This is a short story about a long life.

Almost 15 years ago, my wife, Jessica, and I settled in to watch Silence of the Lambs on television. As with most movies, when you have little kids, we had never seen it in the theater. Even if you've never seen this grisly tale about Hannibal Lechter, you've probably heard plenty. After the movie, Jessica turned to me and said "We're getting a dog." I mentioned that we already had one: Jingles, a Dachshund/Chihuahua mix. "I mean a bigger dog.," she replied. "Unless an intruder has unusually sensitive ankles, Jingles won't make the grade." So, the next day we headed over to the animal shelter. Originally, we went there because we saw an ad for a dog that seemed to fit the bill. However, when we arrived, the first dog was a little uneasy around our toddler-size boys so we decided to pass. As we were leaving, I made eye contact with another pooch. She was not a very pretty pup. In fact, she was not a puppy at all. She was about medium size...some German Shepherd but, mostly, who knows what. We took her outside to see how she reacted to the kids. It seemed a perfect fit. We took her.

As it turned out, we were her last chance. She had been a stray for much of her first year of life before getting caught and taken to the shelter. She was adopted once but returned. This was back when many shelters had only a limited amount of time they could hold onto a dog and our choice had several strikes against her. Frankly, it was easy to look past her and notice only the cute, cuddly little puppies in the next pen. Having been adopted and returned once already didn't help her odds either. The thing that had kept her around was her very sweet temperament. The good-hearted workers at the shelter just loved her and, against policy, had kept her in the running for a home past the deadline.

On the way home, we asked the boys to name the new arrival. I was reading a book about Richard Nixon at the time and mentioned that he'd had a dog named Checkers made famous in a speech that saved his position on the Eisenhower ticket back in the 50s. The boys ignored most of what I said, a talent they have honed to perfection as teenagers, but latched onto the name Checkers. Her time on the streets had made her deathly afraid of thunder and loud trucks but I always got the sense she would defend the kids at any cost. She seemed to understand that our house was her last, best hope and she made a point of quietly fitting in from day one.

Checkers got along fine with the aforementioned Jingles, who was rather autocratic in his rule, anyway. Later, when we got a Golden Retriever puppy, it was Checkers who taught the new recruit the ropes and did it very well. She loved the snow and the cold. She loved to eat. She loved to take walks. She was amazingly attentive to the kids. When our daughter was a baby, Checkers was often the first to hear the little one wake up and go in her room to make sure all was well. She didn't like cameras so she rarely showed up on TV with me (she probably knew better!) or, even, in many photographs around home. We do have one from a long-ago Winters day where Grandpa is pushing the boys down a little hill on a sled. Checkers is right there...on top of the situation...making sure her boys are okay.

In the last year or so, Checkers still took walks...just shorter ones with the younger kids. She still ate all her food and looked for any snacks you'd be willing to share. She loved to go outside and sniff around. As her hearing and eyesight diminished, her sense of smell seemed to get more acute. Most of the time, she would curl up in front of the bookshelves and snooze. Every now and then, she'd look up to make sure we were all there and okay, smile (yes, like my mom, I firmly believe dogs smile)...then go back to sleep.

Anyone who has a pet, knows that there is a pretty good chance that, at some point, you may need to make a tough decision about what is best for your furry friend. Sometime back, I mentioned to my wife, that I had a feeling Checkers would not force us to make that choice. She'd spent her whole life being easy-going...a perfect member of the family. I thought she'd probably make it a little easier for us, even at the end, and go out on her own terms, in her own time. Well, on Friday, after at least 15 years of life, she did exactly that. Quietly, and with no little amount of dignity, she moved on.

Thanks, Checkers, for everything.

Hello and thanks to everyone at Safety Village in Butler, Missouri. For many years, now, I have had the pleasure of visiting with the kids, staff and parents attending a summer camp with a twist: it's a place young folks learn all about staying safe. It is also great to drive through such a wonderful town. Safety Village, by the way, is the result of lots of hard work and dedication by the Butler Optimist Club.

I have a soft spot for the Optimists. When I was a kid, our next door neighbor, Mr. Moely, was an Optimist...both the club and disposition. His own sons were grown and lived several hours away, so for the Father/Son luncheon, one year, he invited me. It was my first formal, adults-present, luncheon. So, I spent the morning shining my shoes. We had a little shoe-shine kit with brushes, polish, rags. Every house I ever visited as a child had such a collection. Today, I think shining shoes at home may be a lost art. So many tennis shoes and canvas shoes and sandals. But, there was a time a kid was responsible for making sure his Sunday shoes were shined...a Saturday night ritual. Well, the Optimist meeting was on a Tuesday, so I broke with tradition and shined my shoes, anyway. I worked hard and, eventually, could almost see myself in the gleaming, artificial leather. Of course, my knuckles were a dark brown and the underside of my fingernails would have been inviting for nightcrawlers, but the shoes were outstanding. Mr. Moely and I had a great time. I enjoyed the bell ringing and handshaking and, occasional, dollar-bill collecting that went on over the course of the meeting. I felt pretty important when Mr. Moely introduced me to the other movers and shakers at the luncheon. Undoubtedly, they would all see my amazing talents and abilities and my future would be set...such was the power of the Optimists, in my mind. I wasn't too far off...the club, like in Butler, did do terrific things for young people in our community.

For example, they sponsored the Optimist Oratorical Contest, which I entered in middle school. My dad was big into Norman Vincent Peale and the Power of Positive Thinking at the time. (Around this same time, against his direct instruction, I tried to disassemble my bunk beds, causing the top one to nearly fall on me and shaking the whole house. As my dad raced up the stairs to find me with a half a bunk on the floor, I said "Let's look at this in a positive, optimistic way!" He was certainly positive about how much trouble I was in and optimistic about the lack of fun headed my way in the immediate future.) Anyway, he urged me to enter the competition and, use as my topic: enthusiasm. Or, I should say ENTHUSIASM!!!! He had a little red pamphlet from Dr. Peale all about the subject and figured a group called Optimists would go for it. I wrote the speech and then practiced it over and over. Finally, the big day came to deliver the goods. I gave it all I had...I was practically bouncing off the salad bar, I was so up up up. I was so perky, even Katie Couric would've gotten a little nauseated. I wrapped up my three and half minute oration and took a seat. The other participants did their pathetic little chats and, then, it was time for the results. Well, I didn't win. Or get second. Or get third. I did get honorable mention. There were four of us in the running, by the way. My dad took it well. He immediately founded the Pessimists Club and challenged the Optimists to a mud-wrestling match.

The last time I was at my hometown's Optimist Club, I was doing the weather on a TV station in nearby Madison, Wisconsin. They invited me to make a speech about weather and television. I was happy and proud to do it, feeling a little full of myself...local boy makes good, kind of stuff. When I completed my rousing address they still only gave me an honorable mention on the presentation and one, long-time, member made a point of checking to see if my knuckles and fingernails were cleaner this time around. I thought about contacting what was left of my dad's Pessimists Club but they had disbanded because the members had long ago decided that nothing good would ever come out of the organization.

Yesterday's clouds, coolish temperatures and occasional raindrops were welcome by most folks but I did receive an e-mail from a viewer who had taken his motorcycle to work based on my forecast of a "slight" chance of rain. Now, in my own shaky defense, I will say that not everyone got rain and, for most who did, it was less than a tenth of an inch. I don't want to sound like just another over-sensitive, hyper-defensive weatherperson but "Waaahhh. Quit being so mean to me....Waaahhh. This is a hard job. Waaaah." There, now that that's out of my system...I did send an e-mail to the biker, apologizing for his soggy ride. Maybe his disappointment would be less, if he knew that, at one time, I, too, rode a cycle. It wasn't really a Hog...more of a piglet.

When I moved to Las Vegas at the age of 18, the insurance rates to have a car in that city, at that age, were out of sight for someone working as a front desk clerk at the only hotel in town with not even a slot machine. (We weren't exactly a hot-bed of activity. The Rat Pack never hung out there but we did have a guy in a brown jump suit that came by everyday for soup and a hot dog in the coffee shop. Sometimes he'd whistle Fly Me To The Moon. He was our regular.) Anyway, I bought a red scooter. The helmet I wore was bigger than the vehicle itself. I looked more like an old Atom Ant than a young Marlon Brando, as I tooled off to work each day. Once, after riding for a couple weeks, I got a little full of myself. I saw a pot-hole ahead and, instead of going around, I decided to do an Evel Knievel. When I was growing up, Evel was always jumping something...a row of cars...a line of busses...the Grand Canyon....Orson Welles. So, I actually stopped the scooter, got off, took a little piece of wood from the side of the road and a couple of rocks to create a ramp. Then, I leaped back on and gunned it. I must have reached about 25 miles per hour as I hit the ramp. Up...up...up I flew. I swear I heard Chuck Yeager cheering for me. I almost made it. Almost. The back tire came down hard in the pot-hole and stopped the bike completely. I did not stop, completely or any other way. Forget Atom Ant, Brando, or Evel...now I was Underdog. Flying through the air and coming to rest on a pile of gravel to the side of the street. I wasn't hurt. Nobody saw it. My dignity was intact but the same could not be said for my suit. I arrived at work looking rather tattered. Fortunately, the desk clerk I was relieving was old Roy. He worked overnight and, by morning, didn't pay any attention to anyone...except the folks to whom he would make the wake-up calls. Ever since one woman had told Roy he had an attractive voice, he had taken the wake-up call duty very seriously. He was the Robert Goulet of "Good morning...here's your wake-up call. Grrrrrrr." In any case, he didn't notice my condition. (This story is particularly ironic when you consider that, later today, I am a guest speaker at Butler, Missouri's "Safety Village!" I will be the example of what not to do, I guess.)

In my Las Vegas days, I also took my scooter to see shows. It was always fun to pull up to, say, the Sands to see Tony Bennett, and have the valet park my little red friend. Usually, they just let me stow it next to their booth or stand. One guy would always ask if the leader of my "gang" was Strawberry Shortcake or if I ever got into a rumble with toughs from Romper Room. I never had to tip them because they all said the chuckle they got watching me arrive and depart was payment enough.

The little, red scooter stayed behind when I left Las Vegas, but I still have fond memories of speeding along the highways and byways at an average speed of 15 mph...wind whistling through my helmet...bugs splattering on my teeth...dogs laughing too hard to chase me. Yes, those days are behind me but, rest assured, if Strawberry Shortcake ever gets into a tight spot, I'll be there.

This morning, on FirstNews, we had a story about how people feel about certain jobs. Not surprisingly, firefighters, nurses and teachers, came out on top in the "most-respected" category. Least respected: chubby, increasingly gray-headed weathermen who pretend to be writers by using the cyber-scribbling known as blogging. The survey got me thinking...no small achievement...about what kids say they want to be when they grow up. When I was little and adults would ask me "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I would always answer "Taller." I was serious. I had three big brothers who seemed like giants and my greatest wish was to be able to look down on them. Today, I am taller than two of them but all three still look down on me. I am actually 5'10 and 3/4 inches. I was 5'11" until, on Christmas Eve when I was 20, in trying to create a toboggan run for my nieces and nephews, I slid head-first into a tree. I actually saw little birdies and stars...just like Wile E. Coyote used to in the cartoons. Not only did that make me shorter, but it may explain some other behaviors and traits. Anyway, even at a little above 5'10", it means I'm of average height, according to another survey I saw recently. However, around KMBC, I am very much below average...in height and pretty much any other measure. Larry Moore is 8 feet tall. Len Dawson, 8'3". Bryan Busby, 7'11". Lara Moritz, amazingly, is over nine feet tall. Jim Flink is really only around 6'1" but add the hair and he shoots up to 7'3". I may be a little off on those numbers, after all, you've seen my weather forecasts, but that's how it seems. Sort of like when the thermometer says 90 but the heat index, the feels-like temperature, is 100. For me, around Channel 9, the Height Index is always about eight feet. But, as usual, I have strayed from the point of this story. Blame it on the toboggan debacle.

Back to jobs. At the age of three, I had a red, cardboard suitcase and a beat-up Bing Crosby-esque golf hat. I would put on the hat, grab the suitcase and go door-to-door, pretending to be an insurance salesman. The other kids were playing cops and robbers or, in that politically incorrect age, cowboys and Indians and I was asking Mrs. Rodencal if she'd like whole life or universal coverage. My parents drew the line when I wanted to get a bunch of calendars made up at the holidays. So, I guess, that was my first consideration of what I wanted to be as an adult. It actually came true, in a way, since, doing the weather, I am often just selling a bill of goods.

The oldest boy, Alex, wanted to be the Red Power Ranger for awhile. Then, last year as he became a Junior in high school, he decided to look for a fall-back profession just in case the super hero thing didn't pan out. I do picture him, years from now, looking longingly at the Red Power Ranger costume he wore for Halloween, once upon a time, and wondering "What if..."

As for Taylor, ever since he could talk, people have told him he should be a lawyer. He will argue any side of any issue for any amount of time. His theme song should be the tune Groucho Marx sang: "Whatever it is...I'm AGAINST it!" He can verbally turn on a dime, if need be. When he and his older brother were little, they pronounced their own names "Altie" for Alex and "Tootie" for Taylor. (They continued to do so until we were threatened with a lawsuit by the producers of The Facts of Life.) One time, "Tootie" proudly pointed to a lovely design rendered in bold Crayon strokes on the once-perfectly white walls of our living room. The conversation with mom went like this:

Tootie: "Look! Look! Look what Tootie did!"
Mom: "That's very naughty. We don't draw pictures on the walls."
Tootie, somberly: "Altie did it."

Next case, your honor.

Samantha wants to be a neonatologist or an emergency room physician or a lawyer...sing a little, on the side...ride horses...have children...live in New York and Branson and Wisconsin....all before 10:00 tomorrow morning. If anyone has the energy to do it all...it's Samantha. The neonatology thing has been floating around her brain since she was about five or six, when she wrote a letter to the president of Harvard Medical School asking what she should study in order to be ready for college. He sent a very nice reply. When I was five or six, I still had trouble getting my clothes on right-side out.

As for the youngest boy, Harrison. He's mentioned a few things but is in no hurry to grow up and face those decisions. For now, he'll drink his chocolate milk...watch some TV...go as many days as possible without having to actually put on anything but PJs. I guess he gets his ambition gene from his father...who, even at this stage of the game would, mostly, just like to be taller.

When I was first approached about writing this blog, after everyone else in the newsroom had indicated they had real work to do and just couldn't, the idea was that I would let you know about upcoming events I was involved in or schools I had visited. For example, last week I was in Spring Hill at KYDZ Inc., which is a great child-care facility. The day before that was Fort Discovery in Independence. Both places had the kids learning and laughing through the steamy 100+ degree days. Thank you to all the wonderful teachers, staffers and kids at both spots.

Now, in keeping with the original idea of "what's up with Joel," as if anyone really wants to know such a thing, I must inform you that yesterday...I got a haircut. I have a great barber, Jim, in a great, old-fashioned barbershop, filled with lots of magazines and good conversation. Jim always has something going on. This summer he and his family have had reunions from the Black Hills to Colorado. He's also a car buff and is busy with shows all over the country. I always feel like a complete slacker after hearing from Jim. He runs through the long list of places he's been and things he's done since the last haircut and then asks what I've been up to, to which I reply, feebly, "Well, I had some string cheese last Monday and watched a very special episode of Full House."

Yesterday, I asked Jim to "only cut the gray ones." He replied that he didn't think I'd want my hair that short. I've also been told, in the shop, that I have "Audubon" hair...as in the Audubon Society. I thought that meant my hair is a great natural resource worth conserving. I was wrong. I have Audubon hair as in "Audubon on a dog." Jim told me yesterday that he has had some of his customers for over 45 years now...including the first guy whose hair he ever cut when he came to town. I remarked that certainly shows high customer satisfaction. Jim said he thinks it just means those guys are hoping the haircut will eventually be done right. For the record, my haircut is always done right.

The barbershop I go to now, reminds me of the barbershop I used growing up. Originally, my mom cut my hair and she did a fine job. The only problem would be if a good dance number popped up on the radio during the haircut. You haven't lived until your hair has been cut while the "cutter" is doing the polka. I'm relieved we never heard a tango or I may have ended up looking like Charo. I sometimes worried about my mom cutting my hair because I had heard a story from her high-school years: She took a "friend" out in a boat with the promise to give her, the friend, a special hair style just in time for the big dance. The girl came back with no eyebrows and my mom was crowned Homecoming Queen. To be fair, I always ended up with my eyebrows but my ear lobes used to be significantly longer. At a certain point, my mom decided I needed to go to the barbershop for haircuts and so I began to ride my bike down to Gordy's Barbershop.

The fragrance of hair gel and shampoo still brings back good memories. That's one reason I knew I had found the right place for a haircut when we moved here so many years ago...it just smelled right. You could read from hunting, fishing and golf magazines or comic books. There was even one of those racier magazines face down and locked in the display case along with combs and tonic. In all the years I went there, I don't think I ever saw anyone read it. It would have been just too embarrassing to ask and, you never knew when the pastor or priest might wander in for a trim. If you sat still, Gordy would hand you a piece of Juicy Fruit as you left the chair. He'd also say "Well, if it's too short, I can take a little more off." The truth is, on a least one occasion, my mom did think he'd cut it a little too short. She even called and told him so...saying he had eliminated "all the natural wave." Gordy replied that the so-called "natural wave" was really just the ridges, knots and bumps on my skull and the shorter cut showed those off even better. I think he was onto something since, that day, I was chased home by a crazed band of rogue phrenologists.

The too-long, too-short disputes cropped up very rarely and, so, I got my hair cut by Gordy from grade school until we moved to Kansas City. (Every now and then, my sister-in-law, who is also a fine hair stylist, would do the job. Once, just for fun, she gave me an impermanent perm...back when it seemed like everyone wanted hair like Mike Brady. I came out looking like a used Brillo pad.) Gordy even gave our youngest son his very first haircut many years ago and still cuts all our hairy heads whenever we are back to visit. Everyone still gets Juicy Fruit. Samantha, too, even without getting a hair cut.

My oldest son's first haircut was with a local barber, north of the river. I made a feature story out of it for the news and used the Roy Orbison classic Crying as mood music. He was a little uncertain about losing that hair. To this day, he tears up when heading for the barbershop. You'd think, with four kids, we would have had some horror story about one child chopping the hair off another but that never really happened. I think Taylor once tried to cut his own bangs but that was for logistical reasons...he wanted to see clearly as he smacked his older brother with a Power Rangers Action Figure. We let Taylor's hair grow pretty long when he was little because it was so...well...pretty. If he every finds the photos of himself dressed up like Shirley Temple, I'm sure we'll be sued or invited on Dr. Phil.

For a time, in a money-saving effort, we tried to cut the boys' hair, ourselves. We bought an electric clipper and went to work. The first attempt left us with what looked like Mr. T nesting dolls. From then on, whenever we got the clippers out, the boys would vanish. Even the dogs would disappear. I considered one of those Flowbees from the informercials, but, my wife was fearful that I would put it on the wrong setting and actually leave the kids looking hairier than when I started. I volunteered to use it on myself first, but, she said, I have enough going against me in the looks department without putting the Flowbee on overdrive and ending up with a head resembling shredded wheat.

Before I finish up this hair-curling tale, I should let you in on a little twist. Remember, the occasional disputes my mom would have with Gordy, the barber? Well, many, many years later, she got even. She married him. That'll teach him to cut my hair too short!

Having been born a Scandinavian/German/Lutheran in Wisconsin, it was almost required that I drink and enjoy coffee. Well, not just enjoy but crave...insist on...lust for...coffee. I mean no disrespect when I say that at St. John's Lutheran Church, drinking coffee before and after the service was given nearly sacramental status. We called it "Fellowship" but that's just ministerial short-hand for "Could you pass the sugar cubes, please?" These were the days before Latte Mocha Mucho Milky el Grande Venusian De-caf or any of those fancy, schmancy brews. Where I grew up you had Butternut and Folgers, with caffeine, and you drank it black. If someone even asked about cream, you knew he was new to the area and would probably not make it through the first winter day, which could be around September 5.

Everyone I knew drank coffee. Every house had a coffee pot on the stove. Not a coffee-maker. A pot. Made of gray tin. As a toddler, I used to steal ours and use it as a robot or the Tin Man. Actually, I was a Freshman before I stopped doing that...Freshman in college. Coffee was generally thought to be an adult drink although I knew a kid my age that loved the stuff. We all had dogs and cats and rabbits for pets, he had a pack mule loaded down with bags of beans. In high school, we all had that poster of Farrah Fawcett on the wall, he had one of Juan Valdez...disturbingly, wearing the same red bathing suit. He claimed he drank a couple of cups of coffee every morning and we believed him. He was the only kid in class who could play dodge ball all by himself.

I thought I knew about coffee's allure until I met my wife and her family. They have really taken the art and science of drinking coffee to a new level. They can discuss beans and brand-names, thermoses (thermi?) and insulated cups like some folks talk wine. When coffee gets spilled on the carpet or in the car, it is not cause for concern but an opportunity to engage in a game of Name The Splotch...sort of a highly-caffeinated Rorschach test. Their favorite public figure is "Coffee" Anan. Their favorite TV show is the BBC's Mr. Bean. They love movies like Jurassic Perk, The French Roast Connection, Some Like it Hot. My father-in-law's favorite poet is Robert Frost and, especially "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I took the one...that led to Starbucks." All of our kids and their cousins have the middle name "Java." They like their coffee. Nirvana would be something like having an endless coffee klatch in a coffee house near a large coffee mill with a bit of coffee cake while sitting near a coffee table under a coffee tree reading a coffee-table book. I was already doing weather on TV in Wisconsin when I met my wife-to-be, Jessica, so some of her cousins, aunts and uncles had accidentally watched me once. They warned Jessica's parents that I was "full of beans." They misunderstood that to mean I owned a coffee shop and that's why they initially approved of my courting their daughter.

Imagine their disappointment when they found out that, not only did I not own a roastery, I didn't even drink the stuff. WHAT?!? Yes, it was true. They tried to enroll me in a program, held, appropriately, downstairs at the church:

Me :"Hello. My name is Joel and I don't drink coffee."

The Group: "Hi, Joel."

The Counselor: "So, Joel, how is it that you, from Wisconsin...a Lutheran...never took up the beautiful bean?"

Me: "Well, I always liked the smell of it but the taste just never interested me. It wasn't really a conscious decision...it just happened."

The Group: "Sure, Joel."

The Counselor: "Okay. Admitting the problem is the first step. Let's focus on the heavenly aroma and go from there. I think by next month at this time you will be hoisting a mug full of the strongest brew available."

Me: "I'm sorry but I don't really want to drink coffee. I'm okay with water...chocolate milk, now and then."

The Group: "We're going to hurt you, Joel."

The Counselor: "Now, group, let's be patient with Joel. Clearly, his sleepy inner child is crying out for love and understanding. We need to show him that the best part of waking up IS Folgers in his cup...even if we have to force it down his throat. Let's all step out for a fresh cup and let Joel think about this."

With that, they locked me in the church basement.

It wasn't just coffee that I eschewed as a teenager. I didn't drink soda-pop, either. I wanted to because it just seemed easier to handle on trips and picnics. When a new soda would come on the scene, I'd think "maybe this is the one!" I had high hopes for Mr. Pibb. Dashed. There was a pop machine in town that had orange soda, a lemon-lime drink called Sundrop and, best of all, ice-cold chocolate milk in a bottle! That was a little bit of paradise for a non-pop drinker like me. My decision to forego drinking soda was not because my mom forbid it. She liked her Coca-Cola. In fact, many nights, we'd find her, sound asleep, holding hands with us and warbling "I'd like to teach the world to sing...." She did prevent me from eating peanuts for fear of choking. Just a couple years ago, in Branson, at a show, I was passing some peanuts down the aisle to someone else and my mom slapped them out of my hand. "I've told you...no nuts...you could choke. Now, go buy my a Coke." No, I passed on soda because the carbonation frightened me. Something about bubbles. Blowing bubbles...terrifying. Bubble gum...no thanks. (I was sure Bazooka Joe had it in for me.) Don't even ask me about Mr. Bubble. When I first saw Hitchcock's Psycho, I just assumed Mr. Bubble had attacked that woman in the shower. In Wisconsin, water fountains are called "bubblers," which prevented me from ever getting a drink from one. No soda. No coffee. (I also didn't wear blue jeans until I was out of college but that's another story.)

When I started doing early morning television, my wife assumed I would start drinking coffee but I resisted. Then, one chilly, winter day, my wife said, to no one in particular, "I sure wish I had someone to share a hot cup of coffee with on a cold day...it would be so cozy and romantic." Being a sensitive, compassionate husband, and, having grown accustomed to sleeping indoors, I folded. She prepared a cup of hazelnut with just the right amount of half & half. I will admit it: delicious. I was hooked. For many afternoons I'd have coffee. Then, I HAD to have coffee. If I skipped a day, my head would start to pound like a man wearing a towel on the wrong side of a locked hotel room door. Finally, I decided I had to quit drinking coffee, which I did after enduring the haziest four days in my life.

A few months ago, my wife said, to no one in particular, "I think a cup of coffee now and then makes some people feel better and treat others more humanely because he wouldn't be so cranky in the latte, I mean, latter part of the day." Being a sensitive, compassionate husband...oh, to heck with that...I started drinking coffee again. Until, last Wednesday. I just decided I didn't really like it that much and it was keeping me up too late and I'd get headaches if I skipped it and I'd already counted all the tiles in our bathroom and read all the graffiti in Channel 9's men's room. (That Jim Flink is quite a poet.) Anyway, I'm officially off coffee.

I do miss it a little. I still like the aroma. I know, the next time my wife and I go to a coffee shop, I'll miss feeling like a grownup when my wife orders the hi-test stuff and I ask for cocoa. (If she wouldn't always ask if they have a booster chair for me, it would be better.) I do feel I am denying an essential part of my heritage. But, I have a strong sense that the next generation is prepared to carry the cup forward through the 21st century. Our second son, Taylor, already likes it and, seems to need it first thing some mornings...or afternoons....when he gets out of bed. I don't know if the other two boys will ever drink much coffee but I am concerned that if our daughter starts, it could be trouble. She has enough energy already. A little of the bouncing bean and she may be physically unable to stop moving. She will have to learn to sleep with her eyes open. Hey. Maybe that's why folks used to guzzle so much coffee right before early service on Sundays.

First, a word from my mother: Don't complain. There's always someone who has it worse than you. I know that, so consider this just a short observation rather than a complaint. I will try not to whine. But, the fact of the matter is, my eyes are confused. They can't figure out what they really want or need. I have worn glasses since fifth grade. It became clear that things were unclear when I consistently went outside to play with "that kid dressed in red who stands still a lot and is very quiet." As funny as it was to see me trying to play hide and seek with a fire hydrant, it was also a warning sign. So, my mom took me to see an optometrist. At first, I did not understand how a group of great guys who ate lunch at the Rathskellar every Tuesday could help me with glasses. Then, I caught on...oh, optometrist, not Optimist. Although, I certainly wanted my doctor to be positive about my situation, even if he was a Lion, Elk or Rotarian. After going through a couple of prescriptions in short order, my mom heard about a doctor in the city who had a new way of treating kids needing glasses. He was an ophthalmologist. I hoped there was a lot going on in that extra syllable.

His plan involved giving a kid bifocals...always the province of grandmas and grandpas has far as I knew...and nightly eye-drops. You also needed to take a potion of eye of newt (the animal not the former Speaker of the House) and goat whiskers just as the clock struck midnight. Well, that last part is not exactly true but I did tell it to my friends when I would stay over and have to put the drops in. I'd rather they think I was mixed up in some wierd, other-world remedy than just a skinny dweeb taking eye-drops. After about five years of that regimen, the next step involved contacts. This was back before you could practically by contact lenses out of a vending machine. I went in and got fitted for the hard contacts just before my Sophomore year of high school. Back in my day, we didn't have any of those wimpy little soft, comfortable, different-color-for each-day, contacts. We had HARD contacts...made from HARD plastic...with velcro on one side to hold them in and carpet tacks on the other just to be unpleasant! I was pretty sure my glasses were the only reason my overwhelming handsomeness had gone unappreciated by the girls in my class. I strutted into 10th grade like Burt Reynolds but with less hair everywhere but my head. To my amazement, not wearing glasses made absolutely no impact. Sure, I could see better but who cared about that if the only thing you're seeing are girls either running for cover or pointing and laughing. I wore the same contacts for many years and got the same reaction from females, including my wife, who still can't explain her moment of weakness in agreeing to marry me. (Even now, nearly 20 years after our first meeting, at the family reunion a couple weeks back, some members of her family were urging her to reconsider.) In fact, the ophthalmologist knew his stuff, because I haven't had to change my prescription since that summer before Sophomore year.

That may be changing. A while back, when my daughter went to the optometrist, I tagged along and took an open appointment time since I hadn't had my peepers peeped at in sometime. The doctor couldn't have been nicer or more competent. He said I really didn't need a new prescription but, if he had to predict, within about six months, a man of my age, usually will start to have some trouble. Well, the guy must have gone to Nostradamus U. because almost to the day...six months later...I noticed some minor problems when it came to reading anything smaller than the bold print on a box of Cheerios. So, here's the dilemma: I can still see pretty well with my contacts for driving and seeing faraway stuff but I can't read anything with my contacts in. If I wear my glasses, I can read most things but have to take off the specs completely for some things and hold the paper or book up pretty close...like Columbo at the scene of a crime. My wife wants me to get a pair of those reading glasses from the drug-store but I feel a little self-conscious going in and trying on different strengths. Not to mention the frames question.

My first glasses were called granny-glasses....fairly hip for the times. When I needed to go to the bifocals I had some that were wire-framed but a little larger...kind of like what Allen Ludden wore on Password. Then, I wore some that looked like Phil Donahue's or, was it Sally Jesse Raphael? When I started wearing contacts most of the time, I kept an old pair of glasses, just in case, that highlighted just how thick the lenses were...not a great look. Finally, I got a pair of light-weight, thin-lens, wire rims that make me look almost intelligent but that only lasts until I open my mouth. So, the idea of choosing a frame again makes me uneasy.

Again, I am not complaining. In fact, now that I think about it, as I get older and have a sense of how the rest of me...besides my eyes...is aging, it is probably a blessing that things are a little fuzzy around the edges. Let's see, no pun intended, get new glasses so everything is in sharp, perfect focus which would require losing some weight and getting in shape, so as to avoid daily nausea, or let things be a bit blurry and look okay, as is. Sounds acceptable to me. Pass the Cheetos and buy that big screen TV.

Just what do you think this bloggery is about? Be honest. Well, it's not about that although it does remind me of a wierd old uncle I had that liked to climb up on top of the house to....well...relieve himself. We called him "piddler on the roof." We also had a little kid in our old neighborhood who thought he was a cat and would use our sandbox as a...well...sandbox, if you know what I mean. Then, there was the young girl who hated going to the bathroom and would sob uncontrollably everytime. When asked why she did this, she replied, through tears "It's my potty and I'll cry if I want to....cry if I want to...cry if I want to." But, this is not about that stuff.

Just a couple more things along this line before I get to the real point of this story. Growing up in Wisconsin, there were folks in town that didn't care much for the newspaper in Madison and, instead of calling it the Wisconsin State Journal, referred to it as the Wisconsin State Urinal. When I was a kid, I thought that was really funny and, frankly, kind of naughty!

The day before I started kindergarten, one of my brothers came up to me and asked if I was scared. I was terrified...what if the teacher is mean...what if the other kids don't like me...what if I get lost in the building? Just to add to my fear, he wondered aloud, if I knew how to ask to go to the bathroom at school. When you're five, that's a big question. I said I would raise my hand and say "May I please use the restroom?" My brother said "No. No. No. When you're in kindergarten and have to go to the bathroom, you're supposed to go to your teacher and say 'Where's the sandbox, baby, this cat's gotta go'." I did. She laughed.

If this was about bathroom issues, I would want to tell you about potty-training our kids. I find these stories are particularly well-received when my children have friends over to the house. Our oldest son, Alex, was a special challenge. He just didn't like the whole idea. I mentioned a few days ago that he is not good at adapting to change. So, when his little sister was on the way, he became quite concerned about what that might mean to his existence and that added pressure to an already pressurized situation. I know Mr. Rogers had a show about the potty but that didn't help. There was a TV character that helped, though: Jim Rockford. I love Rockford Files. I watch it whenever I can. One day, during those training days, Alex looked at me as we were watching the show and asked "Does Rockford use the potty?" I assured him that Rockford did indeed use the potty, just not on the show. "Well, if he does it, so will I." You never know from where your help may come when you're a parent.

One of our dogs, Casey, is a little confused on the whole issue, too. As a pup, he patterned his behavior after our old dog, Checkers. Checkers is a female. Casey is a male. Casey does his business like a female. Not that there's anything wrong with that. He's a little lazy, so the whole "lifting-your-leg" deal may not have appealed to him anyway. He thinks fire hydrants are just very still, quiet, colorfully-dressed children. He has no interest in marking his territory. Which sets him apart from my older brothers, who once had a "contest" along those lines in the basement. That's as far as I'm going with that story.

But, as I mentioned, this is not intended to be about these tissue issues. By ""tinkling," I meant playing the piano, which I did a little at the KMBC Concept Home out in Loch Lloyd, last Friday on FirstNews. I had a couple folks ask me about my performance and I wanted to answer those questions. But, now, with all these detours, there's no time and I really have to go. I mean leave...not "go." Oh, never mind.

Be warned: I will be a namedropper in this blogapalooza. I am really taking advantage of your generous nature because, around my own house, they don't want to hear about the time Bob Saget and I were hanging around by the pool...or the funny thing Tony Danza once told me about Teri Hatcher. No, none of my brushes with greatness matter, but my oldest son is star-struck by knowing a kid at school whose dad once met the guys in those Sonic commercials. The genesis for this exercise in egotism, is an e-mail from KMBC's programming department about the fall premiere dates for the new ABC shows. It reminded me of July's past, when ABC would fly a bunch of folks from about 20 stations around the country, to Hollywood, to introduce the new shows and tape interviews with some of the stars. Talk about egos, prima-donnas and back-stabbers and that was just us reporters. Weeks before the event, I'd get VHS tapes of some of the new shows and, as a family, we would hunker down for viewing. I was never very good at predicting the hits. Once we watched a gritty, realistic police show that I pronounced too depressing to make it through even the first season. That hopeless little show was called NYPD Blue. On the other hand, I thought the show about a teenage tennis star being coached by William Devane would be huge...do you even remember Phenom?

The first night at the ABC junket was always spent watching a video presentation designed to get us excited about the upcoming season by unveiling the new network slogan. One year it was "Still the One!" Another time they went for the direct approach "Watch TV." These were the years before the big hits like Lost and Desperate Housewives. One year, I think they thought about using "Please. Oh, Please Watch Us and We Will Wash Your Car!"

Over the next two days, it was a lazy-susan filled with stars and wannabes. There would be four little recording spots set up around the pool area of the hotel with a morning shift and afternoon shift of TV folks sitting down for five minute interviews. The stars would stay put and we reporter/interviewer-types would circulate. The initial, pre-taping conversation was always about the same "Hello. My name is Joel Nichols from Kansas City. Thanks for doing this." Some of the stars would have a Kansas City memory to share. Some would just grunt. Some would ask "Are you enjoying your time here in California?" That was always my opening to try and break the ice a little bit but responding "It's very nice but I really miss being home with my wife and kids." At that point, I would take a photo of the children out of my pocket and hand it to the performer. Maybe I was kidding myself, but I always hoped it would make our chat a little more relaxed. Once, after showing the photo to Ellen DeGeneres, I mentioned to her that my oldest son, who was quite little at the time, had a crush on her. She said she'd wait for him and they could get married in 25 years. Well, that was before the magazine covers and before she became the Ellen we all know today, so I guess I should cancel the hall I rented for the wedding reception.

Tony Danza always seemed to be at the event promoting a new show. As we sat waiting for the cue to start the interview, one time, Teri Hatcher walked by. She was Lois of Lois & Clark at the time and didn't look the least bit desperate. Most of the eyes followed her as she made her way to a seat, including Tony Danza's...his eyes, not his seat. After she sat down, Mr. Danza, or Tony as we close friends call him, leaned in and whispered to me "There's a lot of good-lookin' women around here...but they gotta to do some weights. They gotta tone up and work out. Arms are too undefined." I'm not sure, but I think Tony was already working on his next project if the one he was there to promote tanked....fleshing it out, in a manner of speaking. Tony Danza Presents Working Out With The Stars, or somthing like that.

Speaking of shows tanking, it was a little sad to talk to stars of shows that nobody, including the stars, thought had a chance. Remember Hiller & Diller? Of course not. It only lasted a few months. Yet, it had some very funny people in it: Eugene Levy, Kevin Nealon and Richard Lewis. Nealon and Lewis were part of the junket in 1997 and they were hilarious. But, they knew the show was bound for destruction. You could see it in their eyes. Richard Lewis spent most of our five minutes making cracks about my tie and Kevin Nealon was happier to do his Mr. Subliminal from Saturday Night Live than talk about the new show.

Well, if I really want to drop some names, I'd better get a move on, so here is a list...a partial list, mind you...of my close, personal friends in Hollywood of the 1990s and, what you really want to know, what I thought of them:

Betty White: a class act...a legend...she autographed a book for my wife and liked it when I told her, honestly, that one my early TV heroes was her late husband, Allen Ludden.

Bob Saget: funnier than he got to be on Full House or America's Funniest Home Videos...he hung out with everyone between interviews and talked about his kids.

Drew Carey: hilarious and completely grateful for the chance he'd been given. Even with a new sit-com coming up, his career highlight was and would always be sitting on the couch next to Johnny Carson after his first appearance on The Tonight Show.

George Foreman: easy-going, funny, a born salesman. I think I walked away from the interview with six of his grills.

The Olsen Twins: a little scary as they arrived with a huge entourage which seemed to make the Stepford Wives look bubbly. Frankly, the girls struck me as a little sad that day.

D.L.Hughley: everyone was rooting for his show because he was such a nice guy.

Felicity Huffman: the show she was there to promote, Sportsnight, didn't last as long as some hoped it would but you could tell she was going to be around...really smart and witty.

Tea Leoni: very down-to-earth...not at all taken with herself...bright and funny...disappointed that I was happily-married. (Okay. I'm just assuming she was disappointed. I can't prove it.)

I think I'd better stop. I just want to mention one last celebrity: Michael J. Fox. When I first started in TV, Family Ties was a big hit. Every now and then, a viewer would say they thought I looked a little like Michael J. Fox. Remember, this is about two decades, several pounds and lots of silver hairs ago. (Last year, while doing a live weathercast from a high-school, where the kids had camped out all night to raise money for the homeless, a group of Sophomore girls said "Know who you remind us of?" I, knowingly responded " Who?" "Regis Philbin!" What? No more Michael J. Fox? Well....I'm outta control!) Over the years I have been lucky enough to interview Mr. Fox three times, all having to do with Spin City. All three times, he was a kind, eager-to-please, funny gentleman. I used my "look-how-cute-my-kids-are-so-be-nice-to-me" ploy the first time out and he asked for their names. When I mentioned that my daughter's name is Samantha, he said "Oh, we've got a Sam, too but he's a he." A couple years later, I showed him a different picture...assuming he'd have long forgotten me. He looked at it and said "Oh, that's your Sam...she's grown up a lot." He may well have forgotten me, as well he should have, but he did remember the kids.

The interesting part of interviewing Michael J. Fox, was that the three times were like three different people. The basic decency and good humor was always there but the behavior was altered. The first time he was seemed a little uneasy...a little jumpy. You'd almost call it hyper. The second time, about a year later, he was very still and composed. The third time, a couple years after that, he seemed to have found a middle ground between the two...engaged but with lots of things on his mind. It was not long after that last interview that he made public his battle with Parkinson Disease. That explained the different behaviors as they experimented with the right medications and tried to get a handle on his situation. In the moment of the interviews he had been quick-witted, funny, admirable for his talent. After the fact, after finding out about his private war, he became just plain inspiring.

Well, that's enough about my adventures in the land of ABC...for now. But, if you'd like, I could tell you sometime about talking politics with Bill Murray and joking around with Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder...what Steve Allen told me about a paper clip....how Phyllis Diller shared her bra size with me...meeting Dolly Parton, in her hotel room! You know, it's just a matter of time before they take this blog away from me and I end up sitting in a lawn chair on my front yard yelling at strangers "Hey...wanna know what Tom Selleck once told me...." There's no business like show business.

Saturday night I was stretched out on the couch and, for whatever reason, I shoved my head down between the two sofas that make up the L-shaped sectional. I don't know why. I could make something up, like I thought I saw a quarter down there but that would be a lie and I do enough of that during my weather forecasts. No, I just did it. Not only is that a sad commentary on what my Saturday nights have come to, but it led to major consequences. From my new, odd vantage point, I could tell that under the sofas was a land of lost legos, discarded candy wrappers, dust bunnies on steroids, the pens and pencils I can never find when I'm on the phone taking a message and several gooey, stinky items, the origins of which are best left unknown. I decided to move the sofas and vacuum. That led to taking the mattress...if you can still call it that...out of the sleeper side of the couch and cleaning it. At this stage of the game, the "Do Not Remove This Tag" tag is slightly thicker than the mattress itself. This is not the "fun" kind of cleaning because nobody is going to see the fruits of your labors but I figured it should be done, if only to keep the HazMat teams away from the front door.

In the middle of this frenzy, my wife walked in and decided to take advantage of the disarray to rearrange the furniture. With the help of the kids, we ended up moving a piano once, a sofa three times, a chair down some stairs, another chair to a different room, taking links out of a hanging lamp, and considered sliding the fridge into the hall by the kids' rooms just to save them steps in their apparently continual buffet line. When I looked up it was going on 1:00 a.m.

The end result is that we do have a slightly different looking living room with a very confused couple of dogs wandering around trying to find where they're supposed to recline. Our spoiled Golden Retriever can't quite get to the floor vent anymore and that is where, especially during these very hot days, he like to sprawl. He may actually be on the power company payroll. Also, our oldest son, who doesn't like change, is still whimpering and bumping into furniture.

There really is no point to my telling you this, but when has that ever stopped me. I have only one bit of advice: don't stick your head between the sofas and if you get the urge to vacuum, fight it with every fiber of your being.

It is probably just because I am quickly sliding into curmudgeon-hood, but it seems like people say please and thank you less than when I was growing up. Today, on FirstNews, we talked a little about an etiquette test you can take on- line at thekansascitychannel.com. The questions really had to do with how to behave when eating out, but it raises the entire issue of whether we have become a less polite society. As a kid, I'd hear parents say to their little ones "Say the magic words..." meaning "please" or "thank you." Now, of course, they are not magic words although, when illusionist David Copperfield was a child, he'd respond properly and something in the house would vanish. The Copperfields went through a lot of sofas, floor lamps and nannies when David was growing up.

As I mentioned, the test discussed on FirstNews, was about eating out, but in fancier places and settings than my family frequents. One question had to do with how to properly "toast." In my house that would involve peanut butter and making sure the toaster setting is not too high. I have a son who insists on cranking that knob up to "incinerate." Kind of like in the movie Spinal Tap, he wants the toaster to go to 11. You can always tell when he has made toast because the smoke alarms go off, Dalmatians surround the house and he starts talking with a Cajun dialect. But, as you see, that is what the word "toast" means to me. Another question from the quiz used the word "sommelier." I thought that was that French actor who sang "Thank Heaven for Little Girls." Another asked "What food is it okay to eat with your fingers?" How about which are NOT okay to eat with your fingers? Not to mention using your feet to dip cheese into the fondue pot! Our dining- out etiquette test would more likely have questions like "Is it proper, while waiting in line for the take out window, to honk your horn just to watch the folks ahead of you jump and spill their frosted, cherry shake-0-rama in their laps?" and "When seated at a table in one of those fancy indoor eating places, should you build a tower with the salt and pepper shakers, napkin holder and water glasses and, if you do, does leaving the table that way qualify as a partial tip?"

Aside from my family's obvious lack of dining etiquette, we have tried to instill in the children the importance of being polite. All my dad had to do was give my brothers and I a certain look and we knew to say please and thank you. I've tried to do the same thing but my kids always end up looking at me and asking "Why is your jaw twitching? You've got wrinkles. Look at all that gray hair. Was it really dark outside when mom agreed to marry you?" The fact is our kids are usually pretty polite. They shake hands, look people in the eye, speak clearly and, consistently, deny I am with the group.

The kids are good with please and thank you but saying "I'm sorry" is a bit tougher. We make them apologize to each other if the situation warrants. The words are there but the feeling needs work. You've heard of reading between the lines, well, if you could hear between the syllables it would be something like this: "I'm (not really the least little bit) sor- (and if I get the chance I am going to do the same thing again, only worse) -ry (you little twerp...stay out of my way.)" If, as in giving someone a bad gift, it's the thought that counts, all of my kids are going to be serving time.

Even though the rules of etiquette were pretty clear in my house, when I was growing up, there would be questions. Once one of my brothers kept hitting another. After patiently enduring the onslaught, the "hittee" went to our grandma and said "He keeps hitting me." Grandma said it would be okay to hit him back but "only if he hits you again." So, he went back and put his hand on the "hitter's" shoulder, looked, with brotherly love, into his eyes, and, said, imploringly, "Hit me." Back to table manners for a moment, for being four boys, our behavior at mealtime was fine. We always said grace before eating. Once, the phone rang in mid-prayer, my oldest brother got up, went to the phone, picked it up and said "Amen?"

Maybe the best advice, when it comes to being civil to others is what my mom always said "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." When I was in high school it was like living with Marcel Marceau.

Yes, the title of this bloggerama is self-evident. I'm really talking about a weather related deal here but let me just state, for the record, that I understand that I am nothing much to look at. I always wanted to be, but it never happened. Around Channel 9, the heart-throbs always seem to be people with good hair like Jim Flink. As I mentioned once before in this space...not that I am obsessed with it, or anything...Mr. Flink won some "Best Anchorman Hair" designation from a weekly paper awhile back. Just to be fair, I was also asked to be featured in a publication, as centerfold for "American Antiques Quarterly." I declined when it became clear that my best feature would end up being the staple holding the magazine together.

No, by hottie, I am referring to our current weather pattern. As you all know, heat like we are experiencing can be a dangerous situation. Please, check on the folks in your neighborhood that may be at risk...both older and younger. Also, make sure your animals have cool places to hang out with plenty of water. If you need a fan or want to contribute to somebody else's relief, please check out the Channel 9 Fan Club at thekansascitychannel.com.

In Wisconsin, where summer usually fell on a Thursday, we'd have some hot streaks but it always seemed to cool down overnight. Also, I spent so much time in the village swimming pool and lake, I was like a giant prune wearing cut-offs and Keds. My mom, who has grown more and more intolerant to heat, would force herself to lay out in the sun a little each day...for a tan plus some natural Vitamin D. She'd set up the lawn chair...one of those with the plastic, weaved style...out by the clothesline with a wash-rag over her hair and Coppertone by her side. She never really had to time it for sun safety reasons, because our next door neighbor would invariably come over and start to chat. He lived with his mother and her cat and took understandable pride in his constant efforts to expand his vocabulary. When he'd see my mom out there in the backyard, he knew he had an audience for his latest word. See if you can guess the one he was trying out in this case "Oh, hello there. I don't mean to be inquisitive, but I wondered why you're out in the sun. But, I guess I'd be inquisitive if I asked. My mom wanted to know where I was going. She is so inquisitive. Is that a wash-rag on your head? I hope I am not too inquisitive by my inquisitivicityness." Well, when the walking Websters made his appearance, my mom knew it was time to politely head inside.

This has nothing to do with heat, but the above reminded me of another neighbor we had living across the street. One day, he noticed my mom was up on a ladder, washing the front windows. So, he went to his phone and called our number. He'd watch as she would climb
down the ladder and walk in the front door...then he'd hang up. He did this three times. The third time my mom came out of the house, he hollered over "Don't you ever answer your phone!" My little street put a whole new spin on the old saying "It takes a village to raise a child." Look what my neighborhood turned out!

My dad used to say that "Anything above 90 is hot. Anything below 30 is cold." But, he added, he wasn't overly bothered by either extreme because he had a good "internal thermostat." I think I inherited that since neither too hot or too cold bothers me too much. So, despite the fact that it seems like my pilot light goes out now and then, my thermostat is operational. My wife's range of temperature comfort has narrowed over the years. It has to be somewhere between 65 and 65.4 degrees for her to feel just right. None of our kids like the hot weather. You hear people say you can always put on more clothes but can only get so...well...clothes-less. Our oldest boy was born in the midst of a blistering Kansas City summer and spent a good portion of his early life running around in his birthday suit. It was cute then, Now, at nearly 17 years old, it's troubling. I hope he breaks the habit before college next year or, at least, finds a dorm room that doesn't include any leather or leather-like chairs.

When I first moved to Kansas City, it was a June heat wave. I did a bunch of stories featuring hot jobs like working in a dry cleaner and putting insulation in the ceiling of an old church and being one of the "characters" out at Worlds of Fun. For the last story of the week, I closed by saying there was always one way to keep cool and jumped into a pool wearing my three-piece suit. Even today, nearly two decades later, people remember: "You're the idiot who jumped in the water with all his clothes on." If they'd just say "You're the hottie who jumped in the water with all his clothes on" I'd feel much better about it. I wonder why that never happens...well, now, I'm just being inquisitive.

I have never attended a class reunion. The reason is simple: fear. I am pretty sure I would end up stuffed in my old locker. Not that that happened back in my school days...I just think I have it coming. Also, the one time I actually got an invitation to a class reunion my name was misspelled. Now, I grew up in a very small town with one Nichols family so it would actually take some thought and effort to send an invitation to "Joelle Nickkles." I figured that was a not- so-subtle hint that I'd not be missed. Oh, the "invitation" inside the envelope was actually made up of letters cut from newspapers and pasted on a sheet of paper..."If yOu KNow whAts gOOd foR YOu forGet YoU evr goT thIs..."

Family reunions are a different matter. Growing up, my mom's side of the family had frequent get-togethers, usually in honor of my grandma's birthday. Aunts, uncles, cousins all over some poor, unsuspecting park...eating, laughing, playing games, running wild. My dad was an only child so everyday was a family reunion for him. He never had to share the potato salad but had big problems in the three-legged race.

The trip to DC I bloggified about the last couple days was, as I mentioned yesterday, triggered by my wife's family reunion. They are spread from coast to coast but make the effort each year to be together around the 4th of July. I am always pleasantly amazed by how fast all the cousins reconnect and, then, conspire against the adults. The youngest of nieces and nephews look at me like a science experiment gone horribly awry and are encouraged in this conclusion by my own kids. There are certain things that must happen at this event like making ice-cream. Everyone gets the opportunity to spin the handle. When Grandpa announced "Okay...let's turn the crank!" my second son flipped me out of the hammock, saying, "There, I've turned the crank." Gotta love those teenagers. Speaking of the teens, they had some wardrobe issues. Each year, t-shirts get created commemorating the reunion. When the kids were tiny, they would wear them all Independence Day. Now, the three oldest grandchildren are a little hesitant to go out in public looking like part of a group...especially a group that includes me. My two oldest sons and their oldest cousin did put on the shirts for the group photo but got out of them faster than a naked porcupine runs from a pin-cushion factory. Next time it takes the boys an hour to change their clothes, I will remind them of their quick-change artistry.

Speaking of the annual group photo, this year we took it following the fireworks on the Capitol Mall by a statue of Einstein. Wrangling 11 kids into one area and getting them to all look pleasant at the same time is not easy. At one point, it appeared my youngest had taken off his special t-shirt and was making a run for freedom. His grandpa bellowed "Harry! Get back up there! Right now." Well, the poor little guy's eyes got wide, his bottom lip quivered and he was feeling anything but independent on the 4th of July. He started to race toward the other kids and was taking his place when we realized that 11 had just turned into a perfect dozen. The child was not one of ours. At least he will have lasting memories of the "scary man at the fireworks." It seems appropriate that it was at a statue of Einstein thatGrandpa's personal theory of "relatives"-ity got a little skewed.

My father-in-law also likes to organize a touch football game. The problem in that for me is that I lack competitive fire not to mention athletic ability. Bear in mind that I have a brother-in-law who bikes to work on a regular basis and another who considers 18 miles a short run. The kids are all pretty good at sports, too. I tend to stand at the line of scrimmage like a diseased elm tree. Every now and then I lumber down field making sure not to look back for a possible pass until the play is officially over. Let's put it this way, if I were a character in a Peanuts cartoon, Lucy wouldn't have to do a thing to make me look more incompetent than Charlie Brown on the field of play.

I do enjoy these reunions but, I will admit, I feel quite useless. Okay, I feel that way most of the time, anyway, but it is exacerbated when surrounded by such accomplished, intelligent, decent people like my wife's family. They all have talents to contribute to the occasion. Some are great in the kitchen or at the grill. Some can organize anything, get all the kids to take part and have fun! One brother-in-law takes terrific pictures and puts them into a computer slide show for all to enjoy. The immediacy of that still startles me. I am pretty sure my mom has film in her old Brownie from the summer of 1964 that hasn't yet been taken to the drug store.
The whole family is up on the latest gadgets and technology. In fact, I am pretty sure they had to be consulted before the shuttle went up last week. My kids are fascinated by one of their aunt's cars that talks to her. I don't think I'd want a talking car. I suspect everytime I got in, it would moan and ask "Did you put on more weight?" Then, it would question why every route I take includes a donut shop. But, I digest...I mean, digress. Each year, after the reunion, I come home happy for the time spent together but feeling pretty flabby...physically and mentally.

Maybe my brothers and I should organize a reunion back in Wisconsin. Wait. That would put me dangerously close to my old high school and my...old...locker!

Yesterday, I mentioned that my family and I were on the highway last week and that the details involved history, ghosts, waitresses, mountains, a brother-in-law, various odors and George Costanza. How do they all come together? Here goes:

History: We spent Fourth of July week surrounded by the stuff. Starting in Washington DC and ending in Gettysburg PA. There was a definite Lincoln spin on everything. Ford's Theatre and the house across the street where President Lincoln died were haunting. The Memorial itself is always inspiring and, of course, in Gettysburg, Old Abe is everywhere. There is one statue of him on the town square in Gettysburg that is as memorable as anything but for a less than dignified reason. There is the President, all 6'4" of him, chatting with...Andy Williams! I swear the other figure in the display is Branson's favorite crooner. Maybe Abe really enjoyed Moon River and The Days of Wine and Roses. The way the two figures are standing there it looks like Lincoln is asking Andy for an autograph. Now, according to the plaque at the base of the pair, it is depicting the President giving information to one of the regular tourists visiting the town. I'm not sure which is more fitting for a president: chatting with a major singing star or giving directions to the nearest ice cream parlor to a regular dork like me.

Ghosts: You know those famous Ghost Stories that Larry Moore does around Halloween? Well, everyday is Halloween in Gettysburg. They have after-dark ghost tours and books about paranormal stuff in every store. Traveling in a van with four kids for hours and hours caused me to see visions and feel visited by spirits already so we skipped the scary side of the town. Instead, we took in a live musical called For The Glory. It was spectacular. If you head that way this summer, make sure you see it at the old Majestic Theatre. It is a Broadway level performance that will add soul to all the history you experience on the battlefields. Speaking of the battlefields, when I went to Gettysburg, the first time, as a kid, we took a bus tour and the driver/guide looked and sounded like an actor named James Gregory. He played the inspector on the old Barney Miller show among many other roles. My dad and I were convinced he was that guy. I think it meant we watched too much TV. Another TV star was a major presence in Gettysburg back then: Charlie Weaver. He was the guy in suspenders in the corner of the old Hollywood Squares and he was a Civil War buff. He had a motel there and gift shops. I was hoping we'd run into him...my brush with celebrity greatness...but we didn't. We did spend some money at one of his gift shops. Whenever my mind seemed to wander from the task at hand, my dad would say "There's history everywhere you step...stay alert!" All through the bus tour, my mom would lean over and say "Did you hear that?" Finally, I answered with enthusiasm "Yes! Mom! I heard that!" Then, I would go back to daydreaming about meeting Charlie Weaver and asking him if Paul Lynde was really funny in person, too. If those Gettysburg Ghost Tours included a visit from Charlie Weaver, Paul Lynde and Wally Cox, I'd have taken one.

Waitresses: Just wanted to say we had great waitresses everywhere we went from a Cracker Barrel in Ohio to the Farnsworth House in PA. As a family, we don't eat out very often, so being in a restaurant is a big deal and nice waitresses make it even better. We were waited on by two women named Heidi. That has to mean something. Two Heidis in one trip? Also, just for your information: the Bob Evans in Wheeling, West Virginia has the cleanest bathrooms...if you get there before my kids.

Mountains: We left for DC at 3:00 a.m. on Saturday. By the time we got to West Virginia, I decided I was awake enough to go the rest of the way without sleeping over. It went fine until we got into the higher elevations of Maryland and night began to fall. We stopped for gas in a little Maryland town that looked cute as we crossed the village line. But, while getting gas, it started to seem kind of creepy. People were wandering around the gas station...just staring at us...all of a sudden I got the feeling we had stumbled into a Stephen King book. That was a foreshadowing of tension to come. Cars were whizzing by us on the hilly highway. I kept hoping they would notice the Kansas license plate and give me a break. "Oh, he's from Kansas. It's flat there. Mountains scare him. Let's buy him some cookies." Instead they went tearing by me and I am sure they were cursing. Now, on the way home we drove through the mountains of Pennsylvania during the daylight and it all seemed beautiful and relaxing! Even the dog in the car ahead of us looked more like Benji than Cujo.

A Brother-In-Law: In the comic strips, movies and TV shows, the brother-in-law is usually a lazy, out-of-work slob on the sofa. But, in my case, my brother-in-law, D'Arcy is the exact opposite. He and his lovely family make DC their home. My wife's family had their annual reunion there this year and that is the main reason we made the trip. The fact that D'Arcy and Ceci allowed us to set up camp in their newly remodeled house is amazing enough. Remember, we are six people...three of whom are teenagers and one of whom is a cranky 45 year old. Just letting us in the door would have been enough but D'Arcy made sure we saw all the sights we wanted to see. From the National Cathedral to Arlington cemetery to the Vietnam Wall and points in between, we got a lot of DC in just a few days. He also made sure we had a prime spot for the fireworks on the mall. The guy has the golden touch and, being a rather petty person myself, I could easily hold that against him but he is so willing to share it, I can only say thanks.

George Costanza: Thanks also to Carolyn Anderson in Congressman Dennis Moore's office for taking the herd of family that showed up on her doorstep the day before Independence Day and arranging a wonderful tour of the Capitol. Of all the amazing things to see in that building, the one that really made an impression was George Costanza. Yes, Jason Alexander of Seinfeld was in the building. He was in town to host the live show from the mall. Even my wife, who is not the least bit star-struck, hunted "George" down. (This is a woman who, years ago, had the chance to meet Tom Selleck and passed.) My kids used their cell-phones to get pictures...they hovered for awhile. That night we listened to some of the rehearsal for the next night's show and felt a special closeness to Mr. Alexander as he practiced. Another guest was Elmo, who seemed a little peeved about the tempo the orchestra was playing his number. At first I was rather angry that a sit-com star had usurped Washington, Jefferson, Adams and the rest. Then, I realized, for my kids (and, apparently, my wife) Jason Alexander is what Charlie Weaver would've been for me. A major celebrity sighting. My only fear is that my oldest son will answer the question about the founders on his history test by writing "Yadda. Yadda. Yadda."

Finally, various odors: I was in a van with five other people, four under the age of 16. That's six people in a confined space for about 17 hours, driving home. Six people who had experienced too much heat and too much humidity and too few showers. Six people who had eaten too many bags of chips and chocolate and too little...huh...let's say roughage. Various odors? 'Nuff said.

I am not a good traveler. I worry too much. I miss the dogs. I like being home. But, as a father, I had a little mental list of places I'd like to take the kids at some point. The Rockies, the ocean, DisneyWorld and Washington DC. Fortunately, my wife and I have been able to get it done. It has been fun and I hope the kids remember it all fondly. As for me, I am never leaving home again.

Last week was road-trip time for my family and I'll get into the details tomorrow. Just let me say that they involve history, ghosts, waitresses, mountains, a brother-in-law, various odors and George Costanza. That's all I'm saying for now. But, sitting on the driver's side of the van for hours on end, got me thinking a little about the trips I took as a passenger.

When I was a kid, we took two main, long-ish family vacations. Of course, there were the more frequent trips "up north." No matter how far north you live in Wisconsin, you almost always take your weekend jaunts or extended summer vacations "up north." We would go to Chetek, Wisconsin and see family, fish, swim, go for boat rides. Mostly, things we did back at home. Sometimes our neighbors would go with us. I remember being out in a boat with one of the other kids and singing Afternoon Delight at the top of our lungs just because we thought it was such a racy song. It was there, in Chetek, that I first saw my father in a Speedo. I've been tragically scarred ever since. He was a thin guy with what he described as "chicken legs." If you took two toothpicks, painted them snow-white, added about six little pieces of black thread to each and, then, whittled away a little more of the wood, you'd have a good idea of what the legs looked like. To this day, I am haunted by a recurring nightmare in which my father chases me around a lake...wearing the baby-blue Speedo and clucking.

Another time, my mom's back went out and we spent some time driving around looking for a good chiropractor. We found one in Colfax, Wisconsin. He was able to relieve some of her discomfort and some of our guilt for still going fishing that morning before loading her into the back seat and finding the doctor's office. We weren't entirely heartless...she had urged us to "go ahead and have fun...don't worry about me.... I'll just be here...flat on my back...in some pain...but you go ahead and have a good time...don't worry about me." I don't think the bad back and scary Speedo incidents happened on the same trip but they sure could have been an example of cause and effect: cause=Dad in Speedo/effect=Mom in pain and needing therapy.

Anyway, the two main trips actually involved leaving the state of Wisconsin. That is not an easy thing to do. You just never know what you may encounter out there on the road. For example, some parts of the country are extremely friendly...people hug when they greet you. While most studies indicate we all need about a two-foot area of "personal space," in my town one really needed about 10 feet to feel completely at ease. Unless you were playing cards...but then you were at least separated by a card-table and a pile of bridge mix and cheese curds. Also, I always worried we wouldn't be allowed back in the state if we left. It is a little known fact that there is a changing password that you need to get across the state-line. It usually involved the name Lombardi...as in "The Lombardi has landed!" Well, we put all those fears aside, twice.

For both of our long, family vacations, we drove out to Connecticut to see Aunt Helen and Uncle Bud and assorted cousins. They had a pool. That put them in the neighborhood of the Rockefellers for us. We always felt right at home...you couldn't have asked for more hospitable people. Everyone should have an Aunt Helen. She was always in a funny frame of mind and ready for anything. She still is! Once, we went to a store and she bought me a cool suit: navy blue pants, a white and blue zig-zag pattern sport coat, a pink shirt, a blue tie and white shoes! I wish I still had that outfit now...then I would at least leave a lasting impression on people.

My dad enjoyed the driving. Especially at night. For a trip, he would rouse us around 3:00 a.m. (Fine if you had 1300 miles ahead of you but made no sense whatsoever for just going to the grocery store.) Those were the days before seat-belts and air-conditioning. My memory of travel includes being stretched out in the back seat, half-asleep, watching the cigarette smoke drift out the open driver's side window. We rarely stopped. Always trying to make good time. I don't know how my skinny little dad drank as much coffee as he did on the highway and not have to stop. Maybe those tubular legs were hollow. One thing we knew, you had better get your bladder and kidneys on the same clock as the car's gas tank.

I only remember stopping at a motel once on the road. It is memorable for that reason and because my brothers, believing I was not a strong enough swimmer, threw me in the deep end of the motel's pool. They taught me to ride a bike in similar fashion by placing me on the seat and giving a down-hill shove. From the pool, all of us also noticed an adorably cute little toddler playing behind the curtain of the sliding glass doors to one of the pool-side rooms. She was acting out some great scene all by herself and we were the unnoticed but enthralled audience. Today, that little girl is Sandra Bullock! Well, that's not true. I can't back that up. But, it would make for a great finish to this otherwise pointless memory.

It is interesting what you remember: horse-drawn carriages on the cobblestones of Mackinaw Island... the muggy, mossy smell of Mount Vernon...what seemed, to a kid from a small town, like the constant sound of sirens in DC...the candy kiss streetlights of Hershey PA....the ghostly haze of Gettysburg...and, more than anything else, a spindly dad in a baby-blue Speedo.