Based on the title of this little bit of blogginess, you probably have decided that I have finally, unsurprisingly, lost complete touch with reality. "We are heading toward the 4th of July and this internet dingleberry is wishing us a Happy New Year? He can't read a calendar any better than he can a weather map!" Well, I would argue that the calendar depends on your perspective. If there are kids in your house or you are a kid yourself, it really feels like the new year starts around September 1 or, even the middle of August...whenever school begins. The year runs from first school bell to last school bell...summer is its own mini-year. Does any of this make sense? Just imagine Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time edited by a staff of monkeys. If you accept my "summer=year" theory, it makes July 4 about the half-way point in the year...the mini-year, not the other year. Huh?

As a young man, my oldest brother, Randy, liked to wear lots of make-up. Now that I have regained your attention after my time/space/monkey discussion, let me explain what that fact has to do with Independence Day. Randy earned extra money for college performing as a clown. He was great...which always seemed a little surprising because, of the four boys, Randy was the quietest and, by far, the most polite. But, slap on the red nose and he was terrific. One year, he asked me to be his assistant at the Witwen Wisconsin Independence Day Parade. We worked out the old bucket full of water...or is it just confetti...trick. Randy rode a skateboard down the middle of Witwen's Main Street and I followed, handing out candy, until we came to a group of people ready for the gag. We did it about six times during the course of the parade. By the last time, I had finally gotten the order of buckets right. We left in our wake several doused spectators including a drippy state senator and a couple of soggy sisters...as in nuns. The nuns were good sports about my mistake, one saying it had better have been holy water. That was my final performance as a clown in public, unless you count the last twenty years or so of my broadcast career.

When it comes to the 4th, I'm a big fan of band concerts and parades. Also, I like watching fireworks...done by professionals. Every year, on the news, we show the video of the mannequin getting zapped by some kind of explosive and, every year, I can easily see myself as the dummy. So, I've always stuck to sparklers and the little snakes you light on the sidewalk. While even those items require caution, I usually can make them work safely. That brings me to my father-in-law. Before going any further, let me assure the authorities that he has reduced his fireworks habit to almost nothing. I don't want him spending his fourth taking the fifth.

The fact is, however, that his palms still get sweaty and a wild look comes into his eyes whenever he drives by one of those big FIREWORKS ON SALE HERE billboards. I really don't know where his obsession comes from. Part of it is his desire to entertain and dazzle his kids, and now, grandkids. I've never known anyone more concerned with his family's happiness than my father-in-law. Maybe another reason is because, day-to-day, he is in the corporate world of suits, ties, meetings, dayplanners, board-rooms. Setting off fireworks may allow him to get in touch with his inner Rambo.

I mention all this because we're going to be with my wife's family this holiday weekend and the urge to make things go boom may get to be too much for my father-in-law. If you hear that the UN is issuing sanctions and Secretary of State Rice is setting up emergency negotiations about getting inspectors into some emerging power, don't get too worried. It may just be that a fun-loving grandpa has successfully sneaked away to a fireworks stand and returned with enough stuff to be picked up on some satellite somewhere.

Right now, I have to get that tape of the poor fireworks mannequin getting the short end of the holiday deal and make it into a continuous loop. Maybe, if I just leave it running on the VCR, it will have a subconscious impact. But I doubt it. In the meantime, I hope you all have a safe and happy Fourth of July.

When Walt Whitman decided to name his famous collection of poems, Leaves of Grass he must have had some neighborhood kid doing his mowing for him. Our lawn needs to be mowed and I am not the least bit inspired to write a poem: "O Captain! My Captain! The Lawn, it must be Shorn. The Green Stuff now is Three Feet Tall-next year let's just plant corn." Our grass is not super long. We haven't lost any dogs or kids in it, yet. It didn't look too bad until our neighbors...on both sides...had the nerve to mow theirs! Every now and then, on FirstNews, I will use the show to tell my older sons to get out and cut the grass. I'll let you in on a little secret: it's all a lie. First of all, the odds of them being up and watching dad are slim to none, especially in the summer...well, okay, anytime of the year. Secondly, I end up mowing the lawn more often than not. There are a couple of reasons for that: they have much busier social calendars than I do and I sort of like mowing the lawn.

Growing up, I watched my brothers mow the lawn with a rusty push mower...powered by their own legs. After they had all moved out, but before I was old enough to safely mow, my dad bought a power mower. My brothers always thought that was totally unfair...not so much because they felt my dad should have to push the old mower but because they knew that my lawn mower years at home would be much less labor intensive. Pull the cord and go. And, I did. I mowed our lawn and a others in the neighborhood for a couple bucks. Mowing afforded me a great opportunity to get lost in thought and earn a little dough at the same time. Sometimes I would solve all the world's problems by the time I was done but most often I would imagine myself, in a tux, on stage in Las Vegas with Nelson Riddle and his orchestra. Once, at full volume, in the middle of a second chorus of The Lady is a Tramp a friend walked up behind and scared the Sinatra right out of me.

Every now and then, our neighbors would take me out to their Grandpa's house to mow his rather expansive lawn. The best part was the chance to mow using the rider! Kids who grown up on farms start driving vehicles of all shapes and sizes pretty early on. In fact, one my best friends was actually born in the Farmer's Co-op wearing a John Deere cap and carrying keys to the combine. But, that was for farm kids. If you were a townie, a riding mower was sometimes the important first step toward getting your wheels. Those were good times...tooling around that big green patch, pretending to be a trucker on a long haul or an Indy driver. Sometimes my mind would wander too far and the result looked like something aliens left behind. Aliens who'd spent their visit taking tours of the Old Milwaukee brewery and plant.

I still like to mow today but I am not fanatical about it or about lawn care in general. Our yard is not the worst or best in the neighborhood. It could never be the best. We have one guy who is very exacting about his grass. His mowing stripes are perfect. He does that diagonal deal. I usually just go up and down or back and forth. Once I tried the diagonal design and our lawn looked like an extremely nervous green zebra. He has no weeds anywhere. I think his weeds make their way to our lawn...on purpose. If crab grass and dandelions are the Pilgrims, then our lawn is Plymouth Rock. His sidewalks are precisely edged. I go for that "take-the-mower-down-the-middle-of-the-sidewalk" look. Honestly, I appreciate our neighbor's efforts and obvious flair for lawn care. It totally removes any pressure I would otherwise feel about the look of our yard. Not that I would be that diligent anyway. As my father always told me, when I was faced with a seemingly impossible task, "If at first, you don't succeed. Quit."

So, as I said at the start, I mow the lawn. But I make the boys do the trimming. My mom felt that a lawn that was mowed but not trimmed was like a haircut without getting your neck shaved. At other times, she would say that a haircut without getting your neck shaved is like mowing the lawn and not trimming. It was really a catch-all philosophy. The only real rule I have about mowing is to do it on a Thursday. That way it looks good for all the weekend visitors but you don't eat up your Friday. As it turns out, we never have weekend visitors and Fridays are about the same as any other day. Still, I think it's good to have some sort of strategy. And, maybe, I should just turn over the whole thing to the big boys.

"O Captain! My Captain! Send your sons to do the work
While you stretch out on yon hammock and release your lazy, inner jerk."

Warren Buffett and Bill Gates are obviously very smart and generous people. Just about everyone admires their efforts to use their enormous wealth to better the lives of others. Having said that, let me say clearly and forcefully, that I totally disagree with their disdain for inherited wealth! I would welcome any help from my ancestors and so would my mortgage company. I can absolutely guarantee that being handed a pile of money would not...could not...possibly make me any lazier and less ambitious than I already am. In the movie, Citizen Kane, Charles Foster Kane says, if he had not been rich, he could have been a great man. Well, at this stage of the game, the odds of me being a great man are pretty miniscule, so that is not a potential problem if any distant uncle or aunt wants to thumb his or her sure-to-be lovely nose at Buffett and Gates.

Admittedly, my wife and I have not been the best role models for our kids when it comes to managing money. Of course, we try to pay our bills on time but, when we don't, I like to think I am introducing my children to other cultures when they answer the call from New Jersey or Illinois or India, asking for a payment. It also demands creativity on their part to come up with new ways of saying "I'm sorry Joel can't come to the phone right now...he's in the shower...he's mowing the lawn...he's taking a nap...he's doing charity work." Or, the ever popular, "Joel, who?" Despite our poor, and I mean POOR, example, not all of our kids are financially incompetent.

Our second son, Taylor, works two jobs plus mows lawns when possible. He is a good saver and will make a buck whenever possible. He is frugal. He is careful. He is cheap. He is so tight, he squeaks. He just got back from a forensics competition in Dallas. As part of the package, he received a $20 per diem, to be used for meals. He was gone seven days. When he got home, he had $140. How did he do it? Well, he carefully rationed the snacks we sent with him, as though he was on the show, Lost. He also made a point of eating as much as possible at the free continental breakfast at the motel. Finally, wherever he found free food or snacks, he indulged...mightily. (Naturally, now that he is home, he has more than made up for his modified eating schedule of last week. Our pantry is empty and one of the pantry doors is missing.)

Alex, the oldest one, also works two jobs but is less likely to squirrel away his dough. As is the case with many successful investors, he believes in financial diversification. Sometimes he buys Reeses Peanut Butter Cups AND Skittles. One of his jobs involves tips. He puts a lot of those dollars and quarters in a little cardboard box on the end table...rather than in a basement safe, surrounded by a moat, guarded by a bear and set up with hidden cameras the way Taylor would. Well, such a relaxed attitude on Alex' part is just an invitation. The New Kansas City Star keeps sending out special offers and calling with great subscription rates to get me to take the paper. Forget it. As long as there is change in the magic tip box, the paper is free...for me. Alexander's magic tip box has also eliminated the need for me to go through his wallet in the dark on days when the Powerball is over 100 million and I want in on the KMBC pool. It is not just my hand in the cookie jar, by the way. I suspect Alexander has purchased more Latte' Cafee' El Grande Gigantigos than he knows. His mom likes coffee.

As lackadaisical as Alex can be about money, he runs a distant second in spending to Samantha. She can get paid for baby-sitting at our neighbor's, two doors down, at 10:00 p.m. and have it all spent before getting home. If the old saying about money burning a hole in one's pocket was literally true, not only would none of her pants have pockets but she would be banned from the kangaroo exhibit at the zoo, just to be on the safe side. Very early on, she perfected the amazing trick of spending the same dollar five different ways...which, often, results in four of my dollars going somewhere I didn't intend. Just a word of warning to any future college room-mate of my daughter: Samantha will be fun...funny...smart...filled with energy and smiles. But, she will never have any money to contribute to the late-night pizza fund.

That brings us to the ten-year-old. When you're a kid, the money-making opportunities can be few and far between. Yet, somehow, Harrison always seems to be able to lay his hands on some cash. When he was about three, one of his older brothers was frantic about seven dollars he was missing. I'm sure it was Taylor. Harrison sat and watched the mad dash from room to room...upending sofa cushions...accusatory glances at all of us...the threat of brotherly fisticuffs. After a time, Harrison walked into his bedroom and returned carrying his Fisher-Price cash register. He popped it open and there was the seven dollars and change. Now, Harrison was not admitting any guilt, he just thought he'd be a good baby brother and loan back the money, at a competitive interest rate. Harrison's willingness to share, on his terms, was made very clear once when Grandma sent him four sticks of gum in the mail with the advice to dole it out to his brothers and sister. He did...in his own way. He divided one of the pieces into thirds and kept the other three for himself. Next April, Harrison is doing our taxes.

The bottom line is that, as far as our financial future is concerned, my wife and I have some worries. We can't really expect our kids to support us. Obviously, Alex and Samantha will have a lot of fun and never have any money. We'd have to pry it out of Taylor with a crow bar and Harrison's schemes will probably keep him on the run and living under assumed names. So, again, let me reiterate, Gates and Buffett notwithstanding, I whole-heartedly support inherited wealth and, if you're looking for a distant cousin to whom you want to leave your fortune, I am up for the job.

Whenever I am gone from Channel 9, like this past week, the phones light up...but, despite the enthusiastic and hopeful response to my absence, I am back...for awhile. Thanks to the folks I visited with at the Rhythm and Ribs festival a week ago Friday and the fine journalists-to-be at the Barstow Summer Camp I saw a couple days back. Also, thanks for the e-mails, voice mails and cards wishing me a happy birthday on June 21. Of course, June 21 is the first day of summer and the longest day of the year...it certainly was for my mother 45 years ago.

She called last Wednesday and wished me a "Happy Turkey Day!" I mentioned that Thanksgiving is still several months down the road and she said she felt I was now old enough to know that the family had long ago decided my birthday more than qualified as a "turkey" day. The morning I was born, my brothers were all camping out. My dad approached their tent and told them the new baby was here. They were glad to hear it was another boy. They figured that would add to the outdoor army they were building. Now, my brothers are all significantly older than I am...really quite a bit older...excessively older...embarrassingly older. Anyway, by the time I was old enough to join up and hang out in the tent with them, they had moved onto other things like girls, cars, girls, music, girls, sports and, also, girls.

I was born in the middle of a heat wave, which, for Wisconsin in June, could be anything above 60 degrees. This time, however, it was well into the 90s which had the corn standing on its ears, the cows making plane reservations for Vermont, and local ministers wondering if it was a sign of the apocalypse...with the fourth horseman wearing a blaze orange cap with ear flaps, carrying a Packers bobble-head, and riding a hyper-active heifer. Despite the heat, I was totally wrapped in hospital blankets when I came home. My grandma immediately started to throw aside all the coverings including my fuzzy little sleeper with a blue elephant on it. The trauma of that has apparently stayed with me. To this day, at the sight of an elephant, I begin to sweat, get a little hot-headed, and end up standing in my boxers and t-shirt, regardless of where I may be at the time. This explains why I was escorted out of the special screening of Dumbo a few years ago and why I could never be assigned reporting duties at a Republican Convention.

One of my earliest birthday memories involved having a friend overnight and then going to the FamilyLand amusement park in Wisconsin Dells. I also got a great gift that year: a ten-speed bike. As memorable as all of that alone would be, what really makes me remember it, is the unfortunate fact that I was sick as a dog. I didn't tell anybody but I did make frequent trips out behind the garage. At the park, I forced myself to get on the dreaded Tilt-A-Whirl, knowing it could well become a Tilt-A-Hurl. Oddly, it actually made my stomach feel better. Maybe it was a physical version of reverse psychology. I wobbled my way through the day and started to feel better just about cake and candle time. I am a firm believer in the healing powers of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting.

Another birthday I will always remember was when I was living in Las Vegas and turned 19. I was on the Rainbow Vegas bowling team. The Rainbow Vegas Hotel was a very small operation near down-town. We had no gambling, which set us apart, and a lousy bunch of bowlers. In the middle of my back-swing at the Showboat Lanes on that June 21, a woman dressed as a birthday present came along and began to warble a tune. It was a singing telegram from a company called Eastern Onion, paid for by the team. It seemed to go on for a long, long time. Finally, she finished the melody, handed me some silly gifts, and moved on into the night. As for my bowling game, I was never much good but, after that, I really became well-acquainted with the gutter. A place many of my teachers probably thought I'd eventually end up, after all.

Some kids are terrified by their early birthdays...everyone singing at them...the burning candles...the pile of presents you can't open yet. Our youngest burst into tears at his first birthday and we have a great photograph of the moment. We keep it in the same box with the "baby's first bath" photos we have of all the kids. They come in handy when you want to ensure your teenager will be home on time or get their friends out of our house at a reasonable hour. All the great child-rearing experts ignore the many uses of blackmail in successful parenting.

My oldest brother would immediately crawl under the table when the cake was being brought out and the singing started...it was a little embarrassing last year when he turned 57. He used to tell people the crooner, Perry Como, was his uncle. That has nothing to do with birthdays, but I thought you should know.

I was never terrified by my birthday. Until, this year. First of all, it took the better part of the afternoon for my kids to light all the candles. Then, as it was carried my way, I had an increasing sense of what Joan of Arc may have experienced. When I blew them all out, the smoke grew so thick that I think heard choppers overhead about to drop water on the obvious grass fire. I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if the HazMat team had burst through the door.

Now, nearly a week later, all that's left is a brownish haze hanging in the air and the faint, but rejuvenating, smell of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting.

As we head into the Father's Day weekend, don't forget, among all the great activities, is the Rhythm and Ribs Jazz Festival at 18th and Vine starting Friday afternoon. I get the special honor of introducing the legendary McFadden Brothers this afternoon about 5:00. They are absolutely the best. Over the years, they have been guests on many shows on KMBC, including the kids' show Jellybeans, where they wowed everybody by actually dancing to my rhythm-challenged piano playing. Over the Memorial Day weekend, during the Saturday version of FirstNews, they tried to teach me how to dance. As I've mentioned before, my mom is a great dancer...my oldest brother is terrific, too...but, I missed out on the terpsichore talent. When I try to cut a rug, it usually ends up being more like the dirty, raggedy piece of cloth on the floor of the laundry room. But, forget all of that, and come down to 18th and Vine this afternoon for the McFadden Brothers. Despite the 90+ heat, they will make us all feel cool...real cool! We will all be hep cats...I'm too old to be hip, but I might make a run at hep.

Live music would be a great gift for dad. About 95 million cards will be given this year, which sounds pretty impressive until you realize it is fourth on the list of card-selling occasions, behind Mother's Day...Christmas....and, I think, Arbor Day. A girl named Sonora Dodd of Washington State thought of having a day for dads back in 1909 while listening to a Mother's Day sermon in church. Sonora's mother had died and left her dad to raise six kids. Sonora's idea was eventually embraced by President Calvin Coolidge, who, when asked if he thought fathers should be commended, said "Yes." Stirring. The third Sunday in June didn't become the permanent, official home of Father's Day until a proclamation was signed by President Richard Nixon...who suggested a moment of silence in honor of dad...actually, 18 minutes of silence.

The best present I gave my dad is not something I would ever suggest to any young person today. Remember, this is back about 40 years and times were different. Dads were a little different, too, I think. Over the years, I had given my dad enough Aqua-Velva to float a ship full of freshly-shaved but slightly smelly fathers. I had handed him stuff made of construction paper that looked like the DNA from Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Once I bought him the latest Charley Pride 8-track which was fine until he put on the headphones, back when headphones were huge, like you're part of Mission Control in Houston, and started singing along at the top of his lungs. My dad could dance, he was very funny and handy around the house, but singing was not his thing. He used to say that he couldn't carry a tune in a basket. The tape was fun for him but I am still having flashbacks. Whenever I hear Kiss An Angel Good Morning my ears try to physically disconnect themselves from my head. And, frankly, it hurts. Well, that brings me back to a gift he really seemed to like. Again, I do not recommend this as a gift. We're smarter now, I hope.

After listening carefully and observing my father in the weeks leading up to the holiday I just couldn't get my six year old head to come up with a great gift that I could afford. Finally, one of my brothers had a suggestion that made sense. He told me I could find the two treasured items at the drug store and he'd loan me money, if need be. So, with his and my money in hand, I jumped on my bike and rode to the drug store. Of course, in my town, everyone knew everyone, so the clerk said "Hi, Joel. Looking for a Father's Day present? The Aqua-Velva is right this way..." I explained that I was doing something different this year and then told her what I wanted. "I need to get a carton of Kents and one of those magazines you keep behind the counter, " I stated confidently. "And, could you wrap it up nice for me...paper with boats on it would be great." The woman looked at me for a moment and her cheery disposition evaporated as she asked if I was sure of my choice. I was. My brother had assured me this would be perfect. I didn't share my brother's influence with the clerk as I wanted, and received from her, full credit. I plopped my money on the counter as she haphazardly wrapped the goodies. If memory serves, she started to hum Onward Christian Soldiers rather forcefully at that point. I hurried home with my sure-to-be great gift.

A couple days later, on Father's Day, my dad opened his presents. A tie-clasp from one brother...a comb from another. The one who had helped me with my selection, gave our dad a tacklebox. Then, it was my turn. As he opened the sail-boat paper, I could tell he was expecting something special. There it was...a carton of Kents and, what my grandma would call, a "girlie magazine." As my brothers started to howl and my mom joined the chorus of Onward Christian Soldiers, my dad just looked at me and said, "Thank you." Then, he invited my helpful brother outside to more closely examine the new tackle box...in the privacy of the garage. Later, whenever you would mention rods, reels, tackle, sinkers, bobbers or worms, that brother would flinch.

Have a wonderful Father's Day weekend and a great next week as I am not going to be around to write these things or be on FirstNews. That is my gift to all of you. You really deserve the break!

My dad liked to play dress-up. There, the not-so-secret secret is out! Now, before you finish dialing up Dr. Phil, let me explain. When I was growing up, my dad was on the radio in our little town. In fact, he and a couple of friends, founded the very first and only radio station in the Sauk-Prairie Wisconsin area, WVLR...Wisconsin's Very Live Radio! The other guys were the technical folks and my dad, Ron, was everything else: station manager, news director, sportscaster, salesman, public affairs director, janitor, on-air host and, local icon, Ole Hanson! Yes, Ron was leading a double life. Most days he was Ron Nichols, your average mid-western guy...dry wit...serious-minded much of the time...hard-worker. Then, every Saturday morning, he would become a Norwegian Party Animal...an oxymoronic image if there ever was one. If you are Scandinavian, don't be offended as I am a lefse and lutefisk guy, too.

Ole would play polkas, waltzes and schottisches (that's another kind of music to dance to...usually going round in circles to 2/4 time and, the scariest part is, to this day, I still know how to spell it without consulting the dictionary) on his Old-Time Party Program. He would highlight wedding anniversaries and birthdays. It was a point of pride to have Ole mention your name on the air. There was a recording artist by the name of Yogi Yorgesson at the time who sang songs with a similar accent to Ole. Around the holidays you still hear Yogi's I Yust Go Nuts at Christmas every now and then. I mention Yogi just to make it clear that doing a Scandinavian dialect does require a good ear and true talent. For example, you need to know that the "ch" sound is more like "sh" if you are Ole Hanson. So, "chair" becomes "shair"...like Sonny's former partner. Well, my grandma, Ole's mom, knew that was the case so, being a little devilish, she would call the show to request the movie song Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Just how is Ole supposed to introduce that song? Obviously, my own behavior problems have some genetic basis.

Ole was a big star in my neck of the woods. There was a cartoon version of him on the side of the radio station's Mobile Unit # 1. (There was only one vehicle in the fleet...an International Harvestor truck/SUV kind of deal. But, Ole was there!) Eventually, Ole had to start making personal appearances. Ron found a wig full of white, bushy hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore suspenders which were covered with sequins...the kind of thing Liberace wore to change the oil in his Rolls-Royce. Ole would have been happy to wear the lederhosen and show a little leg but Ron did draw the line on that fashion point. He was a skinny guy from the north. In Wisconsin, especially when I was growing up, men did not wear shorts. Your legs were private. If your body parts were inmates in a jail and your clothes were the cells, then your legs spent all their time in the hole...solitary confinement. The first time I saw my dad in a swim trunks...that's what dads wore, not "suits" but "trunks"...I was terrified. I thought he was being eaten alive by two giant, pale sturgeons. Anyway, Ron told Ole "no way" on the bare legs and hitched his sparkly suspenders to an old pair of baggy pants. All dressed up, with a corn-cob pipe in his mouth, Ole would appear at car dealerships, butcher shops, hardware stores...you name it. He would play the records and do live reports back to the radio station...making jokes appropriate to the situation. Like from the local car place "You know, Tina and I love our Norwegian car...it's a fjord."

Even after my dad got out of the business end of the radio station, he still had his Ole Hanson Old Time Party on the air for a long time. I used to go with him to the station and help pull the actual record albums out of th stacks. No cds...no digital programs...just big old pizza-pie size discs filled with happy music. I will always remember the musty smell of the record room. You could have provided penicillin for most of this hemisphere with all the mold that had to have been growing under the carpet and in the walls.

That's one of the memories I think about often, even when it's not Father's Day weekend. Like most people, I guess, there are times when you hear your parent's voice coming out of your mouth...especially when you're talking to your own kids. That's happened to me a lot over the years. Interestingly, where I used to hear Ron's serious, common-sense voice in my head all the time...now, more and more, I hear the sillier, more mellow Ole Hanson. I think my dad would approve of that shift. Just add a polka and it's showtime!

It's Summer Camp time! All of us in the weather department do a lot of school visits during the academic year but, more and more, we can stay busy visiting summer schools and summer camps, too. While I enjoy the chance to go to all these places, where I am usually used as a science exhibit gone terribly awry...as a kid, I was not summer camp material. The bottom line: I would get home-sick. During my brief career as a Boy Scout, I went on an overnight trip to the camp-ground just about a mile from my house. As the night came on, I missed my house...my dog...my parents...my TV...even my brothers. So, while not lying outright, I convinced the Scout leader I was not feeling well and would hate for anyone else to get sick, just in case I was coming down with something like the flu or that strange malady that can attack at times of stress, like test day at school, "Latent Intense Acute Response" or LIAR, for short. I think he saw through my story but decided I would probably better serve the Troop by maintaining a lookout post in town, in my living room. If they gave merit badges for obfuscation, I'd have had one...my only one. The ability to fudge the facts has come in handy, however, in my current position on FirstNews: "Well, we talked about the chance for rain...somewhere...sometime....that one time...back awhile....now, back to you!"

A couple years later, I went to a Youth Leadership Summer Camp at the University of Wisconsin in Stevens Point. (I know...you're wondering how I would ever get chosen for a "leadership" camp. Believe it or not, I was president of my class in 8th grade. Mostly, by default as all the cool kids were in the Future Farmers of America.) We lived in dorms for a week and I hated every second. The other kids were nice...the camp counselors were great...but I wanted to be home with my Nestle's Quik and Skippy peanut butter. For the end-of-camp talent show, the group I was in decided to perform You've Got A Friend. "When you're down and troubled...." guaranteed to launch a thousand tears especially among middle school age kids. When you are 12, 13, 14...your emotions can be pretty easily manipulated...sad...happy...angry...loving...sassy...caring and that's just before breakfast. It's as though the Flying Wallendas have commandeered the part of your brain that keeps things in perspective. Well, we knew our off-key rendition, with me hacking away at the upright piano, would be a sure-fire show-stopper. My musical abilities have always driven people to tears, anyway. But, while everyone else was entering the group-hug zone by the end of the tune...I was already standing outside, my bag packed...waiting for the bus to take me home. After this camp experience, I was a true leader...as long as you wanted to be led to my house.

I never have gotten any better at this being away from home stuff. For a number of years, thanks to ABC, I had the opportunity to fly to Hollywood, stay in a terrific hotel and interview TV stars. That will be a subject for a future blog. But, as cool as that all was, I hated being gone and worried every minute. Other than when required, I never left my room...no pool...no dining out. I was convinced that, if I left the room and had even a little fun, something horrible would happen at home and the flashing message light would haunt the rest of my life.

When I would watch movies like Meatballs and Little Darlings camp always looked like a ball and I am glad that just about every kid I meet when I visit, appears to be having fun. But, for me, it just didn't work. It is no better now that I am on the other side of the summer camp deal. One of my kids will be gone all next week to Dallas, to participate in the National Forensics League tournament. I am very proud that he has achieved this level so soon in his high school life and he is excited about going. Later, this summer, the oldest boy will be at a comedy camp in Chicago for two weeks. Again, I am proud of and happy for him. But, I wish they'd both just stay home. I would rather be incredibly aggravated by their presence than depressed by their absence. Don't even get me started on the agitation I develop when the younger two kids are away on sleep-overs!

Well, all this talk of summer camps and being away from home has made me nervous. I think I hear the chocolate milk and peanut butter toast calling my name. I have to go home. NOW.

Today is my mom's birthday. I know what you're thinking: this cheapskate thinks he can save money on a gift or card or phone call by using this internet way, on Channel 9's dime, of saying happy birthday to his mother. Well, now that you mention it...not a bad idea. Except: my mom doesn't have a computer...and she doesn't want one. She gets a little upset stomach just looking at a Ferris wheel so surfing...even the web, would put her in the hospital! She is also one of the last folks on the planet not to have some sort of answering machine. She figures, if it's important, you'll eventually get a hold of her. Frankly, where she lives, even her mail delivery is spotty. So, if her card is a little late it may well not be my fault...really.

She was one of 11 children growing up on a farm in northern Wisconsin. Her dad was a fine musician and she picked up those talents...singing and dancing while he played the guitar...sort of a country version of Shirley Temple. Today, she will add harmony to any song but not for public consumption. I remember playing Scott Joplin's The Entertainer when I was taking piano lessons as a kid and watching her iron the clothes while dancing around the ironing board. It was like seeing Ginger Rogers working at a dry cleaners...while Fred Astaire was out on a delivery. When I think of my mom, I think of music. She once said she liked hearing a "Vietnamese Waltz." We think she meant "Viennese," but who knows. Forget the name, if it was or is a dance, she could and can do it. I would love to have a hidden camera in her kitchen because, I suspect, she still dances and sings her way through the day.

In between the notes, I know her day is also filled with on-going conversations with the creatures outside her windows. I am not talking about anything like that old William Shatner episode of The Twilight Zone...when he was on a plane and saw that monster on the wing. I mean animals...real animals. Back in my school days, as a mentioned a few stories ago, we had a little white-tailed squirrel that lived around our house. My mom was very fond of him and talked about and to this furry interloper a lot. It was a cute relationship until she wanted to put up a Christmas stocking for the rambling rodent. To this day, my kids love to hear grandma talk or write about her close encounters of the wild kind...deer, turkeys, geese, raccoons, more squirrels, blue jays, cardinals...they all communicate with my mom. Forget about Marlin Perkins...she is the real host of Wild Kingdom...sort of a Scandinavian Snow White!

There were times when my brothers and I were all crowded around the kitchen table, talking smart and thinking we were funny. Mom was usually not sitting down...getting this and that for the table. Out of the blue, she would say something like "That old cow just wouldn't move..." and then chuckle to herself. It was clear she had been having an internal conversation and we were getting in on just the wrap-up. Even Paul Harvey would have trouble coming up with "the rest of the story" in these situations. At the time, we all thought it was hilarious but, looking back, she knew much more than we did...she knew our table talk was probably not worth too much attention. As long as her boys were all safe and sound, being noisy at meal-time, she was happy.

Once she and one of her close friends came to visit me in Las Vegas. I had moved there after high school thinking I could be the next Frank Sinatra...not realizing even Frank Sinatra Junior wasn't able to be the next Frank Sinatra. Mom was not too thrilled with her 18 year old "baby" moving to Sin City, but she let me try it. For my 19th birthday, she decided to fly out. Very understandably, her friend wanted to see the sights and hear the sounds of the town, but my mom...being a mom...was more interested in staying at my house and making chocolate chip cookies and a birthday cake. Wayne Newton and Liberace would just have to wait.

So, Happy Birthday, Mom! By the way, I got a call from that white-tailed squirrel the other day. He has retired to a tree in Arizona but wanted to wish you a happy birthday. He tried e-mail with no luck and he never got you on the phone. I explained that you didn't have a computer or an answering machine. "What? No computer or answering machine? In the 21st century?" the little guy exclaimed. "That's nuts!" That made him hungry, so he hung up.

Here's my confession: I had a date yesterday. Yes, me...happily married for close to 20 years...four kids...respected member of the community...(okay, the last one is a stretch but the first two are accurate and for a weatherman, two out of three is exceptional.) Anyway, I went out for coffee and a movie (A Prairie Home Companion--great!) with a woman. True, the woman was my wonderful wife, Jessica, but it is still kind of a big deal to actually have a date. Our kids are all old enough, now, that we don't have to find a baby-sitter, a task we weren't very good at anyway.

When the big boys were little, their baby-sitters were grandmas and grandpas when those special people were visiting. My wife's parents would actually disappear with the boys for an entire day...leaving us to our own devices. We spent most of the time talking about how cute, funny and bright the boys were. Another time, a trusted, long-time friend offered to watch the kids so we could go see James Taylor at Starlight. A couple of his songs, Only One and Ev'ryday, had been sort of "our songs" when we were courting...do you see how out-of-touch, I am? I used the word "courting!" Before kids, we'd been to a James Taylor concert and had a great time so we were excited about this return engagement. Well, about half-way through the show, Jessica and I looked at each other and decided we missed the kids...forget Fire and Rain we desired Diapers and Spit-up.

After that we decided we'd just wait until the oldest was old enough to baby-sit. Then, an event came up we really wanted to attend. It was a tribute to Bill and Fran Grigsby out at the stadium. No family was coming to town and we were in a quandary about who would watch the kids...four of them, now. Thanks to some neighbors we connected with a very responsible high-schooler who agreed to watch the bunch. It was all set...we drove out to Arrowhead and got on a trolley from the parking lot to the practice facility where the gala was being held. We shared the ride with Mr. and Mrs. George Brett. (Please, forgive my name-dropping and rest assured that none of these folks...The Grigsby's or the Bretts' or any of the local glitterati at the banquet...had any idea who we were.) We had just gotten settled in at the table we were sharing with my boss...after convincing the folks at the door we really were in the right place...when the boss' cell phone rang. It was KMBC trying to track me down because the babysitter said Taylor was having an asthma attack and the sitter had forgotten what to do. We called our house, got the medicine to Taylor (luckily, it was a minor episode) and immediately left the event. On the way home, we came to a final decision about no more babysitters. No fault of the sitters, it just didn't seem worth the headaches...and, besides, we missed the little knuckleheads more than we enjoyed whatever was coming up. So, we saved our worry and our money, figuring the day would come when we could more easily go out...alone. (Jessica did suggest I could babysit and she could start dating again but she was just kidding...I think.)

Our kids readily encourage our new efforts at a social life...after all, they have more active calendars than we do and, contrary to the Harry Chapin song, instead of "when you comin' home dad...I don't know when" it's more "when you gonna leave dad...you're still here again." There are a few glitches: until the boys have their licenses, we are on-call for pick-up and delivery to the jobs we urged them to get. I'm thinking of having a meter installed in my car...they're earning money they can afford taxi fare. And, speaking of money, it is a cruel twist that once you have the time to do things like go on a date with your spouse and the opportunity because your kids are old enough and the guilt-free mind-set because your children are happily involved in their own things...well, then you really can't afford it anymore. Although, with both older boys working, it has made my middle-of-the-night raids on their wallets more fruitful. I used to do it just to find a dollar to join the PowerBall collection at work...but now it may turn into a dating slush fund...or "hush" fund since I appropriate it while they are sleeping.

So, with no need for baby-sitters and cash at the ready, don't be surprised if you start to see me out and about with a beautiful woman and, if you ask me, "Who was that lady I saw you with last night?" I can honestly answer "That was no lady...that was my wife!"

Do you remember Jellybeans? Not the candy, the show. Jellybeans was a program for kids that was on KMBC several years ago. The star was a clown named ZAP! and he was surrounded by a bunch of early-grade-school age kids spread out on bleachers. They were divided into three teams: The Bananas...The Blueberries....The Red Team. (Apparently, those of us who worked on the show didn't think of apples, strawberries or, better yet, The Raspberries!) My job was to ask some general knowledge questions and the team with the correct answers would get to take a run at the obstacle course. Someone usually got slimed at some point during that portion of the show. Just the other day, as happens fairly often, a person came up to me and said "Hey, I was on Jellybeans!" The disconcerting thing about this encounter was that the friendly person was about eight feet tall, with a full beard and a voice like the brother, Robert, on Everybody Loves Raymond. Yes, I am old and the kids that were little on Jellybeans are now all grown up...and, it seems to me, most of them really are tall and a little intimidating...maybe there was something in that slime!

Just the same, it is a nice feeling to think that that old show is a part of some peoples' childhoods...like Whizzo is for an older generation of Kansas Citians. With a billion channels out there and programming designed for kids on the air anytime of day, it maybe hard for some younger folks to imagine how important and rare a kid's show was back in the olden times. I am talking about the times before even Sesame Street. When I was little, the PBS station was not even on the air most of the day and when it was it featured a guy with a crewcut, short-sleeved white shirt and skinny black tie explaining the water cycle using ice-cubes and a fan. On days he was feeling especially sporty, the TV instructor would create a volcano with vinegar and baking soda or baking powder...I can never remember which. Aside from a couple hours of Saturday morning cartoons and the skinny guy with a tie on PBS, the weekday battle for the hearts and minds of little kids came down to two shows going head to head at 3:30 p.m. Circus 3 with Cowboy Eddie and Marshall the Marshal.

Marshall the Marshal, or just The Marshall if you were a hip kid, featured a TV sportscaster dressed up like Wyatt Earp. In addition to doing sports, The Marshall also owned one of the most popular bar and grills on the University of Wisconsin campus in Madison. For that reason, my mom didn't really want me to watch his show...it was just a little too...gritty. In fact, I think his place was called The Nitty-Gritty. It sounds odd, now, but back then, it did seem like the tougher kids in the neighborhood watched The Marshall and the rest of us gravitated toward Cowboy Eddie.

Cowboy Eddie was a puppet. His human friend was named Howie Olson. The main feature of the show, Circus 3, was watching cartoons but the real reason we watched was Cowboy Eddie. It was a dream to think, some fine day, you'd actually get to be a part of the live, studio audience. But, that was a very tough ticket...if Madison in the 60s was Las Vegas today, then Eddie was Celine Dion. However, asking a boy made of wood to sing "My Heart Will Go On" seems a little cruel. Well, thanks to a friend who's dad once worked on the furnace of somebody at Channel 3, where they did the show, a bunch of us got to go to celebrate our pal's sixth birthday.
It was a hot, humid summer day as about a dozen of us piled into a stuffy station wagon for the thirty mile trip to the city. This was in the days before we all got smart about seat belts, so all of us just wedged into whatever space we could find...sweaty little kneecaps fighting for every inch. By the way, the car had "2-60 Air Conditioning" meaning open 2 windows and go 60.

At the studio, we were ushered onto bleachers and packed together like sardines. We also smelled like sardines, by this point. The order of events was as follows: Cowboy Eddie and Howie Olson welcomed everybody then introduced the first Popeye cartoon during which we were treated to Twinkies and strawberry shakes. (I gave mine to the kid next to me as I was, and remain, more a Ho-Hos and chocolate shake kind of guy. My seat-mate wolfed down his and mine in about five seconds flat.) After a commercial break, the camera started to move from kid to kid, in extreme close-up, to ask the question of the day. Remember, this was in the university town of Madison Wisconsin in the turbulent 1960s, so our question was: "Explain the Global Impact of Defense Secretary McNamara's policies in Southeast Asia on both Economic and Cultural Facets of Life." Okay, I made that up. The real question was "What's Your Favorite Animal?"

So, let me set the stage: it was a hot, muggy day and all of us kids had just rumbled over lots of hills on the way into town and were now seated in a sauna-like studio with hot lights beating down on us...the kid next to me was filled to the brim with Twinkies and strawberries and ice cream. He started to sound a little like an old lawn mower that won't quite start. As the camera got closer to me, I was in the midst of an intense internal debate over whether to answer the animal question honestly as in "dog" or be creative, "the red-bellied, flat-nosed jumping hyena." I never had the chance to answer the question. Just as I opened my mouth to answer, the kid next to me opened his and...well...to put this delicately...he turned my brand new Keds into stinky, old tennies. Cowboy Eddie, being a pro, immediately introduced the next cartoon and the mop brigade arrived.

According to a great writer in the Madison newspaper, Doug Moe, Eddie is returning to Madison for the 50th anniversary of Channel 3...his TV home. According to Mr. Moe, Eddie has been living in Florida the last few years and, as is often the case with celebrities, has had a little work done. By the way, that appearance on his show back then was my broadcast debut and, so far, it is the only time my shoes were so grossly violated on the air despite being told I make my co-workers and many viewers sick to their stomachs on a regular basis. I've also been told my performances are wooden but I take that as a tribute to my TV role model, The Legendary Cowboy Eddie.

Strange things happen in the middle of the night. Too often, they happen because of stupid things people do...or, to be more specific, stupid things I do.

Yesterday, I mentioned to my wonderful wife that the next time one of us is at the store we need to get lightbulbs because three different places in the house had gone dark. It bugs me when lightbulbs are out. Also, it is about the only household task I can do without catastrophic results. Once I was changing a washer on a faucet in the shower upstairs and ended up sending a stream of water down through the ceiling fan in the living room. If you turned the fan on it was like sitting in a full-service car-wash...add some music and you had the World Famous, Fabulous Dancing Waters!

So, I like to replace lightbulbs because, well, I can. I thought. Last night, after I had hit the hay, Jessica stopped at the store after picking up one of the boys at work. When I got up, there they were...ready to be installed, the bulbs not the boys. I like to use the word "installed" as it makes me feel more important and official. Everyone was asleep. No one needed the light at the moment. But, instead of waiting until I was home from work, I decided to run around and get them put in immediately.

So, how many weathermen does it take to screw in a light bulb? Three? One to do the deed...one to say there's a 30% chance it won't light and the other to flip the wrong switch and then blame the jet-stream when it doesn't work. Actually, in my case, it just took one. One very incompetent weatherman.

First, I climbed up on a stool and changed the one at the top of the staircase. Of course, as I balanced the removed globe fixture on one hand and put the old bulb in my mouth...then took the new bulb out of my pocket and screwed it in...I had visions of the stool slipping just slightly on the floor and me disappearing into the basement for the next several days. It didn't happen and I was feeling pretty good. All of a sudden changing the lightbulbs became a competition like on the old Beat the Clock game show. "If our contestant can change three light bulbs without breaking the bulbs or himself, and still get to work on time, he will win this beautiful luggage and a set of knives."

The next one was easy. I could reach it without getting up on anything but that seemed to be cheating so I stood on a pile of the Encyclopaedia Britannica just for the challenge of it.

That left just the one in the garage. I thought I would have to get the car out of the way and use a ladder but when I noticed that I should be able to reach the bulb by actually standing on the car, it was a no-brainer to give it a try. It was dark but I was up to the task. In my stocking-feet, wearing my suit...carrying my little brief-case filled with blank papers and Cheerios...I climbed up on top of my unassuming Ford Escort. As the car seemed to groan, I worked my way to a full-standing position...light bulb in one hand...brief-case between my legs....reaching to unscrew the old bulb with my free hand...all in the mostly dark...when I began to slide...not slip...but slide. I looked like a cross between Jean-Claude Killy and a platypus as I schussed all the way down the hood of the car and into the wall of the garage. I kept hearing the old Wide World of Sports open and Jim McKay saying "the agony of defeat."

But, I was not defeated. I climbed right back up on the car and put the bulb in...as the bright light hit my wide open eyes, I jumped in surprise because I am still amazed by and don't fully understand the concept of electricity, I guess. Anyway, I lost my footing and slid back down Mount Escort and into the same wall. Obviously, the three aforementioned bulbs aren't the only dim ones in my household.

Last Saturday I had the pleasure and honor of working the weekend evening shows with my long-time FirstNews partner, Maria Antonia. (Jim Flink was there, too, but nothing is perfect. Actually, it is fun to work with Mr. Flink as he, too, is a veteran of the early mornings. Clearly, nobody can stand to work with me for too long, although, Maria made the best run!) It was 1988 when FirstNews hit the air...the first morning news program in Kansas City. Originally, we went on the air for a half-hour at 6:30 a.m. In the early days, Maria and I really wondered if anyone was actually out there watching. Turns out a lot of you were...research indicated that increasing numbers tuned in when Maria was on screen and, then, used the weather portions of the show to get in the shower or get the kids out the door and on the bus...truly news you can use!

Over the weekend, we chatted a bit about things people still mention to us from those Jurassic Park days. For example, Maria found a little tadpole at the Brookside dime store with which she quickly became infatuated. She insisted it could clap it's little "hands." First of all, a tadpole with hands is pretty interesting all by itself but to use those hands to express pleasure! Well, now you're talking. As my dad used to say, "You can lead a horse to water but...if you can get him to float on his back, then you've got something!" We spent some considerable time with that little applauding creature. I'm not entirely sure what happened to that frog-to-be but I heard rumors he got an agent and was about to star in a sit-com for ABC, but the producers decided to go with a human instead and the legendary Urkel was born. He was so depressed he kept hanging around the parking lot of some fancy French restaurant trying a different way of getting a leg up in the world.

One of the best early FirstNews memories is named Betty-Cam. She had worked at KMBC for a long time when Maria and I started the morning news. At the time, before robotics, real live people ran the cameras and Betty ran ours in the morning. We didn't have any tower cameras or shots from NewsChopper Nine so we started talking about Betty-Cam. Much of the time she would get comfortable behind the camera and read steamy romance novels featuring Fabio on the covers. Every now and then, I would grab one of them and read aloud on the air..."As Renaldo pulled Saphira close...they could feel their hearts beating in time to music heard only in their own ears...'Oh Renaldo...take me...' she sighed. 'Of course, but where...I only have one bus fare'...." These were not the best books in the world, but, as Betty would tell me "Anything's better than listening to you!" Betty could tell more about approaching weather by the pains in her back and knees than any computer but it is hard to promote "First Alert Achey Joints" brought to you by Betty!

As Maria and I continued to wax nostalgic...which nostalgic didn't like one bit...she mentioned the frequent appearances of a little dog I used to have, named Jingles. Jingles, so named because he was a Christmas present from someone not really a friend, was a Dachshund-Chihuahua mix and seemed to have inherited the idiosyncrasies of both breeds. I used him in a lot of feature stories...once he played the parts of lion and lamb for a story about that March adage...for Halloween, he'd be a black cat. We had a tiny budget. He had a bit of "small-dog syndrome" and would occasionally allow his inner werewolf to surface. He could be fierce. Once, while doing a feature story at my house, our FirstNews photographer at the time, Jeff Roberts had to knock on our door. Now, Jeff is a big, strong, fearless guy but Jingles didn't care. He attacked. To this day...many years later...Jeff still has flashbacks of those shining little pin-needle sharp teeth lunging for his kneecaps.

In the Maria days of FirstNews, we visited New York, Branson, Strawberry Hill, Liberty, Blue Springs, Olathe and all points in between. We did holiday specials on the Plaza and it was always 50 below wind-chill. I even remember my audition for the job. I sat down on the news-set with Maria, who was already a respected and well-liked journalist in town, they turned on the cameras and we just talked. One of the stories they showed for us to discuss was the infamous "squirrel-on-water-skis" piece. I've seen variations on that theme dozens of times since and it always reminds me of the fun Maria and I had on FirstNews.

Now, don't feel bad for Jim Flink. I would like nothing better than to recall all the good times we had together during his FirstNews tenure but so much of it is still subject to law-suits and litigation I can only say "No comment."

Congratulations to the Gish Family! Jere and Barb are the proud parents of Kate Marie. Jack is the happy new brother. Kate arrived Sunday afternoon...just a few days early. For a member of the FirstNews family, EARLY is standard operating procedure, so Kate is a perfect fit.

When I hear of a new arrival, it naturally reminds me of the four times my wife, Jessica, and I went through the big delivery day. I was out on a story about something going on at the Kansas City Public Library when the photojournalist I was with, Rafael Segura, got a beep on his pager. (I had no cell phone...that was still a rather exclusive sort of technology.) My wife called the newsroom to say it was time. She was watching a morning repeat of The Jeffersons when Alex decided he wanted to be movin' on...well, not up, exactly...but out. Jessica was very calm and, frankly, so was I. In fact, as I began to head home to take her to the hospital, it was only about three miles before I realized I'd forgotten the car. First babies can be lurky...meaning they do things at their own pace. It took a long time for Alex to finally arrive. I was trying to remember all the delivery training we'd gone through and felt I probably should have paid more attention to the coaching duties and less attention to the tray of donuts in the lobby. I did remember to encourage Jessica to breathe. She, in turn, encouraged me to stop breathing...and do a few other things I think are, actually, physically impossible. Alex was vocal from the start...crying loudly until I held him and whispered "Welcome to the world, buddy." He quieted down immediately, marking the first and last time he actually listened to his father.

Our second boy, Taylor, was almost "walked" into the world. Again, I was doing a story with photographer, Rafael Segura. I think Rafael actually qualified for OB/GYN status by this time around. We were at Watkins Mill State Park up near Kearney doing a story about this great resource. Jessica and Alex, now a year old, decided to come along for a walk. After a beautiful day of strolling around the park we got home and it was clear that Taylor was ready. He was a little faster to get here because, I think, he wanted to avoid another nature hike. Taylor, who's arrival was urged on by a day spent outdoors, surrounded by trees, water, frogs, rabbits, is, by far, the least interested today, in being outside. He even avoids windows. His idea of camping is the period of time it takes to run from the car to the hotel lobby. Maybe he associates the sounds of nature with the odd, probably uncomfortable, moments that arrived after his pre-delivery Watkins Mill adventure.

For child number three, Samantha, I was actually on the air...doing FirstNews with guest co-host, Kris Ketz. Jessica called me on the set to say she thought I should come home after the show and head to the hospital. I hung up the phone and mentioned to Kris that I'd be leaving after the show so we...my wife and I...could have our baby. Now, this was the third time around and Jessica knew the routine and even I had become fairly calm with the process. It was Kris who reacted with the most energy and anxiety..."GO NOW! JUST GO! YOU NEED TO BE THERE IN TIME!" I explained that we had some time, yet...but Kris was insistent and excited. I helped him breathe through the contractions and gave him some ice-chips...after we got Kris' IV hooked up, I felt safe in leaving him. Meanwhile, Samantha was an easy delivery (those are Jessica's words, not mine...I may not have learned much over the years but I do know a man must never pretend he knows if a delivery was easy or hard or anything in between...just stay out of the way and agree with everything) and happy baby from the start. She also seemed to talk from the moment she hit the air and hasn't stopped hardly at all for the last 13 years.

It was a quiet Friday night at home when Harrison decided to say hello. With three kids, it wasn't really quiet but we were at home, as usual. Jessica and I were playing Scrabble. I knew something was up when all of her words were along the lines of "ouch" and "pain" and "I" and "need" and "a" and "giant" and "sedative." (The last word got her the 50 extra bonus points for using all the letters and an automatic win for tossing the board 18 feet in the air.) Harrison was not too long in lingering and there we were...four kids. I believe that when there is one baby and two parents, mom and dad are already vastly outnumbered. With four, you just hope they will take pity on you every now and then.

I should mention that all four were early, like Kate Marie Gish. However, we've been late for everything ever since.

Forget the calendar. It is definitely summer. I know because of the nocturnal activity in my house. As I mentioned in a previous blog, I get up around 2:00 a.m. and, during the school year, my early morning is a solitary time. The quiet and solitude is rare in a house full of kids and dogs. About the only interaction I have with a living creature, most mornings, is when our ancient dog opens one eye as I leave...she chuckles as I open the door. Yes, she chuckles and, if she had one of those little comic strip bubbles over her head, it would say "What a sap! There he goes...middle of the night...off to work while I continue my usual routine of 23 hours of sleep interrupted only long enough to eat."

Well, that's what happens during the school year, but that was over as of Wednesday. Now, with no early wake-up call, my children have taken their usual starring roles in the summer-time production of Night of the Living Dad. They are up and stirring around all the time. Like having giant mice scurrying from room to room...if mice carried cell phones, channel changers and Game-boys. Now, to be fair, my daughter was sound asleep...true, her head was resting on a half-eaten bowl of pop-corn...but she was asleep. Probably dreaming of eating a huge kernel of pop-corn...if her pillow is missing when she wakes up, we'll know what happened. My youngest son was, truth be told, asleep but not in his bed. He was on the sofa downstairs, snoring...one hand on the remote and the other still playing a video game.

It was the older boys...the teenagers...who were still totally awake. One had just taken a shower. I know because the light in the bathroom was still on, steam billowing out into the hall and I had to use waders to approach the door. Fortunately, I got in a little trout fishing before work...at least, I hope they were trout. The newly-cleaned one was sitting in the kitchen eating cereal...Snap, Crackle and "Hi Pop!" Not all of the cereal made the bowl so the floor made it seem like walking on baby bubble-wrap. Apparently, the cereal was just one course, as I also saw cheesy whales flopping around...the breakfast of champions.

Meanwhile, in the basement, the oldest boy was fiddling with his new cell phone. He just got one, after years of asking. He claimed to be setting up his voice mail and familiarizing himself with the unit...at two in the morning. Of course, earlier in the day I found him text messaging all his friends telling them he wasn't allowed to use text messaging. Just about everybody signing his yearbook included a version of the following: "Get yourself a cell-phone!" So, I suspect he has a lot of catching up to do. When I was his age...about 1976 B.C., that is Before Cells...one family in town actually had a separate phone line for their kids. They were our version of the Rockefellers. They owned the hardware store. Now, individual kids have their own numbers. Parents consider it a safety issue. But, for my son, it is all about independence. Let's see if he's as enthusiastic about being his own man, when I hand him his share of the monthly mobile phone bill. He'll probably refer me to his voice mail...that he was setting up this morning.

Needless to say, the two older nightcrawlers will be sawing logs when I get home from work. But, I think there are some chores to do...time to get up, boys, and get moving...wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey...rise and shine...good moooorrrrning, Kansas City. When I was growing up there was an orange juice called "Beep." I don't know why it had that name, but, to gently wake us up, my mom would stand at the foot of the stairs and almost sing "Beep...Beep....Beep." My mother the car. Well, big boys...up all night...acting cool...turning the bathroom into the Everglades and kitchen into a Rice Krispie Treat on steroids...racking up charges on the cell phone like you are actually related to the "Can you hear me now" guy...covering the channel changer with sleep drool (wait, that was me, never mind)... forcing me to converse at 2:00 a.m...."BEEP! BEEP!"

Last week I talked a little about the last days of school being upon us. Up in Polo, Missouri, where I visited yesterday, they've been out of school for about a week but have jumped right into summer school. Everyone was wonderful with great questions and comments. In addition to a t-shirt and other goodies, I left town with a jar of principal-produced prized Polo Panther Pickles! One girl, the school secretary's daughter, said she was already a little bored with summer so she came to work with her mom. I can't help but think that, after seeing my presentation, her summer has nowhere to go but up in the excitement department. Thanks to all the friendly folks at Polo Summer School!

As for my kids, yesterday was it. They celebrated in a variety of ways: one played sand volleyball. He apparently had a good time since he brought home much of the court in his shoes, hair, ears and clothes. His room now resembles a giant litter box and he has taken to calling himself Garfield. I hope that is the extent of his cat-like behavior...although he could take care of a few mouse problems. (Like the old joke: "Doctor, my brother thinks he's a chicken...we'd tell him otherwise, but we need the eggs.") The other high-schooler went from school to a friend's house for a video-game extravaganza. They also walked over to a store for some so-called lunch...assuming the food pyramid has been redesigned to encourage as much sweet, salty and carbonated intake as humanly possible. The youngest two met mom for an after-school dip before coming home to see me...another after-school dip.

Before meeting the kids at the pool, my wife acknowledged the end of school by shopping for summer-time clothes. Every year she has to replenish our flip-flop supply...you know those little plastic or foam sandal-type things that you wear to a pool. For whatever reason, with six people in the household, that's 12 total feet , by the end of summer, we have six flip-flops left...all of them for the left foot. Once, on vacation, we walked into a little bakery. I slipped and one of the flip-flops...the right one, naturally...went flying through the air. It landed squarely in the pastry dough being worked on behind the counter. Yes, we left that baker with a thong in his tart. (A long way to go for that sorry punch-line.)

On her shopping trip, she also found some shirts for the boys. They are not particularly choosy since everything ends up wadded in a ball on the floor of their closet and they wear the same ensemble everyday, anyway. Our daughter is a bit more of a challenge as we, the parents, are convinced she is still five while she insists she is 13. Such a liar! I also got a couple casual shirts guaranteed to make me look like a tourist no matter where I go...that way I feel like I am on vacation without the expense. I just wish my wife would quit reminding me that check-out time is 11:00 a.m. (Am I missing some hidden message, there?)

Once the kids were home, it was time for the ceremonial dumping of the backpacks. All kinds of things come rolling out. Papers, pencils, folders, empty containers...I am pretty sure the cow on the Elmer's Glue bottle was teary-eyed. (When I was a kid, we used more paste than glue, and it was always gone by the end of school. A kid that sat next to me loved paste...especially with chunks of eraser sprinkled liberally throughout...like little red croutons. Interestingly, he never actually ate his real lunch on days we were working with paste. I think he is a chef in some high-class eatery, today.) Often we will find brown, paper bags holding what was once a lunch. Yesterday, I swear, an old cheese and bologna sandwich had mutated into a self-sustaining organism. At least, that's what he told me as he walked out of the back-pack on his newly sprouted hind-legs.

My youngest son always seems to end the year with a bigger, better box of crayons than he started with. I figured it was just a mistake of grabbing them out of the wrong desk or cubbyhole, but it may be more serious than that: yesterday he also had the keys to a brand new Lexus.

The pile of left-overs and hidden treasures will now sit in the middle of their bedroom floors until they are sorted out...about the second week of August. Just in time for it to start all over again.