the request, yet pleased.  Today I lament how some parents don't teach their kids the importance and value of work, and just give them money arbitrarily, but Tony was giving his two sons the opportunity to get started at an early age and learn to develop this over the years.

Tony and I go back 31 years, when we were in junior high school together and were in most of the same classes.  He was the same then as he is now, I would learn.

I agreed to help.  We arranged for lunch, and I brought along all the CDs I used for DJ events.  He told me of a scrubber-mixer he had bought from Amazon.com and asked if he really needed it.  I told him it was a nice thing to have, but it was more of a luxury than a necessity.

He presented me with two bottles of wine afterwards.  Unnecessary, but hey, who am I to turn down free wine?  Especially good wine?  

Then came our second meeting.  He warned me that he was running about a half hour late, apologizing profusely the whole way into the restaurant.  Hey, stuff happens.  

He told me he had been running behind and hadn't transferred all my music yet, apologizing for that.  And, he  presented me with a digital drive he was going to transfer my music on so my laptop wouldn't get bogged down with music files.

And he bought me lunch.

I said "you don't have to do that."

And he knows that.  But true to his character, he believes in giving back more than what you take.  And to help others when in need, without expecting anything in return.

How many times have you been asked to do something while thinking 'what's in it for me?'

Fess up.  We've all been there.  I'm ashamed to admit that I've been there too.

But I've been trying to make up for it since then.  As I've grown older, I've come to appreciate the benefits of what it's like to be a part of a community...to give, not just take.

Neighbors helping neighbors.

The way it should be.

NEXT WEEK:  "Woodn't" it be nice...

Unhappy Valley...the Finale

NOTE:  The views and opinions in the following are strictly that of the author.


Just months ago, I did a two-part column on the Jerry Sandusky sex abuse scandal that shook the Pennsylvania State University down to its very foundation.
I was praised and punished.  By both longtime friends and "friends" quick to de-friend me from their Facebook accounts for taking the stand I did.
I remained supportive of Penn State head football coach Joe Paterno, because, at the time, like everyone else, I did not know the facts of the case.  Thus I felt that proof, rather than raw emotion, should be my guide in forming an opinion.
This is why we have the judicial system we have in this country.  Not perfect, but by far, the best we have until I see proof otherwise.
In other words, "innocent until proven guilty in a court of law".
The man himself said "I should have done more".
I thought to myself "well, what more could he have done?"
Then the report from Louis Freeh came out almost two weeks ago.
They say it takes a lifetime to build up a reputation.  At least a good one.  But it can take one bad moment to   destroy it.
Joe Paterno's finally came last week.
The only problem was, it wasn't one bad moment.  It was a series of bad moments stretched over 14 years.
14 years.
Fourteen years of enabling.  Fourteen years of sacrificing justice for the sake of the university's reputation and that of its football program, and it's all in writing.
It's something I'm still trying to wrap my brain around.
And it hurts.
Plus I've heard from a couple of others who have said their childish na-na "I told you sos".
One of them went as far to say "the silence from Paterno supporters is deafening".
The silence is not from denial.  But rather from the length of time it's going to take for complete acceptance to just what has happened here.
Acceptance from alumni and supporters of the legendary football program.  Those who sank large and small amounts of cash into supporting the program.  Because it was a very good one, and at its foundation was a coach who was quick to yank one of his players off the field if there was a hint of trouble on the field or off.
Let's also not lose sight of the fact that Paterno is only one of a great many who share blame at varying degrees in this.
We all know who bears the majority of the responsibility.
Penn State's football program was a testament to all that was right in this world, with a coach who believed in his players enough to keep them on the straight and narrow, with many of them going on the NFL or have done well professionally in their lives after football.
An entire belief structure has been shattered here.
Beaver Stadium was the church.  Paterno its pastor.  The university's Board of Trustees its elders.  The players the energetic choir that kept the parishioners on their feet.  The fans were the parishioners who gladly tithed.  And tithed some more.
What's frightening is, how many other schools are also hiding such behavior?
The hardest part of it all is, the man we affectionately called "JoePa" is not around anymore to say anything for himself, especially to the deafening cry of those who supported him:
"Why?"
Only God and Joe know.


NEXT WEEK:   Paying it forward...with interest

Cruise Control

About three weeks ago, my wife and I returned from a six-day five-night cruise to the Caribbean, a first for both of us.
My in-laws, having gone on about half a dozen cruise trips in their lifetime, decided to treat me, my wife and daughter, and her brother and his children to this trip, so that we had a chance to experience it as an extended family.
Two weeks before the trip, my wife contracted strep throat.  Then me.  We both paid a visit to our family doctor, who immediately put us on antibiotics, which we requested because we didn't want to be too sick to go on the trip.
When he heard we were going on a cruise, here's what he had to say:
"Eat as much as you want, forget I even exist."
He's obviously done this before.
You go hungry on a cruise trip, it's definitely not their fault.
We said from Baltimore aboard Royal Caribbean's "Enchantment of the Seas" the afternoon of Friday, June 22nd.
After some initial nervousness during 'muster', which is the same safety spiel that flight attendants give you at the beginning of the flight, I scrapped my misgivings about what happened aboard the Titanic and quickly got into the routine I would follow for the next week.
Swimming pools.  Hot tubs.  Gambling casino.  Movie theater.  Live music.  Passenger-participating competitions, game shows, and other such activities.  An activity center for the young-uns.  Several bars.  Shopping.  Ben and Jerry's.  Starbucks.  A sit-down restaurant and buffet style dining area.  A video arcade.  
Of course, partaking on some of these activities is either a challenge or unrealistic if you have a small child.
Though Savannah did have fun in the activity center, we didn't feel right putting her in there more than once, because this was a family trip, after all.
I particularly enjoyed our destination, Bermuda.
The weather, along with people driving on the wrong (to us) side of the road, the absence of bigbox stores, the small cars (seriously, no one drives anything bigger than a subcompact unless you're a cop or politician), the abundance of motor scooters, were all particularly appealing, plus the turquoise ocean water so clear you could see the sand below the surface.
I was particularly disappointed at how the electronic age has diminished the glamour of having a passport.  Though we had to show it multiple times, we did not get a stamp in our passport.  But we still had the passcards we were issued when we first boarded the ship.  I mean, that's something, right?
If you ever have the opportunity to take a cruise in your lifetime, I strongly suggest you take it.  And here are some suggestions for you to follow:
If you have small children, you may want to take a short-duration cruise, just to see how they (and you) can handle it.
Pack Dramamine or other motion sickness medication.  You will need it.  Though through most of the trip, the waters were calm, and the rocking was gentle enough to put you to sleep, we did have one rough night at sea on our way back.
Even if you have an iron constitution, still pack it.  It costs a fortune on the ship.
And antacids.  They don't sell those in any of the shops.  If you like to eat like I do, you will need these.
If you wish to eat dinner in the dining room, dress is formal.  You don't necessarily need to break out tux and tails, but they prefer collared shirts, non-denim pants, and closed shoes.  You may want to take two 'dressier' outfits to wear at dinner, then change back into casual gear in your cabin.
Royal Caribbean offers a chance for you to get your picture taken with the ship's captain if you're formally dressed.  And the ship does offer tuxedo rentals on board.
The staff is made up mostly of Filipino peoples who speak fluent (though well-accented) English.  Very polite, and service is second to none.  So be nice.
All told, a cruise trip isn't really all that expensive.  The killer is the airfare if you're not close enough to a port within a reasonable driving distance.  From our Pittsburgh-area home to Baltimore, it was about five and a half hours worth of driving.  That's about how long it takes me to get to my native Detroit.
Other East Coast ports include New York, New Jersey, South Carolina, Massachussetts, and of course, Florida.
I would suggest using travelocity.com.  You sometimes get the best deals by booking at the last minute or near it, provided you can arrange vacation time with your employer on fairly short notice.  I found a six-day cruise on Royal Caribbean boarding this Friday from Baltimore to Bermuda at $62 a day per person.
Add to that parking fees at the port, plus your gas for driving there.
And you've got a vacation you will tell many about for years to come.
Happy sailing.


NEXT WEEK:  Unhappy Valley...the Finale

Forgiveness

Yeah, I know.
I didn't have a column last week.  So sue me.
After saying I was only going to be gone for a week, it didn't turn out that way.
Last week's column was interrupted by more substantial priorities, like getting acclimated to a new office building and all the niceties (a term I use very loosely) that come with moving not one, not two, but three radio stations into it.
When you're trying to get your computer to work, finding where on the new control room board where the CBS feed comes in, and if it's working, plus other technical glitches.
Though we're getting the 'bugs' worked out, thanks to two of our four owners and assistants that have been working non-stop, we're well on our way.
Those of you who know me and what I'm about, will overlook the faux pas and cut me some slack for my absence.
And that's important.
Because in the big scheme of things, that's not bad.
Despite my soon to be 43 years on our cherished planet, it never ceases to amaze me how many people choose to hold on to anger and resentment...no matter how many years have passed.
And my question is why?
When you hold onto anger or resentment against another, you effectively allow that person to control you, albeit passively.
I'm on the planning committee for my 25th high school reunion.  For almost a year now, we've been meeting every month to track down our classmates and put them on the invitation list.
This has been made easier through social media like facebook, but some either have stayed on the shoulder of the information superhighway or shied away from social networking websites altogether.
And those we have been able to track down, a lot of them don't want to be found.
It's easy to understand why.
Some were bullies, or were bullied.  But why let that stand in the way of anything?
One girl comes to mind who was a social outcast in high school.  Though she continues to struggle with issues today, she found the courage to show up at our 20-year reunion with her husband and show that she, despite a stormy childhood, can overcome.
One boy, very popular throughout high school, has tended to stay away from the whole reunion scene, most likely due to an unsettled score with a fellow classmate.
Three words.
LET...IT...GO.
Another girl, whom I did not care for, from my days as far back as junior high.  She made contact with me 13 years ago and apologized for her role in our friction.  Completely shocked yet pleased, I too made my peace, and we've been friends ever since.
It was a wonderful feeling indeed.
Then after talking with each other and reminiscing, we learned that the source of our friction was caused by a dirty trick played on us by a school bully who has since passed away.
Then we laughed at how we'd been had.
And we laughed at how easily we made up, in comparison with others we knew who insist on holding a grudge.
I remember someone once saying that kids suffer so much because they won't tell anyone what's the matter.
So end the suffering as an adult.
Let it go.
Life's too short.


NEXT WEEK:  Boat Trip

Here Comes The Sun

Ah, the songs that have been written about that big ball of warmth in the sky.
The aforementioned Beatles tune that titles this week's column.  "The Warmth of the Sun", "Sunshine Superman", "Sunny Days", "We'll Sing in the Sunshine", and on and on and on.
As I get older, the more I'm learning that I can't ignore the healing power of sunblock or tanning lotion.
I was reminded of this last Saturday when I was home alone that afternoon.  The backyard hammock, which has been little more than a playground for my soon-to-be-three year old daughter, was beckoning me to seize the moment.
"C'mon Ken...you know you want me!"
Oh, yes...and I would do it again!
Having finished mowing the grass, and my wife and daughter were still out shopping, I had nothing pressing that needed attended to at the moment, and I had to assist at a promotional event for the radio station I work for in a few hours later that day.  Surely I could lay out for a little bit?
Just a little bit.
Sunscreen?  No need...they'll probably be home in the next five minutes and my efforts will have been in vain.
I couldn't have possibly been out there more than an hour tops.
All I can remember is thinking that perhaps I should be next to that selection on the restaurant menu that says "Market Price".
O...M...G.
Ow.
This was just a preview of what was yet to come for the week.
The next day, I felt a soreness in my throat.  Margie had relapsed from a bout of strep throat Memorial Day weekend.
But I brushed it off as just another sore throat.  The following morning, I felt it intensifying, I had problems swallowing, and learned to like soup, as it went down pretty painlessly.
Much to my wife's chagrin, I might add.  She hasn't been able to stomach the smell of broth since her pregnancy.
My wife urged me to go to the doctor Wednesday after my energy was all but sucked dry.  Remembering that George Washington died of a simple bout of strep throat, I gladly called my doctor.
Fortunately, our family doctor is my age, so I have an appreciation for his dry humor.
"Ugh, it hurts just to look in there," he said into my gaping yap.
Uh, thanks???
He wrote me a scrip for Amoxycillin that he told me to get filled immediately and to take one as soon as I had it in hand.  I snatched it from his hands with a ravenous greed that would likely raise the eyebrows of a heroin addict.  That's how badly I wanted this out of me.
I got all three doses for the day in by bedtime.
Thursday I started to feel better.
Friday, I felt it was out of me.
Saturday, it was like nothing happened.
But now I have a toothache and a couple cold sores on my lips.
However, I can still get out of bed, I have ibuprofen, Orajel, and Campo-phenique as my besties for now.


NEXT WEEK:  Uh, didn't you read the last columns?  I'm off next week!

The List

Craigslist.org.
It's the best thing since sliced bread if you're looking to buy or sell something.
However, I would advise against personal ads or help wanted ads on this particular internet vehicle.  Google these keywords with craigslist.  You'll see what I mean.
They say one man's junk (by that I mean unwanted possessions) is another man's treasure.  As I get older, more and more things in my home are finding their way out via Craigslist.
I hate just throwing things away arbitrarily.  It goes against everything I believe in.
When my paternal grandfather was still alive, he often worked as a neighborhood handyman.  Anytime something broke, he could fix it.
This was long before the whole 'green' thing became chic.
If someone junked a car, threw out an old automatic washer, or TV set, he was on it and stripping out any salvageable parts for future use, for himself or a neighbor in need.
It was a community service in a sense.  He saved a lot of people a lot of money by not having to call a repairman or buying something new.
We've become a throwaway society.  TV sets and other major appliances were only discarded when a vital component broke on it and parts were no longer available or the repair costs would almost render buying a replacement a better value.
Clothes were mended, not simply thrown away because of one little hole or threadbare spot.
This wasn't just because the value system was different, but simply because we were more careful with our money back then.
It was most often a single-paycheck household.  Dad went to work.  Mom did not work outside the home.  Her business was raising the family, making sure the bills got paid, and everything else that Dad didn't have time to worry about.
The money Dad earned went further when not a single penny was taken for granted, and 'waste not, want not' was the order of the day.
And the day was LONG, I might add.
My wife Margie often threw things away without giving it a second thought.  But then I would say 'let me see if I can sell it on Craigslist.'  Or even eBay.
She agreed.  She knows what kind of family I come from...so she had no problem with it.
Thus far, I've sold water-skiis, old kitchen cupboards, an Intex pool kit, two old bathroom mirrors, and gave away a bathroom countertop after I had no luck selling it for cash.
I don't make a fortune by doing this, nor a living for that matter.  But if what I can turn useless junk into cash, hey...why not?
I myself have bought an amplified DJ speaker system, workbench, a baby swing for my daughter, another one for when my in-laws watched her shortly after she was born, just to name a few.
Not everything I own has to be brand-spanking out-of-the-box new.  I can get 'like new' for much less, and have more money left for other things.
I personally would rather see something of no use to me get used by someone who would have a use for it.  It's always better than ending up in a landfill.
And not only that, it's better to save money by choice, rather than necessity.
Thanks, Grandpa.


NEXT WEEK:  Getting my burn on

The People's Voice Needs to Shut Up

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  "Old School Dad" and "Ken's Korner" will be on hiatus the week of June 24th.

DISCLAIMER:  The views and opinions expressed in this week's column are strictly that of the author.

I'm not going to single this guy out by name.  Or anyone else for that matter.  We all know the players in this ongoing game.
"I represent the working class," the man says.  "Not the country club class."
Look pal, I'm part of the working class.  You don't speak for me.
Not now, not ever.
"The man" is a one of the top elected officials in our county's government.
He campaigned on a platform of governmental transparency, accountability for taxpayer dollars, tax fairness, and support of social welfare programs, to name a few.
Don't get me wrong.  These elements by themselves aren't bad.  It's good to stir the pot every once in a while.  It keeps everyone on their toes.
What is bad, however, is when this same individual, a Democrat, uses this agenda to get himself elected to office, and then performs a series of deeds that have made even the most liberal of liberals say "what just happened?"
Racking up a laundry list of expenses that he said he would fight to control, yet vehemently protested when his two fellow board members successfully voted to make his (and their own) expenses more readily available to public scrutiny.
This came after he singled out a department head for overspending for hotel accommodations at the state capital for a recent conference.
I will also point out that this man also accused one of those board members of using his connections to cover up a drunk driving charge by granting a substantial raise to another department head, whose husband just happens to be a state trooper that was investigating said incident.
In Pennsylvania, with the exception of juvenile court, all criminal records are open to the public, whether they're summary or felonious in nature.
Those of you who know what I do for a living, know that I know how to find out these things.
I have to this date, found no evidence of a DUI arrest against the accused.  Nor any of a cover-up.
Now he's been sued in civil court by his fellow board member and the second department head for his very public accusations.
And he wants the taxpayers to pay for it.  The very same taxpayers to whom he promised accountability for their tax dollars.
But it's not his fault, so he says.
"I'm entitled," he went so far to say in a public meeting.
He says his remarks were part of his official job duties, while not keeping in mind that these remarks, when unfounded, are libelous and actionable.
"They want to sue me and take my house and everything I worked for away," he complains bitterly.
And they shouldn't?  Because you singled them out by name and sullied their otherwise-clean reputation and put their integrity in question?
Public officials have a hard enough time keeping constituents happy as it is.  The last thing they need is one of their own making unfounded statements that not only hurt them, but the board's reputation as a whole.
The man complains about everything and advocates nothing.
The accused has helped raise money for a World War II monument honoring local Merchant Mariners, and while voting in favor of only half the man's request amount of money to pay for a police dog, the accused has pledged that he would again help raise money to make it happen.
And a week later it did happen.
The man makes no effort to be friendly with his associates or fellow board.  The other two men on the board are a different matter.
The accused..."Hey Kenny...how's that little girl of yours?"
The chairman...."Good morning, Ken.  How are you?"
And I get a handshake from both.  I don't even get so much as a 'by-your-leave' by the man.  Neither does anyone else.
Social ineptitude doesn't cut it in public service.
Someone in the county's upper ranks once summed up his feelings on what recent public meetings have become.
"It's a circus now," he said.
I would have to disagree.  I say this because the accused volunteers as a clown for Shriners Hospitals for Crippled Children.
Proof that even clowns have class to some degree.
Thus I digress.  No circus.
We're in freak show mode.
Whatever the case, it's not a laughing matter.


NEXT WEEK:  Ken's List

Cruise on Over

Next month, my wife and I will be taking our very first cruise trip.
Through the generosity of my in-laws, they recently announced that they enjoyed their own trip so much that they wanted to share it with their children and grandchildren.
Probably more for the grandkids, but that's beside the point.
We were all pleasantly surprised when they informed us that they would treat us all to a cruise trip to Bermuda. Outside of Canada, I have never left the good ole U.S. of A.
I have flown multiple times in my life, taken bus trips, and local riverboat cruises that stayed close to port, but a trip being surrounded by nothing but open sea I find rather intriguing.
The excitement over getting a passport for the first time in my life was an experience in and of itself.  Not just that, but watching my daughter get hers.
I have always found it strange that the older some people get, the less likely they are to leave their comfort zone.
I have Benjamin Button syndrome.  My mindset is working in reverse.
When I was younger, I was pretty stubborn and not likely to leave the waters (pardon the pun) that I was familiar with, but as I grew older, my mind started opening to trying new things, the opinion of others (no matter how much theirs differed from my own) and seeing potential experiences with new eyes.
Because what this life offers is a chance to experience the newness of life.
New perspectives.  New people.  New sights.
A world outside your own seems a lot bigger.
But for some, it's less friendlier.
Nonetheless, it should never be a deterrent to what's important.
We are not alone in this world.
We are without a doubt, as I've written before, the most powerful nation on Earth.  We set the tone for the rest of the world.
What we do impacts other countries, other societies, other cultures.
And we should never fight it or not make an effort to understand, if not accept, what is outside our borders.
We often fear what we don't fully understand.
But we should never allow fear to govern our lives.
We can look back at the events of September 11th as an example.
Many people of Middle Eastern descent, most of whom had become naturalized U.S. citizens, gave up their citizenship and returned to their homeland.
Because of one word...persecution.
This country was formed by people of many races, cultures, and ethnic groups that fled their homeland for that very same reason.
And we should be ashamed of ourselves for becoming the society that struggled to build the image that America was different than any other country on Earth.
The attitude we need to take as a society can best be described by a teen drama canceled not so long ago, with this motto:
"Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose."
Let's start winning again...with a new kind of weapon.
Not the kind you hold in your hands.
But in your heart and mind.
Can't lose.


NEXT WEEK:   Freak Show

Know Your Limits

Public service.
It's one of the most thankless careers in this country.
And that's the problem.
The fact that it is in fact a career.
Here in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, members of the House of Representatives and the Senate can hold their seats for life if they so desire.
And collect a very attractive pension if they have enough time in.
Unfortunately, in the political world, the more time you put in, the more corrupt you become.
One of many examples have recently been made in Harrisburg, as Pennsylvania's Office of the Attorney General has been cracking down on many capitol cash-grabbers using their taxpayer-paid resources to perform  duties for their own benefit, most namely, staying in office.
Most legislators enter office with the best intentions in mind...to help people.  But after awhile, and after being presented with bankroll offers from corrupt organizations, the fine line that separates black and white begins to blur into shades of gray.
It stops being about helping others and becomes more about getting re-elected.
As they say, the ends justify the means.
Virtue stopped being its own reward.  After all, virtue doesn't pay the bills now, does it?
Perhaps not in the short term.  And maybe that's one of society's problems...we don't think about the future often enough.
Several members of Pennsylvania's House of Representatives are learning the values of virtue over the corruption of cash.  And a few Senate members as well.
Many of our elected leaders in Harrisburg have been carted off to jail, with their legacies of the good they did do now being overshadowed by their corrupt acts.
It's a shame when a legislator fights hard for their constituents, but the legacy they struggle to build, often taking years, can be gone in a matter of mere seconds.
Next month, Senator Jane Clare Orie will end her 15-year career in the legislature, first in the House and then in the Senate, as she is sentenced on criminal charges of which she was recently convicted, in a second trial after her first one last year ended in a mistrial over doctored defense documents.
An attorney by education, her felony convictions cost her her license to practice law in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.
Ms. Orie was convicted of using her state-paid staff to perform political work on state time, and at the request of her older sister, to perform political work on behalf of another sister who holds a spot on the bench for Pennsylvania's Supreme Court.
My mind goes back to the courtroom of Judge Gregory Olson of Indiana County.
Above his bench, in large letters, reads the following:
"No man is above the law, and no man is beneath it."
No woman, either.
Despite Orie's conviction, she has had an exemplary record with veterans and senior citizens, and had brought funding to her district to create good-paying, family-sustaining jobs.  She also co-chaired a committee dedicated to preventing child and elder abuse.
This record made her one of Pennsylvania's most powerful, and until recently, most respected lawmakers.
I hope that Ms. Orie will use her time in prison to reflect on what got her into trouble, and what she can do to repair her soiled reputation and rebuild her life.
Some good can still come out of this.
Perhaps another lawmaker not yet caught will think twice the next time he or she bends the rules.
At least we can only hope so.


NEXT WEEK:  Cruisin'

The Family Stone

No, I'm not talking about the 60's soul group.
But rather, the cornerstone of every family.
Mom.
Sure, Dad was the one who more often than not, worked outside the home to provide a living for the family.
The money he earned is what Mom used to provide the food on the table, pay the bills to make sure the phone and lights stayed on, and bought the clothes on your backs.
But everyone remembers Mom.
And Dad is OK with that.
Well, he's learned to be, anyway.  But don't worry, he's fine.
Because Mom provided everything I just mentioned...plus more.
She was the first person you went to for comfort.  Whether you scraped your knee in the driveway, or even more complex matters when you arrived with a suitcase, saying your spouse told you over dinner that he or she wanted a divorce.
Dad can't compete with that.
We're the problem solvers.  We don't have the patience to simply listen, and not offer any input unless specifically asked.  We're just not wired that way.
And when Mom is gone forever, we feel a huge hole in ourselves with a stinging pain that just won't go away.
We still rely on Mom.  Even though we may grit our teeth and complain about her later on in life.
She calls and interrupts you at work for something that could have waited until later that evening.
Or she plies your kid with treats when you come over, about an hour after they picked at lunch and ate almost nothing.
She may pick at how you raise your child, why you don't call or come over more often, your relationship with your siblings, how you can leave the house practically naked, why you chose the not-so-lucrative career path you did, why you can't seem to manage your finances to save your life, and even why you chose the person you married.
But you still need her.  Whether you'll admit it or not.
Even those with stormy childhoods, sometimes at the hands of an abusive mother, still feel that ache of what's lacking.  And longing for it.
This person carried you in her body for nine months.  Possibly nursed you afterwards.  Spent the majority of time with you in your youngest years.
And tolerated your teenage rebellion with the patience of a saint.  Whether you sneaked her debit card out of her purse to pay for those concert tickets she wouldn't buy for you, wrecked the brand-new family car less than a week after getting your driver's license, 'borrowed' her best dress to wear to school that day and permanently stained it, or complained about her to your friend on the phone, and within earshot.
Mom was, and still is, a three-letter word for unconditional love.
On this Mother's Day, I ask that you take the time to celebrate your mother.  Give her a call or stop over.  Let her know you care.  And if you too are a mother, celebrate your motherhood.
If you're married to a mother, celebrate your wife and what she's accomplished as a mother.
If your mother has passed on, take some time to reflect.  Think about how she made you the person you are today...whether it's good or bad.  Don't be afraid to cry if it makes you feel better.
You're never too old to love your mother.
Or want her near.
You can reach for that box of tissues now.
It's OK.
Really.


NEXT WEEK:  Legislative Term Limits