The other day during a FirstNews commercial break, co-anchor Jere Gish mentioned his son Jack's technical prowess. I'm not going to steal Jere's thunder, blog-wise. If he doesn't tell you the story on his blog, e-mail him and insist. Also, while you're at it, tell him you think I'm much better looking than he is. The only reason Jere was speaking to me at all, was because Donna Pitman was not in the studio. As some of you may know, I am only allowed to speak to the big-shot anchors when they first speak to me...even then, I am contractually required to avert my eyes. But, I bitterly digress. The point is Jack Gish is a gifted navigator on the information super highway. Certainly, in many cases...well, my case...the kids are better surfers than the parents. When it comes to hanging ten on-line, my own children are The Beach Boys. I'm more like The Captain minus Tennille.

I really have a love-hate relationship with the computer. There are times I am truly grateful for all the information at my fingertips. For example, the other day I was watching an old movie and realized I knew next-to-nothing about the actor Joel McCrea. When the movie ended, I rushed upstairs and logged on. After Googling, which sounds like something that happens when you try to eat spaghetti through a straw, "Joel McCrea" I learned all kinds of great things about this unsung actor. For me, this was a major deal on a couple levels. First of all, I was able to fill more of my dwindling brain-space with material that will most likely not come in handy very often. Secondly, I had successfully negotiated my way to an answer using this strange, new device called, I believe, the "INTER-TUBE-WEB."

Back in olden times, when people used words like "olden," I would've gone to a couple of other sources to learn about Joel McCrea. Initially, I would have tried to look him up in our Encyclopedia Britannica. Sometimes that first word is spelled Encyclopaedia or with some little character that combines the "a" and "e." Frankly, it seems like putting on airs. In fact, in an effort to maintain my common-ness, I used to spell it ensyklowpeedeeah. I did that until a teacher informed me I was plenty common enough without purposely misspelling werds...I mean, words. My father had purchased the set back in 1973 from a door-to-door salesman. We got the whole hog: One 12 volume collection with short definitions and explanations; an additional 24 books giving more detailed information on certain subjects; a guide-book that the salesman insisted could be used to replicate a college course in just about any subject (sadly, even at the Encyclopedia Britannica Home-Course Homecoming Dance, I couldn't get a date), a multi-volume collection called "Annals of America" with important historical writings from the Mayflower through Vietnam, and, last but not least, a giant Bible, bound in white leatherette and filled with ornate lettering, great maps and lots of colorful illustrations. The salesman needed a team of oxen to drag the entire "library" to our door. I still have the whole package at home, and, I'm proud to say, all of it still gets used. As wonderfully comprehensive as the Encyclopedia Britannica, 1973, was, and is, I admit that, as a kid, I sort of envied my friends that had the World Book, because it was a little more "user-friendly," to use a new-fangled phrase for an old-fashioned source. Also, the World Book had lots of colorful photographs, as opposed to the Britannica which seemed determined to avoid anything that wasn't a shade of gray. It was so serious, in fact, that I actually started to talk like John Houseman. (I'll pause here, so some of you can go to Wikipedia and find out who John Houseman was....)

Actually, the first encyclopedia set I remember around our house was called "ChildCraft" and was bound in reddish-orange stuff. By the time I came along, my brothers had added several new definitions to the margins, as well as their own artistic impressions of historical figures. Until I was a teenager, I thought all famous people had crossed-eyes, moustaches and skin conditions. We were also missing the following letters D, K, T and WXYZ. So, until I started school I knew very little about dogs, kiwis, Tazmania, Woodrow Wilson, xylophones, yellow-dog Democrats or zithers.

If the big books, at home, didn't have the info, I would head down to the Tripp Memorial Library which my brothers had told me was named after a patron who, with his nose in a book, had taken a header down the concrete stairs outside. (I wasn't much of a speller, so the extra "p" didn't tipp me offf.) Our librarian was right out of a movie. Her name was Alice Graff and she was lovingly dedicated to the library, the books and the importance of reading. I loved checking out books just to watch her carefully and precisely print the due date on the card, in her very recognizable hand-writing. (Today, you don't even have the chance to converse with the librarian most of the time...so much automation.) Miss Graff, never Ms., because that was an abbreviation for manuscript back then, would occasionally allow me to go into the basement of the library and look through old magazines and newspapers. I felt like a true explorer and will never forget her kindness in letting me do that. Frankly, finding the information I was looking for had a far more satisfying feeling back then, because it required some effort. Miss Graff was a small woman but could be intimidating if she caught you talking a little too loud or trying to find the naughty pictures in the dictionary...not that I ever did either one. She made avid readers out of thousands of kids over her years behind that big wooden desk at the front door. We didn't need any of those walk-through book detectors because Miss Graff could smell a book that hadn't been officially checked out. She was one of our town's true quiet heroes and has a park named for her because of it. (You can stay in the park for free for the first two weeks. After that, it's a dime a day in overdue charges. )

So, I will continue to be happy that I can jump on the computer and get what I want to know in seconds but I'll also forever miss the days of huge encyclopedias and tiny librarians. As Joel McCrea might say "Thanks, Miss Graff. You taught me volumes."

It's an old line and, really, not all that funny, but I actually heard it said...in all seriousness...when I was a kid. I was standing outside a grocery store with my mom and the market's "box boy" who was about 74 years of age, when a car with out-of-state plates pulled up next to us. "Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to.....?" asked the driver, mentioning some town I'd never heard of. Our older friend, put the grocery bags into our car, turned to the stranger, stroked his snow-white, chin-whiskers, took a puff on his corn-cob pipe and said "You can't get there from here." (Okay, he didn't really stroke his chin-whiskers or have a corn-cob pipe, but it sure adds to the Norman Rockwell-esque quality of the story, don't you think?) He did claim there was not a way to get to where the driver wanted to go, however. And, he was serious. He probably meant there was no easy way to travel and, back then, that was true. Now, for example, there is a multi-lane highway from my hometown into the city but when I was a kid it felt like you were jumping on the Nina, Pinta or Santa Maria if you had to drive into the big town. You had to go over Springfield Hill, on narrow lanes with farm equipment popping up everywhere. It was quite treacherous and led many of us to conclude that, sure you could probably get there from here, but why chance it?

Now, for a rhetorical detour: I clearly remember the aforementioned trip to the grocery store because my mom bought me a can of Popeye Spinach. When we got home, I asked her to open the can so I could wolf it down in one gulp...like Popeye. She warned me that it may not be exactly what I thought it would be but let me try it. I don't know how The Sailor Man did it...for me, most of the green stuff ended up in the sink. It did nothing for my biceps or triceps or any other ceps I may have. Frankly, I am considering starting a class action law-suit against Pop-Eye and his canned spinach for false and misleading advertising. I believed it would be, essentially, "muscles in a can." It was not. (I also tried Wheaties once hoping to be a champion at something...anything...didn't happen, either.) Looking back, I realize that my true role model was never going to be Popeye, anyway. As I've gotten older, rounder, balder and blinder, I realize that my inner child related more to Wimpy. I've even applied his "I will kindly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today" philosophy to my bill-paying techniques. Anyway, my spinach-based he-man theory was a failure and I quickly returned to the curative powers of Oreos, M&M's, and chocolate milk. I also ate a lot of peanut butter, but only Skippy because I could never quite trust a guy in green tights who hung out with someone named Tinkerbell. Sorry, Peter Pan. I was just too macho a four-year-old, for you. This section really has nothing to do with the rest of the blog but it did mention the word spinach, which makes it topical and more worthy of a spot on KMBC's website.

Back to going nowhere, fast: I have thought a lot about that "can't get there" story over the last few weeks because it has felt that, no matter what street, road, highway or interstate you travel lately, you can't really go directly anywhere. It's times like these, we really appreciate Johnny Rowlands and NewsChopper 9. If I could just convince him to hover over my car at all times, I'd feel much more confident. I actually encountered a detour from a detour the other day. At one point, I had to turn off a main thoroughfare into a neighborhood and got completely turned around. I was driving up and down cul-de-sacs for about 20 minutes. Everytime I'd see one of those "This Neighborhood Calls The Police...." signs I'd get nervous...sure that someone would see this odd car with the even odder driver. The kicker on this particular "lost in (green)-space" episode is that once I'd finally found my way out of the neighborhood, I was right back at the original detour. At that point, I think I blacked-out because I have no memory of how I actually got home.

If that spinach idea had worked maybe I could just hoist the car over my head and run through the orange barrels. But, it didn't and, now, spinach is becoming the hot Halloween costume because it is so scary. In troubling traffic times like these, I guess, we all need to be patient, drive slowly and carefully around the construction sites, leave a little early and, maybe, best of all, just stay home. Neither one of my grandmas ever drove a car...legally...and they didn't seem to miss out on much. Maybe Popeye can help us after all...just apply his take-life-as-it-comes philosophy to the current state of road construction mania :"It is what it is and I 'yam what I 'yam." That's IT! Yams. Maybe yams would give me muscles! Now, if I can just figure a way to get to the store.

Not too long ago, a former co-worker who was beginning a new career as an investment advisor, visited our house with his boss in tow. They were there to tell us how we could best begin saving for our childrens' college years. Admittedly, we were very late in getting into the savings mode...our oldest child was already looking for boxes to move out of the house and into the dorm. However, we figured better late than never. This was one of our friend's first attempts at selling his company's plan so the boss, let's call him Biff, ended up doing a lot of the talking. Biff began by making it very clear that we were extremely negligent parents for not already having a savings plan in place. He told us that his two daughters, who were still in diapers, already had, not only college money set aside, but two wedding funds started. I think he was trying to shame us into turning over as much money to him as possible. It was not the best strategy on his part. My wife tends to bristle when her mothering talents are questioned and, for good reason: she is the best mom, period! As for me, not putting away enough money for college is actually way down on the list of things I've done wrong as a father. For example, substituting Oreos for carrots when spoon-feeding the kids was probably not acceptable.

Truth-be-told, Biff the Bad-Guy, had a point. The responsible thing to do is to "pay yourself first," or, in this case, "pay your kids first," that is, save something right off the top. I remember reading that wealthy people get that way by saving 10% of what they earn. Or, even better, you can use the old Steve Martin plan. He used to promise that you can have million dollars and never pay taxes. First, get a million dollars. Then, when the IRS asks you why you haven't paid any taxes, you simply say "I forgot." Looking back, I think I was mistaken to even consider Mr. Martin's advice to which he would possibly reply "Well...excuuuuuse me." (For those of you too young to remember that, let me mention that Steve Martin, from the Father of the Bride and Cheaper By The Dozen movies, was an hilarious stand-up comedian, before he became an author, playwright and movie star.)

As for investing, I'm lost. Many years back, I was pinch-hitting for Bryan Busby on the evening news and Larry Moore invited me to dinner with some folks who had successfully bought "A Tour of Channel 9 and Dinner With The Anchors" at a charity auction. After overcoming their obvious and understandable disappointment at hearing that Bryan was absent, the winning bidders allowed me to sit at their table...on a booster seat. For whatever reason, the conversation revolved around money and how to make it. After some time, one of the men in the party turned to me and said "Glen, you strike me as a rather below average young man, so, what do you invest in?" I told him most of my money was tied up in diapers, formula and detergent, for when the formula makes a return appearance on my shoulder.

The consequences of my poor financial judgment and unwise purchasing habits are coming home to roost...which does make me happy that I spent several hundred dollars buying that fancy, velvet-covered roost. This weekend my oldest son and his mother will be on the road, visiting campuses...or is that "campi?" She has volunteered to accompany him on all such ventures and is urging that he consider the University of Beaches and Umbrella Drinks in Hawaii and the Geneva College of Clocks and Hot Chocolate in Switzerland. I never visited colleges at his age. I just sneaked onto the grounds of the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and started attending classes. That's where I learned to say "sneaked" and not "snuck," or so I thinked.

Well, my wife, the eternal and usually correct, optimist believes that her DNA will overcome my DNA, and the kids will get scholarships. I sure hope she is right or Biff the Bad Guy will end up laughing over his lobster at his daughter's already-paid-for wedding reception. He should remain vigilant, however. If things don't go well in the free-money-for-college sweepstakes, I promise to crash his little party and take as much food as I can...which, I will certainly need at that point.

I love Autumn. (Really, I call it "Fall" but "Autumn" sounds classier.) When I was a kid, Summer was the best season...followed closely by Winter. Growing up in Wisconsin, I never liked Spring very much because it seemed so fickle. It was mostly gray, muddy, chilly. Someone once said that March in Wisconsin was created so people who don't drink will know what it's like to have a hangover. Because I know everyone is intensely interested, here is my list of favorite seasons: Fall...Winter...Summer and then Spring. I don't know what it means about my psyche, that I prefer the decomposition of Fall over the new birth of Springtime, but I'm sure my family would have some fascinating theories. As much as I like the time of year we are in right now, it does bring with it some problems...mostly financial.

Starting in August, we have birthdays just about every month. My oldest son turned 17 last month. The next turned 16 yesterday. In about a month, our youngest hits 11 and then, in December the solitary girl is 14. (No birthdays in November so my checking account gives thanks.) It has become a tradition of sorts to call the time between each birthday the "season of insert-name-here" for whoever's big day is next. So, most of Summer is the season of Alex. We just concluded the season of Taylor and started the season of Harrison. Then, the season of Samantha runs almost two months. Sometimes this idea is unwelcome. "It's the season of Taylor so why do I have to take the cereal box and garden shovel into the backyard and pick up the dog's 'souvenirs?" asks Taylor. "You can't really be angry with me about my bedroom...after all it's my season," states Samantha, sweetly. Alex: "I really think I should be able to stay up until 3:00 a.m. since it's the season of me." For Harrison, who leads a charmed life anyway, the season of himself is just confirmation that he is in charge and all's well.

This is one of those things that began on its own and continues with no effort. That is really the sign of a true tradition...it just happens. I've tried to force some traditions. I found a Christmas lullaby a long time ago and decided I would sing it to my children as they fell asleep on Christmas Eve. My oldest boys allowed this to happen until they were about one and two, when, like Simon on American Idol, they made it clear that my vocal renderings (a very apt description, by the way) did not meet with their approval: "Daddy. Stop." Nothing if not concise. So, my Hallmark Card image of a loving father crooning his kids to sleep on a snowy, starlit night was replaced with the distant sounds of a dad, discovering new combinations of words, trying to make the wrong-sized bolt fit into the right-sized hole on somebody's new bike. Now, that's a tradition! My wife tried to introduce the old, I think, German tradition of St. Nicholas day...putting your shoes outside your door and waking to find them filled with candy and fruit. Unfortunately, the dogs always celebrated early. Frankly, that tradition would have had a rather short run even without canine interference because, once the boys hit their teen years, you needed a full-body radiation suit and tongs just to approach their tennies. However, they would be easy to find since the over-powering odor (even our current dog will not pick them up...and this is a creature that will roll around in a dead fish, given the opportunity) is accompanied by a strange, greenish glow.

So, anyway, what all those birthdays mean, plus Christmas, plus a wedding anniversary thrown in for good measure, is that Fall is also open season on greenbacks. I write so many checks this time of the year that I end up with carpal. I can't quite afford the tunnel. As the leaves fall, so does the balance in my checking account. This is when I sort of hope someone will steal my credit cards, as I am sure he or she would be spending less than we are. Still, even with all of that expense, I still love Autumn and, I've made a discovery: the sweet smell of the season is not just trees, plants, grass, bushes and flowers saying good-bye for another year. It is also the lingering scent of my credit report quickly decaying.

*Just a quick thank you to the great students, faculty and parents of Olathe East for being so much fun last Friday! Yes, I wore a poodle skirt because it's hard to say no to a woman dressed like a giant chicken. And, thank you to all the wonderful runners and walkers and volunteers at the Heartland Run yesterday morning. The foster children of Clay and Platte Counties will have brighter days thanks to your early morning efforts. By the way, my daughter won her age group. She can move really fast until you put her behind an upright vacuum or hand her a dust cloth. Congratulations to all!

Over the years, with four kids, I have attended a fair share of sporting events, in which they were participants. Pee-wee football...soccer...swimming...track...baseball...volleyball. My problem is that I am not a very good spectator. I have trouble expressing much emotion or excitement from the sidelines or the stands. It may have to do with my upbringing and the lessons of not calling attention to oneself. Be humble, my dad used to tell me, because you certainly have plenty to be humble about. As a kid, I was always a little fearful of being told that I was getting too big for my britches...which, in those days, did not refer to my expanding waistline and the dangers of my middle being given its own zip code. (If you're thinking, "Well, wait a minute, you're on TV and radio almost everyday so you must not be exactly shy....your whole job is about calling attention to yourself!" Rest assured, I spend every waking hour, and many of the sleeping ones, be appropriately ashamed of myself for things I've said or done on the the air.) Anyway, I tend to clam up in spectator situations.

For example, the other day I was at my daughter's volleyball match. Samantha could well be described as a "sparkplug" or "firecracker" for her team. Sort of along the same line, my would-be coaches and team-mates often referred to me as the squad's "fireplug" just before cutting me from the roster. Well, there I was, sitting quietly in the bleachers watching the team fight for victory, pouring everything they had into the game. Parents sitting nearby were yelling their words of encouragement and cheering for the good stuff...clapping supportively in those less than stellar moments. I wanted to shout "Go get 'em, Samantha! Good serve! All right!" but the best I could do was to politely clap two or three times and say "...ahem....ah....whoo....(cough)..." under my breath.

In my own defense, I have to say that, at the volleyball game, at least I was paying attention. What I am about to admit will certainly remove me from any consideration as Father of the Year...not that I was ever in the running, anyway. There have been times...at a soccer match when my kids were very small and tearing around the field like little waterbugs in green shirts or at a swim-meet after inhaling so much chlorine that my hair turned green from the roots outward or at a track competition when I've realized that for the whole deal I've thought the wrong kid was one of ours...there have been times when my mind has wandered. As I mentally drift from the game at hand to questions of which bill is due when, to what time the Andy Griffith Show reunion program is on later that evening, to how much longer I can drive on tires where tread is but a distant memory, all of a sudden I'll hear a big cheer go up and start applauding enthusiastically, only to realize the excitement was for the opposing team. You haven't experienced true fear until you look around you and see the glares of other parents, wondering what you are doing, apparently, cheering for the opposing team!

It isn't just sporting events that make me inhibited. I even feel self-conscious clapping and singing along to music at a concert. I am almost certain, at a show last December, that Neil Diamond wrote down my seat number because I just barely moved during Sweet Caroline while the rest of Kemper Arena was in full- involvement mode. You may think I'm being paranoid but how else can you explain that, for months following the concert, everytime I went to my car there was a present from the feathered colon of Jonathan Livingston Seagull on my windshield and, regardless of which radio station I was tuned to, the first song I'd hear was Solitary Man. Neil Diamond has powers none of us can fully comprehend.

My kids have cut me some slack on my lack of spectator skills. They claim they actually appreciate my not calling attention to the fact that I am their father, at all. In fact, they deny our relationship at every opportunity...just to make me feel better. What a great bunch of kids...so, if you'll indulge me: "Whoo. Whoo."

Time for a shameless plug: Please, tune into KCMO Talk Radio 710 between 5 and 9 in the mornings for an entertaining and enlightening take on today's issues, local, national, international and, probably, even intergalactic. Chris Stigall is the new host and he's great. The only weak link in the whole show is the weather forecast, which I provide. The idea would be to set your radio alarm clock to 710 on your AM dial...then watch FirstNews while you are getting ready for the day...go back to 710 when you get in the car to get where you are going! What a great idea. This routine will accomplish three important things. First, you will be well-informed. Second, you will get your day started with a laugh and a smile. And, third, most vital, I will continue to be able to just barely pay my bills.

As I've mentioned before in this space, I actually had my first broadcasting job in radio when I was about three, doing "Stay tuned for my dad and the news" kind of announcements, on the station he'd started in our hometown. My dad felt I was perfect for the job, even at my young age, because I was highly intelligent, amazingly articulate and would accept a salary made up primarily of Milk Duds. All of my brothers were on the radio at one time or another through the years. One of them was not exactly a morning person, but got stuck doing the sign-on shift anyway. He'd rush into the studio with about thirty seconds to spare...mumble a "Good Morning....you're listening to....ahhhh....now here's some song about pastry." Then, he'd put on the Don McClean classic American Pie, which runs about four hours, and head for the back door of the station. A couple times he accidentally left the microphone on and studio door open. There is nothing like the sound of twenty year old man clearing his head and shaking the "night before" out of his body, coming over your radio at five in the morning. It was a festival of body sounds best kept private. There was at least one time when the song ended before my brother's anatomical symphony was finished. His career as a radio morning man was short-lived, but he was approached by several spelunkers hoping to explore what sounded like extraordinarily deep sinus cavities.

When I was about 18, a Madison Wisconsin radio personality named Alan Jon was kind enough to help me make an audition tape. He had a terrific voice, filled with friendly personality. He gave me plenty of tips along the lines of "okay, this time let's try to only mispronounce every other word" and "you know, they always need folks to look for cracks down at the egg factory." Looking back over my broadcast career, it is clear that Alan was absolutely correct in his apprehension.

While doing the weekend weather in Madison, I started to host a one hour show every Saturday on the Music of Your Life station. It was called The Great Singers and featured people like Sinatra, Bobby Darin, Ella Fitzgerald and Rosemary Clooney. I'd put together theme shows about specific holidays or the weather or various luncheon meats. (That was the hardest one to find songs for..."I've Got You Under My Pastrami," "Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Salami," "Bologna Serenade," and the every popular "Olive Loaf Blues" with its haunting lyric "I don't mind that you feed me this old musty, moldy meat. But should those olives still be movin' when you put it before my seat?") After arriving in Kansas City, I approached the now-defunct Music of Your Life station about doing The Great Singers here. I was given a bumper sticker before security escorted me out of their building.

I've been lucky to work with some very funny, clever and patient radio stars like Just Plain Dave, Jason Whitlock, Steven St. John, Bryan Truta, Nycki Pace and, now, Chris Stigall. Along with other Channel Niners, I even hosted a talk show for awhile, too. I never had too many callers especially about serious issues. The one topic that really got people on the phone was "What Kansas City Personality Should Have a Sandwich Named in His or Her Honor and What Would Be In There?" See, my whole radio career comes back to luncheon meat. The old show didn't have many listeners but a couple days ago a woman told me she used to listen: "Yes, Joe, I have heard you on the radio. Yes, Joe, I've heard you." Two things about her comment: First, she was careful not to say what she thought of my radio work, just that she'd heard it...undoubtedly an act of kind restraint on her part and, second, she called me "Joe" instead of "Joel" throughout our conversation.

Let me say, I like the name Joe and know a lot of great, decent people named Joe. But, I was named Joel...Joe with an L. Like Liza with a Z except I can't dance, sing or act and I am allergic to feather boas. I've mentioned before that I was named after my dad's boss at the time who took one look at me as an infant and fired my dad. My mom was insistent that I be called Joel and not Joe, so that's why it still makes me a little uneasy to be called Joe. For a long time, I was hoping I'd get a nickname, like, well, Nick, for example. Short for Nichols...my Grandpa had a place called Nick's Canyon Resort...my dad had a place called Nick's Trading Post...so it made sense but nobody picked up on it. Then, I tried to go with J.B., using my middle initial but that, too, fell flat. Our next door neighbor would call me Jody for some reason and the kids at school called me Nichols Pickles sometimes. My brothers had a variety of pseudonyms for me that I can't print in this family-friendly blog. There is a director here that calls me Cheesy, in honor of my Wisconsin heritage and in description of my on-air presentation. Maybe a lack of a good strong alternative name is why my radio career has been spotty. I think my name, Joel Nichols, is kind of hard to say. When I get to the L of Joel, my tongue gets wrapped around my eye tooth and I can't see where I'm going until I'm approaching the "cho" of Nichols.

It is nice to be able to continue my family's checkered radio history by being part of The KCMO Morning Show with Chris Stigall and I hope you will be able to tune in. I imagine somewhere my dad is smiling about what has become of his formerly three-year-old DJ and, I am also sure, my dad is thinking, if I'm getting more than Milk Duds, I'm overpaid!

I called my mom over the weekend and she actually picked up the phone. She said their caller ID was out of whack. Anyway, she sounded a little bit like Bob Dylan or, if you are old enough to remember or a fan of old movies, like Lauren Bacall...if Lauren Bacall was Scandinavian...and had a bad cold. Kind of raspy. Like she had used Brillo Pads for the Swedish Meatball casserole. We 're pretty sure this is her first cold this century and she didn't have many in the last, either. In fact, I don't remember many times when I was growing up that my mom was sick. Sick of me, probably...but not really physically ill.

Before I was born, she had appendicitis. It came after she had eaten M&Ms, so she swore off of them for life. My youngest son and I have done our level best to make sure our family's quota has not suffered due to her anti-"Melts in Your Mouth. Not in Your Hand" stance. By the way, they will melt in your pocket, especially after being put through the dryer. As I say, that was before I came along. The only other major health issue I remember for my mom involved a wedding dance and a dog bone. That could be the title of a country song:

"While you danced with him at your weddin',
I was standin' in the shadows all alone.

Like a pork chop without spicy breadin'
Or a smelly old dog without a bone."

The story, as best I remember it, goes as follows. It was a Saturday and we'd had a family wedding. A bunch of aunts, uncles and cousins were roaming around at our house after the service biding time until the dance and reception. When one of my uncles pulled up into the driveway, my mom, being a good hostess, walked out on the back stairs to welcome them. Well, her foot hit a bone the dog had been chewing on and she went head first, in the air, down three concrete steps, landing on her outstretched hands. She was still wearing a long, red-patterned dress from the wedding and looked a little like an elaborate kite as she floated through the air. At first, she did not think she was hurt...a little bruised on her palms but okay. After all, there was a dance coming up...polkas, waltzes, schottisches, maybe some big-band stuff...and my mom was, and is, a great dancer, so she wasn't about to let little things like contusions and broken bones slow her down. She took the standard Lutheran-church cure for most everything: Two aspirin, not "coated" or "capsuled" or "gelled," but the old-school kind...gritty, chalky and hard to swallow; lots of black coffee...none of this new-age, touchy-feely flavored stuff; and a dress-sock covered in Vicks Vapo-Rub. (The last thing really wasn't helpful for her particular situation but it was, nonetheless, required by the "You're Not Really That Sick So Get Up and Go Do Something Health Care Manual" published by the Martha Circle at our church.)

She went dancing that night but really started to feel some serious pain by the time they all got home. Turns out she had chipped a bone in her arm...around her elbow, I think...when she tried to break her fall. Even with that, it was better than trying to slow her descent with her forehead. She never yelled at the dog, Misty, because she knew Misty didn't believe in burying bones for fear of getting her paws dirty or, more appropriately, at me since I was the one who had not properly cleaned up the back steps before company arrived. As I recall, the dog and I stayed mostly out of sight throughout the unfolding situation but, the next day, we bought her a large Hershey Bar and a bottle of Coca-Cola as get-well gifts.

So, this story is told as a get well wish to my mom. I hope you are about over your cold and back out doing the things you like to do! If you're thinking "What a cheap-skate. Using channel 9's web-site to send a get well greeting rather than springing for a card and postage!"--I promise to take her a Hershey Bar and a Coke the next time we're up north...and our dog promises not to leave his stuff laying around.

First things first: Thanks to all the terrific students, teachers, coaches and parents at Park Hill High School, home of the Trojans. It was great to be with you last Friday morning on FirstNews for "Match-Up Mania!" (I know Erin Little had a blast at Ray-Pec High, as well.) Now, onto my Mr. Blackwell moment.

On Thursday of last week, FirstNews co-anchor Jere Gish urged people to bring wigs, crazy outfits and face-paint to the next day's pep rallies. The folks in the Northland heeded his powerful anchorman exhortations. (Sometimes anchors don't know their own power. I know everytime Larry Moore hiccups the stock market dips. When Walter Cronkite once sneezed on air, NASA cancelled a moon-shot. Then, there was the time Jim Flink accidentally burped during FirstNews. Nothing happened but it was pretty funny.) Before I knew it, I was wearing a Trojan Power Red Wig, face-paint, and half a cheerleader's uniform...the top half. They did indeed have the skirt portion of the uniform but I passed, trying to hold onto a little dignity, which is hard enough to accomplish while dressed like Bozo's less cultured cousin. Frankly, if you look up the word dignity in the dictionary, you do not see a picture of a TV weatherman, anyway.

If I had put on the skirt, it would not have been the first time I'd have worn a dress on TV. Years ago, while doing stories for PM Magazine in Madison, Wisconsin, I did one about a local costume company. Being the serious journalist I am, I knew I had to get involved in the story like a small-town version of Geraldo. So, I set aside my personal well-being and played dress-up. One of the outfits was that of the stereotypical "little old lady." After the story aired, our station's general manager informed me that dressing up like Granny Clampett probably did not help my credibility as a weatherman. I did, however, hear that I'd become a popular pin-up in the men's locker room at Maplewood Nursing Home.

I mentioned in an early blog, that my dad used to wear a white wig, white fluffy moustache and suspenders to portray his radio alter-ego, Ole Hanson. Usually, this was for a public appearance, but every now and then he'd actually dress up just to chat with himself...play checkers...occasionally a round of ping-pong. One of my brothers used to dress up like an old woman for most Halloweens. He was crushed when we told him Halloween only came once a year.

I mentioned earlier that a man of my advanced years needs to guard whatever last threads of respectability he may have left. While doing just that, one of the coaches for the cheerleader squad...an attractive young woman with a winning smile and charming enthusiasm...motioned for me to come over. She had something to tell me. Maybe how distinguished I am...or how great the top half of the cheerleader uniform looked on me...or what a great weatherman I am. No, what she wanted to tell me was that she had once been on Jellybeans. That was the kids' show I hosted on KMBC some time back. She said she was eight years old at the time and remembers having lots of fun. Mostly she loved Zap the Clown. Now, I knew she wasn't going to tell me that she and all her friends think I'm dreamy or anything, but, I will readily admit that it made me feel quite old and I told her so as she took my arm and helped me step up onto the curb. This is really nothing new. In our house, my wife has gone from trying to pass our kids off as younger than they are to get the childrens' discounts at theaters and museums to trying to get the senior citizen price break for me. She is far too often successful.

In retrospect, I should've worn the bottom half of the cheerleader's uniform. From the thighs up I am aging rapidly, but from the thighs down I still look fairly youthful. Forget about dignity and credibility, next time I just may show a little leg.

I've been spending a lot of time in the basement lately. Most of the time, I am down there at the request of my family but over the last couple weeks, as reported in this space the day after Labor Day, I have been part of the toy-sorting, book-piling, paper-tossing, baby-box-adding crew. Being in the basement takes me back to the house I grew up in from age six through high school. We called what we had a "basement" but it was really a "cellar." Cold...damp...dank...musty. The same adjectives used to describe me in my Senior Yearbook. The cellar had one of those slanted exterior doors you see in old movies when people are trying to get out of the way of a cyclone. Once it came in very handy. We had a Peeping Tom who, when he heard me slam the outside door, took off running, tripped over the cellar door and wiped out. I spent the next several days looking for bloody shins.

As a kid, I always thought our cellar had money-making potential. For awhile I tried to use it to create and market stamps...the kind you push into an ink pad and then on paper. One of my brothers had a stamp-making kit that he'd out-grown so I appropriated it. Unfortunately, a number of the letters were missing and there is not much of a market for " op Secre !" stamps in a little Wisconsin town. Another time, a friend of mine and I decided to turn the space into a haunted house and charge a quarter per visit. We used the aforementioned stamp kit to make the " icke s." My brothers' band had one of those four-color, light wheels so we set that up...hung some sheets around like ghosts, most looking like Casper after a visit to Jenny Craig...added some music and then hid down there, waiting to jump out and scare people. The cellar had two rooms, through which we put up blankets to replicate hallways. Our haunted house got very little business for two reasons. Most of the neighborhood kids had cellars of their own and weren't particularly scared of going in mine plus, we were trying to sell Halloween fright in the middle of April. For some reason I recall our second-grade teacher, who didn't even live in the neighborhood, making a special effort to visit. I think she was encouraging our entrepreneurial efforts or it was an obvious indictment of the lack of recreational opportunities for young, singles in our town. (I shudder to think what she would have done if we'd opened a tattoo parlor. "I'd like you boys to spell out this week's spelling list...printing and in cursive.") For whatever reason, there she was...a very proper young lady willing to shell out 25 cents for a walk on the wild side. I have to say it did inhibit our performances as ghouls. We had created this mayhem with other kids in mind, but if your teacher is your first customer, can your minister be far behind? If our friends came in we were prepared to actually pounce on them, hold them down and threaten the most awful stuff! But you just didn't pounce on, hold or threaten your second-grade teacher. So, after a half-hearted "uhhh...Boo..." our teacher was out the door and we were out of the haunted house business.

As a teenager, I thought I'd turn the cellar into a work-out room but once I'd dragged our rusty old free-weight set down there, I was too winded to use them. I also tried to make it into a "bachelor pad" with lava lamps, strings of beads hanging in the doorway and a transistor radio. Unfortunately, I could never get any girl to even talk to me, let alone visit my swinging locale. It was probably a lost cause anyway since the radio only picked up farm reports. It's hard to make your move to the soulful sounds of "barrows and gilts are up a half-cent but soybeans are taking a beating. Now, this word from home extension agent Molly Mikowsky on how to make attractive flower pots from those empty milk cartons." Even with all those failed efforts, I still think that old cellar could've been something special. As it turned out, we mostly put canned goods down there and, occasionally, our mother, when the weather got treacherous.

Our current house does not have a cellar but it is not a "finished-off" basement either. When we moved in, we painted the walls bright yellow to simulate the outdoors and added a dehumidifier to simulate something other than a basement. We let the kids pick out the carpet remnant for the floor and they chose a chunk a bowling alley had rejected. That is the absolute truth. It is mostly black with red, yellow, pink and blue splotches of color which, supposedly, glow if you use a black light. Now, I know we don't call them "bowling alleys" anymore. They are Family Recreation and Fun Centers! But, when I grew up there was nothing wrong with the phrase "bowling alley." Ours was the MidWay Lanes operated by a man called Norb...short for Norbert, I think. (Norb was not such an odd name for our village. For example, the best chicken in town came from a guy called Stub. I don't know why he was called that and I never saw fit to ask.) It was downstairs...in the basement, to continue my theme...of the movie theater, called the MidWay Theater. During a war-picture, action movie or raucous Jerry Lewis comedy the bowling noises were not a problem but for romantic stuff it could be unsettling. When our town got the movie Love Story everyone thought Ryan O'Neal and Ali McGraw must have serious digestive disorders. Love meant never having to say "Excuse me."

Meanwhile back in our basement...it is usable. There's TV down there...some sort of video game...a ping-pong table. Still, our kids keep saying "It would be so cool if we had real walls and plush carpet and a big-screen TV and a pool table and a mini-fridge and....and...and...and..." I told them that finishing off the basement is part of our future plans, about eight years down the road. Just about the time they are all out of the house and on their own. They thought this rather unfair. So, I offered to to fix it up in about five years, meaning, at least, the youngest one would get to enjoy it, since, at age ten, being the only non-teen, he is still occasionally on my side. That also met resistance.

The fact is, with the way things tend to go nowadays, some or all of the kids may be returning to the nest for awhile after college, about when we'd actually be able to swing turning the basement into a family room. So, I've decided that's fine but they will have to pay 25 cents to visit and I can tell them where to get the " icke s."

"Tell him I don't smell like oranges, anymore." That's what the voice on the other end of the phone told my wife a couple nights back. It was my oldest, and I mean OLDEST, brother, Randy, calling from up north. You may remember, if you read this silliness every now and then, that I wrote about my brother, the hairy wrestler who always smelled like oranges...from trying to maintain his competitive weight. (A side note: if you do read this stuff...thank you...but, really, you are probably neglecting some other, vastly more important parts of your life. In fact, just on this web-site alone, you are wasting valuable time reading this while you could be learning the latest about Paris Hilton's plans to do a musical version of her own Science Journal essay about what it would've been like if she had been married to Albert Einstein. It is tentatively titled "My Own Theory of Relativity or How My Life Would Be Different If My Name Was Sheboygan Econolodge and Not Paris Hilton.") Anyway, unbeknownst to me, my brother had discovered The Kansas City Channel and, subsequently, this blog.

Interestingly enough, he didn't take offense to my mention of the fact that he has an overabundance of body hair. So much fur, in fact, that his trips to the beaches of Green Bay often result in people calling in Bigfoot sightings. I think he was really just blowing off steam. The Packer's season is looking shaky. His lovely wife insists on leaving him notes on the kitchen table like "Please, pick up some milk" rather than just calling his cell-phone and telling him to get milk on his way home from work. When you reach a certain age, once you're home, you want to stay home. (I've been that way since birth, frankly.) Also, he is still dealing with a serious, long-standing case of PLAID or Post-Lassie Affective Internal Disorder. Well into his teens, Randy could not watch an episode of Lassie without bursting into tears. I'm pretty sure if you walked up to him right now and said "There's trouble down at the old mill..." he would start weeping. There's a new Lassie movie in theaters right now and, I think, it has brought back all those Collie-ful memories.

He was going on 13 when I was born and, so, was a built in baby-sitter. I know my dad was pretty slow to open his wallet. He was so tight, he squeaked. When he would nick himself shaving, even then, he wouldn't bleed. But, to wait until your oldest child can babysit, before having your youngest...in order to save a couple bucks? That's something! As for me, I loved having Randy as a babysitter. He'd put me down for a nap and, being a caring brother, would sit on the floor by the crib. Eventually, he'd fall asleep and I'd get up and play. More than once, Randy woke up with Tinker Toys stuck in his ears and nose. For a toddler, a big brother sound asleep on the floor becomes a combination of playground equipment and a life-sized Mr. Potato Head. (Actually, to be fair, we have another brother with a gigantic head. It is so big that it has been named a Dwarf Planet. We have a grainy, black & white photo of this large-noggined brother standing in his playpen with a fly walking across his short, blond hair. If you look closely, it appears the fly is actually Sir Edmund Hillary thinking he has successfully scaled Everest.) According to Randy, he used to give me my bottle and then stand by the window watching the semi-trucks roll down the highway--our version of video-games, I guess. When I was finished, I would throw my empty bottle, in what he remembers as a perfect spiral, straight at the wall. Sadly, that was the pinnacle of my athletic career. I still toss my used plates and glasses at the wall when I finish dining...which explains why I am banned from most eating establishments.

The only negative thing I recall about Randy was how he totally ruined my future broadcast career. Once, while he was home from college, Randy was trying to help me overcome the "lazy L" speech pattern I had...making "milk" more like "muhwwlwlk" and turning "Guatemala" into "Guawhlamuhlwa." Eventually, he was successful in turning my "L" from lazy to vigorous. I can't help but think that if he hadn't fixed it...I may have been the next Tom Brokaw.

Despite that disappointment, it must be said that Randy was and is a great big brother, who turned out to be a great father and grandfather. So, being the wonderfully gracious person I am, I can overlook his lingering orange scent and shag carpet of a body. Frankly, I need him as an ally now more than ever, because I'm pretty sure our brother with the gigantic head will be on the phone by tonight.

Jason Whitlock. Yes, that Jason Whitlock of the Kansas City Star. Jason is the first person I think of, when I remember 9-11-01. I was doing the weathercast on Jason's radio show and we were having our usual light-hearted conversation. In Kansas City, the weather was beautiful so our talk wandered, until Jason said "Did you see that?" He was referring to the first plane hitting the tower. Looked like a terrible accident....then, the second plane. "Well, Jason, this is no accident." Throughout the morning, while taping an interview for after*words, the director, Dave Vandivort, was telling me, over the ear-piece, about the towers crumbling, the crash in Pennsylvania and the attack on the Pentagon. In 2001, along with other KMBC folks, I was doing a radio talk show and 9/11 was my day in the rotation. Mostly, on the radio, we stayed with ABC's coverage, but we did occasional cut-ins about blood drives, street closures, developments at the airport. I taught my broadcasting class at Johnson County Community College that evening and everyone showed up... in a state of disbelief.

In the days following, I remember how empty the sky was with all planes grounded. It seemed as though people were more patient with and thoughtful toward each other. Flags were everywhere. My brother in the air force, close to retiring, decided to stay on for another four years or so. Around our house, the kids reacted predictably, according to their personalities. The oldest was numb...sad...worried. Our second son went to work on trying to figure out who did it and why. Our daughter, always an optimist, was saying everything would be okay. And, Harry, age 5, a freshly-minted kindergartener, knew what had happened but was more focused on Legos and action figures...a diversion we were happy he was taking. That day, my wife decided we were going to Wisconsin for Christmas. Going home sounded reassuring.

Scanning the list of victims, I came across a name I recognized: Robert Fox. In fact, there were several Robert and Bob Fox's on the list. I had worked with a Bob Fox during college and he'd been a good friend. We stayed in touch off and on over the years and I knew he had moved back to the New York area. I dialed the last number I had for him and waited through the rings. About seven rings in...my mom always told me to give a person at least six rings to get to the phone...I was going to hang up, when, over the receiver, came Bob's unmistakably low-key "Hello?" Turns out he had not gone into the city that day...working from home, instead. One of those unremarkable decisions we all make everyday, never knowing what ramifications may arise. The kind of choice that makes the movie It's A Wonderful Life seem more real than fantasy.

I suspect most of us wondered, in those first few post 9-11 days, how our country and the world would be different. Would families still pile in the car and head for Washington DC? Would you ever let your kids out of your sight? Would you even consider letting your college-age children go away to school more than a short drive from home? For me, I found some answers thinking about my grandma. I had always called her Big Grandma, because, from my little-kid vantage point, she seemed taller than my other grandma, the one I called Little Grandma. (Even as I child, I was master of the obvious!) Big Grandma had lived through two World Wars, The Great Depression, The Korean War, The Cold War, the assassination of JFK, MLK and RFK, Vietnam, Watergate and much more. In her personal life, she had been left a young widow with 11 children, one of whom passed away as a child, raising them on a farm with little money but lots of love and laughter. Through it all, she kept going...moving ahead. She passed away several years before 2001, but, in the days, weeks and months after 9/11, I thought about her often and figured she would have been very sad for the families and for the country. She would have prayed in private and smiled warmly in public. She would have said, as my then eight year old daughter did, that everything would be okay and would have made plans for the future, like my wife did, in saying we were going home for the holidays. As it turned out, we, along with thousands of others, did, eventually, pile the family into the car for a visit to Washington...our kids have been out-of-sight pretty often...as far out as Dallas and Chicago...and, our oldest son is looking at colleges with no parent-imposed mileage limit.

As is the case with many grandmas, mine liked flowers. When it got too hard to plant them herself, her daughter (my mom) made sure Big Grandma had flower-pots filled with bulbs, seeds and plants ready to blossom at some point down the road. There is something intrinsically optimistic about folks who plant flowers. No matter what is happening around you when you bury that seed, you firmly believe you will be there to water it, tend it and watch it push through the soil. And, when it blooms, your faith and hope are rewarded. I think, had Big Grandma been around on 9/11/01, she may well have planted a flower or two...out of season or not...without saying a word to anyone...just to prove that, even on a dark day, there is reason to believe in the future.

Just about everyone worries about being late for work or school, now and then. Well, not so much in my family because, as I've mentioned before in this space, they operate under PST or Philps Standard Time, Philps being my wife's maiden name. There always seems to be some extenuating circumstance that makes being a little late a good thing: "See, if we'd been on time, we'd have been in that fender-bender with the HumVee!" But, for me, being late for work has been a concern for the last 18 years or so, due in large part to the hours being a little topsy-turvy. (See how old, I am? I use the word topsy-turvy. I also, blushingly, refer to my t-shirts as undergarments.) When I get to work, I go directly to the basement of the building where the weather center is located. (The one high-tech piece of weather equipment we don't have is a window...which may explain a lot of my forecasts.) I go about my business and may not really see another living human being until about a half hour before the program starts. As great as this lack of contact with me is for my co-workers, it does mean that my absence would go unnoticed until very late in the game. I've voiced this concern, at times, to the producers but they see my potential "missing" status as a positive opportunity. I worry because I know, if I miss a morning, they, meaning the producers and viewers, will quickly come to the realization that "nobody" doing the weather is more personable, watchable and accurate than me doing the weather.

I am probably asking for trouble from my alarm clocks, but I've really only had one close call, as far as being late for FirstNews, in 18-plus years. It was back in February of 1989. Maria Antonia and I were celebrating the one year anniversary of the show with a week of special guests and features. The big finish, on Friday, was a broadcast from the offices of Shook, Hardy and Bacon at One Kansas City Place. The view of the town was spectacular. This was back when the show went on the air at 6:30 a.m. Although that seems like such a late starting time, now, there were times Maria and I wondered if anyone was actually out there. (Soon the start time was moved to 6:00 a.m. then 5:30, now 5:00. When we started going on at five in the morning, my dad asked me if we were trying to reach the "parents-with-infants and cat-burglar demographic". I have no doubt that one of these days we will be starting FirstNews as soon as Lara and Larry sign off at 10:35 p.m. Maybe we could actually have the morning and evening anchor teams thumb wrestle or something for control of the desk!)

Well, as I mentioned, the show started at 6:30 a.m. For some reason I did not hear the three alarms or I turned them off without waking up. Also, we had very little kids at the time and this must have that rare occasion that everyone had actually slept in their own beds for the whole night. In any case, I didn't wake up until 6:07. I will remember that time, in red, accusatory numbers on the digital clock for the rest of my life. I looked at the numbers...rubbed my eyes...quickly went through the days of the week to see if it was a Saturday or Sunday...then, bolted from the bed. I grabbed some clothes and hustled out to the car, dressing as I moved. At the time, we lived about ten minutes from the station. I arrived at 6:19, only to remember that the show was on location that day...a couple blocks down the street. I stole some maps from Bryan Busby's night-before weather presentation...luckily, there was nothing new in the forecast...and ran back out the door and down the street, tore into the One KC, jumped on the elevator and walked out to the set around 6:28. Maria mentioned that she'd called down to the weather center before she'd headed out but I didn't answer so she thought I was probably already gone. Our legendary camera-operator, Betty Cam, growled that she figured I was goofing off somewhere, then she settled in behind the camera with one of her frisky little romance novels which she read during my weathercasts.

Interestingly, although my clothes were disheveled and my forecast was totally off the top of my head with major help from Busby's maps, no one seemed to notice. Maybe that means I did a great job covering up my slumber blunder. (WARNING: Do not attempt to say "slumber blunder" three times fast as severe tongue sprain may occur. Also, the phrase itself, is actually illegal in seven states so be careful.) Or, more likely, all my weather forecasts look thrown together and I always look half-baked so this particular morning didn't stand out! (I just noticed that I have used parentheses and italics a lot in this story. I think that indicates that the story is pretty pathetic and I am trying to dress it up (you know, make it more interesting) than it really (Really) deserves. Oh OH NOW I HAVE FOUND THE BOLD KEY...SO WATCH OUT!!!)

If you are wondering if I was late one morning this week and that's why I got to thinking about this, nope...not me. Someone in the FirstNews family was a little on the slow side one day this week but I'd never rat him or her out. Even though, he or she already talked about it on the air. I just don't think it would be right for me to mention a name here and I told Johnny Rowlands that very thing. Oops. Well, what goes around comes around so I may have just jinxed myself. Tune in next week. If you notice that all the maps are the same as the night before and my suit-jacket is on backwards, you'll know that Mr. Sandman hit me in the head with a ball peen hammer.

The circus is in town! So, for once, that smell is coming from the elephants and not my on-the-air performance. Thursday morning, I will be doing the weather from the Ringling Brothers-Barnum & Bailey Circus. It is always a dangerous assignment for me. The last couple of times I did it, they kept trying to herd me into the hyena cage. When I explained that I do the weather, they handed me a shovel and pointed me to the business end of a zebra, assuming I would feel right at home.

Frankly, I do feel right at home around the circus. As a kid, we used to go to movies in Baraboo Wisconsin at the Al Ringling Theatre. One of my best friends worked at the Circus World Museum there for many summers. I even interviewed a Wallenda, once! We used to have old-fashioned tent circuses visit the area. I've told this story before but it's worth recounting. Once a small circus set up their big top on the field next to the grade school. This was before we had any "Parks and Rec" so the kickball and baseball diamonds were created by running over the same path a million times with stones, branches, caps and school books used for bases. Well, back at the circus, one of the elephants got a little frisky and went out looking for fun. The tourist with a trunk broke free from the stake in the ground and rambled around town. More than one resident took a vow of sobriety that afternoon. Eventually, Jumbo found the nursing home, Maplewood, and decided to visit...crashing through one of the doors. Even for some of our town's older folks, this was a new one. One guy in his 90s, from a different wing of Maplewood, who had not actually viewed the elephant, put in an immediate request for a change in his medication...figuring he was missing out on something. To this day, there is a sign posted in the invaded hallway that says "Pachyderm Crossing!"

Whenever we see the news footage of the elephants coming to town in advance of the big show...like we used this morning on FirstNews... it unleashes a loud, spittle-icious contest of elephant trumpeting around our dinner table. I think I may still win the award for loudest, most obnoxious sound but actually making the noise has started to give me major headaches, a craving for peanuts and the inability to respond coherently to anyone for up to three days, unless they call me Babar.

Well, we may not see elephants tomorrow morning on FirstNews but it is sure to be an adventure. I just know I'm going to end up with a shovel full of meadow muffins. Again, not that different than any other morning.

For most holidays, I have vivid childhood memories: church and presents for Christmas, church and eggs for Easter, parades for Memorial Day and 4th of July, food and football on Thanksgiving. Being told by my mom that the reason the mailbox was empty on February 14 was that there were just too many Valentines for me, so they had to burn them, so as not to make others feel bad. I was 22 at the time. Standing in our front yard, on one leg, with my arms unfurled, because my brothers told me it was an Arbor Day tradition for the youngest in the family to pretend to be a Dutch Elm. My performance as a tree was given the "Legs Up" by the neighborhood dogs.

Then, there was Labor Day. As a kid, I spent most of Labor Day in front of the TV watching the Jerry Lewis Telethon. I would prepare my viewing area in the living room with a mountain of chocolate, wash rags and a bucket full of ice, and Hai Karate after-shave. My goal was to watch every minute and sometimes I'd make it. I saw the famous Dean Martin-Jerry Lewis reunion engineered by Frank Sinatra, for example. I'm not entirely sure why I did it. I was not the biggest Jerry Lewis fan in the house, that distinction belonged to one of my brothers. When a Jerry Lewis movie was on TV, we'd all watch this brother rather than the screen, because he would totally replicate every face and gesture Lewis made. It was funny until his wedding where, when he was asked if he took this woman to be his lawful-wedded wife, he screamed "Hey Lady...froinlaben..." I think I just liked the challenge of staying up all night. Okay, so I was not exactly David Blaine, but it was still a big deal for me.

Years later, I saw part of the telethon live when I lived in Las Vegas. I came away with enormous respect for Ed McMahon. He was on stage and working the entire time. Back then, I admired his good humor and his work ethic. Today, being older, I admire his bladder control. When I started working at KMBC, we carried the telethon so, occasionally, I did the middle of the night shift so the main hosts could get some rest. In fact, since being in broadcasting, there have been relatively few Labor Days, I haven't worked. Now, I know people with truly important jobs, as opposed to what I do, work lots of holidays...nurses, firefighters, police officers, doctors...so I am not complaining. However, this year by the luck of the draw, I happened to have Labor Day off.

In my head, I envisioned the following: sleep until 10:00 a.m. or so...put up the flag...have a huge, waffle-laden breakfast...walk the dog...read and doze a bit on the terrace by the pool while my wife and children made sure all my snack needs were met in a timely manner...then, end the day with a giant pan of home-made lasagne, accompanied by a stirring rendition of Look For The Union Label performed by my Von-Trapp-Like-Children. Well, that was the dream. The reality was a little different.

I woke up around 2:00 a.m. because my internal alarm clock is set for that hour. After making sure it was a day I had off...I went back to sleep until around 6:00 a.m. Then, I woke up with a face full of warm, soggy dog breath. There he was, my canine snooze alarm, smiling at me and ready to eat and take a walk. I told him to wait just a little bit longer. A few minutes later he was on the bed...paws on either side of me...staring directly into my eyes. Now, during the week, when I actually get up at 2:00 a.m., he barely stirs at all. But, on weekends or, apparently, holidays, he is ready to go no later than seven. I gave in. So much for sleeping until 10:00 a.m.

I did put the flag up, but we didn't have waffles. As for lounging pool-side, the problem there is we have no pool.

Instead, I ended up in the basement. Cleaning. With four kids, we have gone through a lot of toys and they end up in the basement. Whenever I've talked about giving some away, the ones I choose turn out to have a special meaning to one of the kids or, more often, my wife. I can show her a Happy Meal toy, circa 1991, and she can relate all the events of the day we got it. Including what we were all wearing. Her family will tell you that she has always had (or claims to have) amazing recall. For example, she insists the walls of the nursery in the hospital where she was born were lime green. In any case, this has led us to hold onto a lot of toys. More than once I've had to shoo that giraffe from Toys R Us out of our house because he was sure our basement was his warehouse. Well, lately my wife has decided she needs to get the basement into some semblance of order. She has decided to donate some toys, use others in her pre-school classes and keep only certain things. Her thinking behind keeping some launches us into the future. She wants to make sure she has a box of really cool, old toys for our grandchildren to play with. She is almost certain I will scare the grandchildren and feels she will need the toys in order to compete in the always present, rarely admitted "most popular grandmother" competition.

My job was to empty out the various tubs, boxes, bags, and drawers of stuff. Throwing away the obvious garbage, sorting things out, putting action figures in one pile, stuffed toys in another...which sounds easy until you come across a stuffed, green Power Ranger. It was only supposed to take a short while. Four hours later, I returned to the surface of the earth, fully intending to use the rest of day to read and relax. What I found was a kitchen in total disarray all because of a little comment I had made the day before.

In trying to get a little plastic container out of the cupboard, I had unleashed a torrent of pots, pans, empty ice cream tubs, old margarine holders, cans, jars and, I believe, a used Volvo. (If you are old enough to remember Fibber McGee's closet, you're on the right track. If you're not old enough to remember Fibber McGee's closet ask your parents or grandparents or great grandparents.) To this cacophonous annoyance I responded with a litany of comments along the lines of "My goodness. What a mess I have made. Heavens...I hope I did not disturb anyone. My word, what a bother." Well, it may not have exactly been those very words but I did make clear my irritation. That resulted in my wonderfully attentive wife deciding to straighten up that cupboard which led to the pantry which led to the refrigerator which led to the freezer which led back to the other cupboards which led to the kitchen drawers. The end result...eight garbage bags filled with junk...enough unopened ketchup to qualify us as relatives of John Kerry...half-used packets of spaghetti that, put end to end, would reach to the planet formerly known as Pluto and back...lots of new space...was great. Her technique makes it hard to help, though, as there seems to be no method to her madness. So, for the most part, I stood there...wanting a snack but afraid to enter the war-zone.

Well, we got a lot done around the house on Labor Day. I did read a little. I did walk the dog. I did put up the flag. As for the kids, they didn't sing to me but come Arbor Day, they promised to imitate an orange grove, just for me...and the dog.