For many Halloweens, my lovely wife created the costumes worn by our four children. Early on, our oldest went out dressed like a giant pumpkin...sort of a berry on steroids. She also made a bunny outfit that looked something like Bugs but it wasn't Bugs...just in case any Warner Brothers lawyers are paying attention. "Here Comes Peter Cottontail...Hopping down the copyright infringement bunny trail...Hippity. Hoppity. Litigation's on its way." Perhaps her greatest creation was turning our daughter into a box of pop-corn. She was rather short at the time, so her brothers called her Pop-corn Shrimp. Of course, we had our share of clowns, Power Rangers, Spidermans, devils, goblins and witches. Yesterday, our 16 year old son, said he was going to comb his hair into a sharp point, then plaster it with hair-spray and mousse. After preparation, he would proceed to go up to people, push his head into their body and say he was a "thorn in their side." He doesn't plan on getting much candy.

One year, my daughter started out to be a ballerina, then morphed into a witch, then tried to turn that into a princess. She ended up looking like a member of the royal family on Pluto. A couple years back, our oldest son went out in the neighborhood wearing a Chief's jacket, wire-rimmed glasses and scrunching up his face in a pained smile. He looked just like Dick Vermeil. He once did his impression for the Coach himself on a Red Friday. Mr. Vermeil, ever the gentleman, patted my son on the head and then made me do a hundred push-ups and 20 laps around Barney Allis Plaza.

This year, our youngest son is about the only true trick-or-treater left. He is recycling one of his mother's greatest hits from years past: a giant Butterfinger. He'll make a decent haul in candy. And, actually, our daughter, dressed as a baby, will also make the rounds. It's one of the advantages of being kind of small for her age. Who am I kidding? Our daughter is the kind of person who will be dressing up for Halloween her whole life, just for the fun of it. I, on the other hand, am not that kind of person.

I tried it one year. Wore a "blood-stained" shirt with a pocket-protector, horn-rimmed glasses with white athletic tape over the nose portion, matted my hair down and puffed up my neck until I looked a little like a cross between Mr. Wizard's evil lab assistant, Buddy Holly and a bullfrog. I was quite proud of the overall effect until I opened the door for the first trick-or-treater, and was greeted with "You're that weatherman, aren't you?" I knew the TV cameras added pounds but, until then, I didn't know they revealed the inner child, so clearly. After that I mentioned to a co-worker, that I was done with costumes. "Next year, I'll just go out dressed like a weatherman." From across the newsroom, my news director chimed in "Bad idea. According to our research nobody will ever believe you as a weatherman."

That title sounds like something you'd see on the front of a magazine, along side "Why Your Spouse Smells Like Bouillon Cubes" or "Dating Tips For Your Doberman" or "Spackling Secrets You Can Use Right Now (And Lose 25 Pounds At The Same Time!)" But, actually, it is what our youngest son has accomplished this week. Harrison views his birthday the same way Macy's views their Thanksgiving Parade. He starts planning the next one before the current one's cake is all gone. So, sometime ago, he said he just wanted to have a quiet, family-only day at home for his birthday. How sweet, we thought. Then, about a month ago, his mother played right into his little hands, by asking "Are you sure you wouldn't like to have some friends over for your birthday?" "Well, not on the actual day...I just want that to be family," he cooed...eyelashes batting feverishly. "Okay," said my wife, the pigeon, "Let's have some kids over the Saturday before...then, your actual day will be just family." "Okay, Mom, if you want to...thanks a lot...oh, and that'a beautiful dress you're wearing Mrs. Cleaver." Okay, he didn't say the last part, but he may as well have. As soon as his mother gave him the go-ahead, a list of names magically appeared as well as an agenda.

That's how, last Saturday, my wife and daughter, ended up taking five fifth- and sixth-grade boys out for pizza and a movie...followed by a giant cookie, rootbeer and presents. They were all very well-behaved and Harrison had a great time. Now, what I am about to say may get me into some trouble but, as the father of boys and a girl, I have found, in my experience, that five or six boys are quieter than two girls. During some of my daughter's birthday parties, we actually saw cracks develop in the home's foundation and witnessed a mass exodus of squirrels, rabbits and moles from the yard. In any case, all went well with the party that wasn't supposed to be.

As the last guest was leaving, I asked Harrison what he had in mind for his actual birthday which was still to come. This is his run-down: Stay up as late as possible on Friday night eating Pepper Jack Doritos and drinking rootbeer from a can. On Saturday, play with whatever new stuff he gets, taking a break to eat kielbasa and chocolate cake. After the chips, pop, sausage and cake, he's pretty sure he'll be unapproachable by anyone not wearing a hazardous materials uniform...and that's part of his plan.

Just a parting word about birthday presents, he started his list about a year ago and it has been revised several times since then. He always figures what doesn't come his way on his big day is still a possibility when the holidays hit. This year his list is filled with football related items, video games and the traditional candy bag. A candy bag is something his mom came up with years ago. As it turns out, no matter what else any of the kids get for their birthday, the candy bag is the most anxiously awaited. I suspect it will be one of those things she'll still be doing when the kids hit their own golden years. Instead of M&Ms and Cheetohs, it may be salt-free crackers and Metamucil.

One last thing, when he was about three, Harrison made a list of things he wanted for his birthday: "soup, five dollars and monkey tape." His mother and I are still hunting for the last one.

Growing up in Wisconsin, I knew of some pastors and priests who made a point of getting the 11:00 Sunday morning service wrapped up about ten to the hour...giving everybody, including himself, about 15 minutes to get to a TV for the kick-off of the Green Bay Packers game. On football Sundays, the greeting line going out the door went very quickly. "Nice to see you. Have a good week. Take care...." some of that was being said as the car was pulling away. There was no Monday Night, Sunday Night or Thursday Night football. It was all on Sunday afternoons...usually on a very small, grainy, black and white TV. We'd put tin-foil on the antenna to improve the reception. The sixties, of course, were heady times for Packer fans. Starr, Hornung, McGee, Nitschke. We didn't have saints in the Lutheran church but Lombardi came close. Of course, after Vince said good-bye, things went downhill for a long while but we still watched every game. It is a little known fact, but, when a native cheesehead drives back into Wisconsin, you are stopped at the border. If you can't name at least a dozen Packers, identify which end of Lambeau Field a single blade of grass came from and know to the inch, Lombardi's hat size, you are turned away. There is also a secret hand-shake but I am not allowed to give any details. If I did, I could have my lefse and cheese curd allowance cut off.

My wife's childhood memories of Packer games, bring to mind a series of brand-new sticker books...given in the hope that she and her sisters would be so busy from noon to 3:00 that her dad and uncles wouldn't miss a play. Once the Packer's Bobblehead was positioned on top of the TV and the autographed football was being tossed around the living room, it was all about the game. Today, she is a big football fan. There have been some Monday night games, involving teams we really have no vested interest in, when I will be fast asleep, only to be awakened by my wife's hollering. The noise doesn't bother me but waking up to see her doing an end-zone dance, wearing face-paint, and carrying a cardboard plate of nachos, can be disconcerting.

When I started at KMBC, the Packers weren't very good and the Chiefs were not much better. I made a deal with the news director that, if the Packers and Chiefs ever played each other (again) in the Super Bowl, I'd be on the crew to go to the game. It seemed like a safe bet until just a few years later when Sports Illustrated had the two teams on the cover, predicting just that match-up. It did turn out to be the year the Packers returned to the big game but we're still waiting for that Chiefs return trip. Interestingly, after a few months at Channel 9, my news director offered to send me to the game no matter who played provided I didn't come back.

As I mentioned, when we first moved here, the home team was not having much success. Channel 9 had the coach's show at the time and we started doing tail-gate specials, as well. As part of those shows, I would do some feature stories. Once I did a profile of living legend, Tony DiPardo. He is one of the all-time great guys and the story was lots of good fun. But, the clearest memory I have is of oldest son Alex, then just a toddler, standing in the endzone as these giant men in pads went running by him. Alex was staring straight up as they lumbered out of the lockeroom. I also did a story about the cheerleaders. This was back when they had male cheerers, too. I ended up on top of the pyramid. It was not long after that, that the squad went all female. I'm not sure if the two things are related. I did a piece, once, about the people who sit in the upper-most row in the stadium They were a great bunch. The day of the story, I was wearing a blue sweater which met with immediate disdain. So, the top-row gang all chipped in and bought me an official Chief's shirt. I still have it and, to this day, when I put it on, I get a nose-bleed.

Alex was and is a major football fan. As a child, he invented The Pretendo-Land Bowl featuring star quarterback, Chris Jetts! Talk about your fantasy leagues. This was before video games so he would draw pictures and write stories about Chris and the team. To this day, when he talks in his sleep, he sometimes is doing play-by-play for the Pretendo-Land fans. In the real world, he's been both excited and frustrated by the Chiefs over the years. Once, when the team lost a close playoff game, Alex, with all the anger a six-year old can muster, ripped off his Chief's jersey and threw it in the corner...vowing to never watch another game. He quickly renounced his renunciation.

In our house, we have a continuum of football fan fervor. Our second son has no interest at all. It all seems rather silly and convoluted to him. However, bear in mind, he is the same one who gets very engrossed in a computer game that involves nasty gnomes and places called "Wikiwakkiwoo" or something like that. He reminds me of a great uncle I used to have, back in the 60s, who insisted that football was fake and TV wrestling was real. His argument was undercut by the fact that he had a very high pitched voice and sounded a little like Mickey Mouse...a very angry Mickey Mouse. As if Mickey had been pulled over by Malibu police at three in the morning. Our daughter likes the Packers but not enough to actually watch the games. Mostly, she thinks she looks cute in the jerseys. I've already mentioned that our oldest son is a major fan. When he was little, he could recite facts and figures about every Chief and many non-Chiefs. It was like having a pint-sized Rainman running around the house. He still knows more about the team and the game than is probably healthy. I'm pretty sure the parts of his brain that should tell him about replacing the empty toilet paper roll, taking out the garbage and answering the phone when he's standing right next to it, are filled with stats about Tony Gonzales, Trent Green and KC Wolf. As previously noted, my wife loves football. She will watch any team at any time. I prefer to think that it is because she appreciates the history, excitement and strategy of the game. Period.

That brings us to Harrison. He never paid much attention to football until recently. Now, he plays the game with neighbor kids and with his big brother. He collects and trades the cards. He asked me to get Len Dawson's autograph...which Mr. Dawson kindly provided. He reads every book and article remotely connected to the game. It must be genetic, because he has become a major Packer Backer. He does the Lambeau Leap into bed. Now, I've warned him that the next few years may be a challenge..."rebuilding years" I believe is what they call them...and he will have to be patient...like Packer fans were in the 70s and 80s. I think he'll be okay about that. He already knows all the passwords, listed above, for getting back into the state and has almost mastered the secret handshake.

I apologize for the previous blog's lunacy. I fully intended to answer a few of the questions that get asked by kind viewers and, instead, I digressed so dramatically, that I never got around to the actual inquiries. What happened is, I started out using the internet abbreviation FAQ which got me thinking about all the things those letters could stand for besides "Frequently Asked Questions." By the time I was done, I was feeling "Frightened And Quivering!" No! Stop! Just answer the questions, you Fumbling Addle-minded Quidnunc!

Okay. Here goes. These are questions that friendly folks often ask when I'm out and about...like at the American Royal Parade a couple weeks back or at the Jared Coones Pumpkin Run and Walk Saturday morning in Olathe. (Thanks to the over 2100 walkers and runners. It is one of the great family things to do for a host of wonderful causes, all in the memory of a terrific boy and in honor of his magnificent family!) Sometimes those asking the questions will almost apologize for wondering about such "superficial" things, as one lady put it. But, since these are questions I can actually answer, as opposed to weather questions, I find them vitally important and welcome.

What time do you get up in the morning for work?

As I look back over these bits of bloggerania, I notice that many of them have to do with sleep. That maybe because I don't get a whole lot of that stuff. I try to be in bed at or before 8:30 p.m. Some nights are later than that and a few are earlier. I get up at 2:00 a.m. I find that, if I wanted to do a decent job, I'd need more sleep. As it stands now, with around five hours of sleep or less, I can sometimes stretch myself to near-mediocrity on good days. By the way, I recently read that if you sleep five hours from midnight to 5:00 a.m. it is healthier and more restful than getting those five hours starting around 8 or 9. There appears to be something in the body clock that makes it better to be asleep in those 1-4 am hours. On my own personal body clock, Mickey is missing his left hand and the ticking sounds like two dim-witted woodpeckers vacationing in the Petrified Forest.

Do you color your hair?

No. My children have done that for me.

Who picks out what you will wear on TV?

Many years ago, the first news director I worked for, told me that on-air folks should dress like professionals...nothing flashy. For awhile I tried to flaunt that convention. Today, "convention-flaunting" happens so often it is just about the norm which means, to be a rebel, you have to find a way to de-flaunt. I tried that once and had to make several visits to a chiropractor. Anyway, in my first couple years of broadcasting, I had two sportcoats that were not considered appropriate. A pink one that gave me the look of a puffy salmon trying to swim upstream in search of the nearest donut shop and a sort of turquoise blue one that would've made Crockett and Tubbs run screaming back to Miami. I thought they looked kind of hip and cool. Most viewers reported that their cats and small dogs would go around in circles and require sedation when I wore them. Frankly, looking back, those two jackets did make me look like a TeleTubby on steroids or the end of the broadcast day in some mythical land of unicorns and harpsichords. When I moved to Kansas City I got rid of those Easter Egg jackets and went with dark suits, white shirts and, mostly unobtrusive ties.

Then, there was a minor revolution in what was acceptable for TV pinheads to wear. Some folks started to wear open collars instead of ties...some went without jackets...some went the sweater-vest route. We had one extremely talented sports guy that even wore a Nehru jacket kind of outfit. The news director had to draw the line at the large, clunky gold chain and Beatles haircut, however. Another newsman would wear this very yellow...almost golden-rod...sportcoat. Often, when out on a story people would come up and ask him if he could show them ranch-homes with stucco exterior...and, just what would the interest rate be on a 30-year mortgage?

I tried to be cool by wearing a mock turtleneck one time. The turtleneck may have been mock but my multiple chins were real. It didn't make me come out of my shell. Another time, I wore a sweater vest and the anchors teased me about looking pompous and officious. Well, once I looked up those words, I cried...being the sensitive soul, I am. Even during severe weather, when some consultants urge folks to look a little disheveled and "on-the-job," I feel underdressed in short-sleeves. This may go back to my youth when I refused to wear blue jeans because I thought they seemed too informal. In fact, I didn't own a pair of jeans until I was out of college. This maybe because the worst thing my mother could call you was a "ragamuffin." It meant you looked a little tattered and unkempt. Now, with ripped clothing and baggy pants being "in," it seems a little bit like living in clown alley at the circus. Emmett Kelly wouldn't get a second look. (Thank you for sitting still for my "old coot" ranting and raving. One more thing "You kids get offa my lawn!")

Does TV really make you look heavier?

Yes. I've decided it adds about thirty pounds and 25 years. When I moved to Kansas City sometime in the last century, I was thin. When I see pictures from those early days, I notice that much of my weight is hair. Then, a couple things happened. My wife and I started having kids and everytime my wife was pregnant, I would gain about 400 pounds. Around the same time, my metabolism changed. Among my brothers, two can stay slender with little or no trouble. I believe they have sold their souls to the devil...or Jenny Craig. My other brother and I, hit 30 and everything we had ever eaten in the previous three decades turned to fat.

What do your kids think of the fact that you're on TV?

They are pretty sure that the generally pleasant person on the screen is not the same one who seems so surly at home. When our oldest son, now 17, was little, we were at a fundraiser in DeKalb, Missouri. I was on the stage doing something silly while my wife and two boys were in the audience. At one point, a woman leaned over to three-year-old Alex and said "That's your daddy up there, isn't it?" "No, " Alex replied seriously, "That's Joel Nichols."

I'd better leave the questions at that, for now. If you have any, please send them to me at jnichols@hearst.com. For now, I am feeling Fatigued And Querulous.

You know how a lot of web-sites have a section labeled "FAQ?" For a long time I thought that was in reference to distant geese and stood for "Far Away Quackers." Then I figured it might be a club designed for that old Jack Klugman show in which he played a coroner: "Fanatical About Quincy." It could also apply to my personal motto for those times...like everyday...when I realize I don't know what I'm talking about: "Forge Ahead Quickly." Finally, one of my children explained to me that FAQ stands for Frequently Asked Questions. That's fine, but not as much fun as describing your relative's bad habits as "Family Acquired Quirks." Or, talking about a meeting of McIntoshes, Yellows, and Granny Smiths as a "Famous Apple Quorum."

Then there was the cookie king who tried to branch out and feather his nest with a product that just didn't fly: "Famous Amos Quail." Back in the old days, when people wanted to send nasty notes to someone they used "Ferociously Acidic Quills." Once, in college, when I went to buy a place to sleep that would remind me of my grandma's house, I was told, in no uncertain terms that "Futons Aren't Quilted." Around that same time, a friend of mine had a strange little pet whose curiosity led it to get stuck with his head in a Pepsi bottle. My friend explained it by saying "Ferrets Are Quizzical."

Perhaps, when someone has a little "odor" problem, we could say "Fix Armpit Quadrant." During the holidays, I rapidly reach my "Fruitcake Appetite Quota." Of course, with Hollywood making fewer movies featuring giant monkeys, it is clear they are in the midst of a "Fading Ape Quotient." On the other hand, Will Ferrell, Steve Carrel, Ben Stiller and Vince Vaughn are a "Funny Actor Quartet." At work, when I'm late getting to the weather board, the director will intone: "Flabby Anchor Quickly!"

If you are worried about losing your hair you have "Follicle Abandonment Qualms." Our founding father, Ben, would get really hungry and stop at nothing to find food. Jefferson, Washington and Adams would say "There he goes. Franklin's Abdominal Quest." The place the newest circus trapezers sleep is called the "Fledgling Acrobats Quarters." If your uncles married hoity-toity women who liked to nit-pick, you'd say your "Fancy Aunts Quibble."

If you scare a bunch of building designers as they are running away you made "Fleeing Architects Quake." If your driver's license allows you to operate a long-snouted creature that loves to nosh on bugs, you may be "Fully Anteater Qualified." It is a little known fact, but Elizabeth II can write equally well with both hands while lounging on a giant rubber duckie in the royal pool. Yes, she is a "Floating Ambidextrous Queen."

I intended to actually answer some Frequently Asked Questions this time around but I've completely wasted this space and your time. I just know the Channel 9 Web-Master will be yelling at me, which will lead to my "First A.M. Quarrel." I guess I'd better just end this silliness, which is quite easy for me since I have our family crest tattooed on my inner thigh: "FAQ=Forever A Quitter!"

Let me explain the title of this blogerature. (I've decided to class this stuff up a little by referring to these pieces as a cross between "Blog" and "Literature"...as though, say, Charles Dickens may have blogged in this day and age: "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. LOL!") The Great Pick-Up could refer to an exceptional truck. For example, my dad bought a pick-up truck after all my brothers had moved out and we didn't need as much room for trips. He was a very gifted carpenter and turned the back of the vehicle into a neat little camper. You could give him a 2x4, three nails and a can of spray paint and, in about a half hour, you'd have a three-room bungalow. My brothers inherited the "handy-gene." One of them put in a new bathroom all by himself that would make Sochi Tabuchi...he, of the fancy Branson bathrooms...Tidy-Bowl Blue with envy. I think my brother, at his advanced age, spends a lot of time in there and wanted it to be "livable." Anyway, I do not have any fix-it-up abilities. In fact, I was the only graduate from my high school to receive an industrial arts scholarship just by promising never to touch a hammer, saw or screwdriver again. It was presented to me by my former shop teacher, Elwood "Three-Fingers" Schmidlestetter. I'm not going to explain his nickname, as my role in the "case" remains unresolved.

Anyway, the title is not about a truck. It could be about a social exchange between people, in an attempt by one of them to get to know the other in a more personal and intimate way. Wow. That was certainly a delicate way to phrase that! It comes from having had little kids around a lot of the time. Now, our kids are old enough that they teach my wife and I new words and phrases...sometimes by accident. But, back when they were tiny, we became expert at couching things in not-t00-descriptive terms. This ability to not quite say what I mean has come in very handy doing weather all these years. I remember back during the President Clinton/Monica Lewinsky story, our kids were quite young and we were sometimes left a bit unsure about how to explain some of the news items to the kids. At one point we heard our daughter, still just a toddler, pretending to be a news reporter. She was holding a wooden spoon like a microphone and staring into an invisible camera when she, assuming her version of a serious news voice, intoned "It now appears that Harmonica Lewinsky did not have a sensible relation with Bill Clinton." While a couple of words may have been off a bit, the "analysis" was pretty much right on. As for the "pick-up" in this story's title, it has nothing to do with "meeting new people." I never had a good line. When I'd ask "What's your sign?" The girl would say "Yield."

No, by The Great Pick-Up, I am referring to what I do as part of walking our dog. We had a story on FirstNews about a town that is really cracking down on folks that don't clean up after their pooch. It reminded me that the only award I have ever won was in our old neighborhood. It was at a street party and they presented me with the Pooper-Scooper Award for always picking up the pup's left-behinds. I want to be honest here...even if I am running the risk of having my award taken back...there were times, when I was walking two dogs, both of whom apparently had gotten plenty of fiber in their diet, and I ran out of plastic bags. So, yes, there were a couple of times I pretended to pick up the evidence. There was nobody around but I just knew that someone would be watching from inside their house or from a tree-top or, maybe, one of those NewsChoppers would capture my negligence on tape. I pretended to take a piece of paper out of my pocket...leaned down...in a very dramatic, swooping motion I "picked up" the offensive material. Sort of a cross between Marcel Marceau and Ed Norton. Of course, it was all an act and, probably, nobody was watching which makes me kind of sad for all the effort. A mime is a terrible thing to waste.

Most of the time, I do the back-yard scooping duties, too. It is one of those jobs that would be perfect to hand off...so to speak...to a son or daughter, but, oddly enough, I kind of enjoy it. It is like a strange Easter Egg hunt, if the Easter Bunny had some sort of gastrointestinal malady. When I am in a particularly thrill-seeking mood, I do the job barefoot.

Jerry Seinfeld has a routine about aliens observing dog owners doing the pick-up and then following along obediently behind their four-legged friends, carefully carrying the valuable product. The ET's reach the obvious conclusion that the furry ones are in charge and the humans are simple minions. That's the way it feels to me. It is hard to look cool toting a plastic bag filled with your dog's digestive memories. Everyone you meet knows exactly what's in there and what you did to put it there. Their admiration for your efforts is usually hard to notice through their obvious disgust with your job, well-done.

Speaking of jobs, at the previously mentioned block party, after getting my certificate, I was approached by a disgruntled fellow dog-walker. He felt I had an unfair advantage in the "competition." When I asked what he meant, he replied "Well, look at what you do everyday on the TV. The only difference between that and what you do walking your dog, is that with the dog, you have the good sense to stick it in a bag." I was going to frame my honor and put it up on our front door, just to spite the guy. But, on the way home, our dog did a little business and I didn't have a bag. The only paper I had was the award so...well, you get the picture. I am pretty sure the dog did it knowingly. They left his name off the certificate. I can't really blame him. After all, without him, I'd just be a chubby middle-aged man wandering around the neighborhood with an empty bag in my hand.

On television, we sometimes tend to throw words around with little or no thought. For example, "tragedy" gets used so often and in so many different situations, that the word loses a lot of its power and meaning. Even a positive word, say, "legend," gets applied too liberally. Well, in the case of Buck O'Neil, that word and every other positive accolade you can think of, fits like a baseball glove.

Watching and listening to the broadcast coverage since Buck's passing, as well as reading the messages being left at thekansascitychannel.com, make it seem like Buck met everybody in town. He certainly would've had the energy to do so! It was the power of his personality, personal story and message that reached through the TV screen or radio speaker and made all of us feel that one-to-one connection. Over the years, I was honored to have Buck on my little talk show, after*words, a couple of times. The first was nearly ten years ago when the paperback edition of his autobiography was hitting the shelves. I asked him what it was like to become a world-wide star at age 82. He said he's always felt he was a star...now, just more people were listening! (I hope to re-air the show on October 14...the show airs at 2:00 in the morning now so you may want to tape it or use the DVR.) You could tell when Buck entered the building. He automatically raised everyone's spirits. No one could be in a bad mood when Buck was within a mile!

It wasn't officially Greater Kansas City Day, the traditional celebration of the Royal's home opener, until Buck O'Neil made a visit to FirstNews. Whatever the weather, Buck would be there, outside in front of the downtown Marriott, to get us ready for the season. It was always going to be a great season according to Buck. One year he chatted with my oldest son and signed a baseball cap for him. It is a treasured memento. This past opening day it was cold and blustery. Buck climbed out of the limo and whispered to me "Let's be quick...I'm freezing." As soon as the camera light came on, however, you'd never know he was the least bit uncomfortable. Buck's smile alone added about 50 degrees to the morning temperature.

Several years ago, at a charitable event, my wife had the honor of meeting Buck. I should mention we were both a little nervous being out on the town, seeing as how this was about the first (and last, as it turned out) time we left the kids with a babysitter. She extended her hand but Buck said "Oh, we can do better than that" and, then, engulfed her in his arms. It is a hug she'll never forget and it made both of us feel completely at ease, erasing our "what's happening at home" worries for awhile. As usual, Buck's timing was impeccable. That's what made the title of his life-story just perfect: I Was Right On Time.

The only moment Buck's timing seemed a little off was last Friday. Although he was about a bunt away from 95, hearing that Buck was gone was a surprise. He was supposed to always be around. But, thinking about it, he will be...through the museum, the interviews, the pictures and, especially, the thousands of lives he made better, just by being Buck. This past Friday was warm and sunny with a light little breeze. Perfect baseball weather. Looks like God is a fan, too.

Tomorrow morning, during FirstNews, I will be doing the weather from the American Royal Barbecue! It is always a great way to start a Friday...one of those times you may wish there really was such a thing as "smell-o-vision." (Believe me, most mornings be happy that feature doesn't exist.) I admire the men and women who are able to create such delectables on the grill. You see, I must confess, I've never been a very good BBQ guy. In fact, just about anything with fire is a problem for me...that, plus the fact that I'm a gourmet the way a duck is a biochemist, makes my culinary efforts borderline dangerous.

One of the biggest problems for me regarding barbecuing is getting the fire going. I have never been able to do it. In fact, my abilities in this regard are so lacking that even Jim Morrison wouldn't ask me to light his fire. If fate had required me to be the caveman who discovered it in the first place, we'd still be in the ice age having to watch TV in total darkness...instead of Alley Oop, I'd be Alley Oops! Even fireplaces are problematic. When my wife and I first had a house with a fireplace, I decided to use the gas starter to get a little holiday hearth action going. Well, I started the gas too early and lit the match too late. I heard a "whoosh" and the next thing I knew I was about four feet from the fireplace with singed eyebrows and toasted bangs. I didn't have to shave for about eight months. I looked a little bit like a homely seal. I was very lucky it wasn't worse but it did scare me away from fireplaces for awhile. The next time I tried to start it the old fashioned way with paper, kindling and logs. I know I had the flu open, but all the smoke still came into the living room. If I was in charge at the Vatican, there'd never be a new Pope. It got so thick in the house it was like walking through the streets of 19th century London. In fact, I'm pretty sure I saw Nigel Rathbone stealing cheese curds from the fridge. After this second fireplace fiasco, I was asked by officials of the EPA to cease and desist.

Getting a pile of charcoal to start outside...in the wind...with so many little vents on the grill which I have no idea how to use...is nearly impossible for me. I am a huge failure in the manly art of grilling and an embarrassment to the memory of my father. He once told me that the only way he could imagine me successfully having steak on the grill is if I hit a cow with my car. He was a master on the patio. He could get a fire started just by looking at the coals. Then, using Sundrop (a lemon-lime soda pop) and paprika, he created chicken that would've made Colonel Sanders drop his tail-feathers. I'm not sure what the secret to his success was but I always thought it had to do with the paprika. It seems just saying the word "paprika" makes you seem like a good cook. Paprika seems to make almost anything more palatable. I even sprinkle it on the weather computers when I get in every morning in hopes of spicing up my forecast. (I used to use the Sundrop, too, but I kept shorting out the machinery.)

Despite my genetic predisposition to a-one grilling, I fail to get a good, hot fire going. There are few things as sad and demoralizing as making the walk from the grill back inside to the microwave carrying a plate of cold wieners. Sure, they have the little grill marks on them because the grill is filthy but they are chilly dogs. They look like tiny, tubular convicts taking that last mile. Even when I get a briquette (or is that brickette?) to light, it burns cold! Once I thought I'd finally gotten a real roaster going...we put the poultry on and closed the lid. When I returned, the birds were actually wearing coats and scarves. It was like the March of the Penquins in there.

When we go to a cabin, my wife insists on starting an outdoor fire and making s'mores. Frankly, I am willing to shove a Hershey Bar, four marshmallows and two graham crackers in my mouth and then wait for a warm day, but she says it's not the same. The first, and only, time I tried to start one of these mini-bonfires, the only thing that got burned up was my family's patience. All around us at the campground, you could hear the other peoples' fires crackling and smell the goodies roasting. Meanwhile, I was sitting on the ground with a pile of matches and a DuraFlame log that was, I swear, laughing at me.

I can't really blame the equipment. We have a decent grill...everytime you open it you hear Memr'y from Cats! It's an Andrew Lloyd Weber Grill. In fact, we got a new grill for our second son's 15th birthday last year. It was what he wanted. He's an odd boy. His grandparents gave him a collection of grilling utensils that look just plain dangerous. In fact, they are WMDs...Weapons of Mass Deliciousness. The simple truth is, just as my father could BBQ...now, my son can BBQ. But I still can't BBQ. And, I know, by some accounts that makes me a little weak in the Macho Man sweepstakes. That's why I love going to the American Royal Barbecue, like I will tomorrow morning. For the rest of the day, I will walk around smelling like I know what I'm doing when it comes to outdoor cooking. Women will swoon...small children will stare at me in awe...men will want to shake my hand. For one day a year, I am a major-league BBQ guy. I smell...therefore, I am!

The other day our youngest son, Harrison, came in the door from school and asked, expectantly, "Did I get anything in the mail?" Even in this age of e-mail, instant messaging, voice mails, cell phones, it is still cool for a kid to get something in the mail. When I was little, I would order just about anything the back of the cereal box featured from decoder rings to plastic cars as well as the extra-special, guaranteed-to-work x-ray glasses. The item itself rarely lasted for long once it was delivered but, frankly, the item ordered was almost secondary to the fun of getting something in the mail. I also sold seeds door-to-door, in the spring, in order to earn enough points to buy magic tricks or novelty items from the "Earn Neat Prizes" seed-seller's catalog. Over the years, I piled up enough foam rubber ham sandwiches for a company picnic, and plenty of "disappearing nickel" tricks, which, had they always worked, could've funded a space mission to Pluto...the former planet, not the cartoon dog. Speaking of dogs, the best item I ordered, several times, from that seed prize catalog, had to do with the digestive process of a canine. I do not want to get too graphic but for awhile our house looked a little like an Iditarod trail. No matter how many times I would strategically place the "item" in her path, my mom was always surprised and disgusted. Eventually our dog actually started to carry a sign around her neck, saying "It wasn't me." She had lovely penmanship...the dog, I mean.

One of the best deliveries I ever had the pleasure of waiting for, as a teenager, was a box full of Frank Sinatra albums. For many months I had saved my money from mowing lawns, shoveling walks, and bagging groceries so I could order, directly from the company, a bunch of Sinatra records. I'm talking about the old-fashioned 33 and 1/3 albums. This was in days before "boxed sets," so you really needed the individual recordings in order to have a good chunk of an artist's work. After what seemed like years, I got home from the pool one summer afternoon and there it was...sitting on the front porch...a white box filled with Old, Blue Eyes! I sat in my room for the rest of the afternoon and evening...which is how I spent most of my adolescence...but, this time with great music!

Today, I don't look forward to the mail so much. Our oldest sons get a lot of mail about colleges that want them. That's exciting. However, I do resent it when some of the schools include a column labeled: "Parents' Bank Account and Routing Number______________." Our daughter gets postcards from friends and the occasional pseudo-chain letter. The last one involved sending a pair of flip-flops to two friends and, eventually, she was to receive approximately 18 pairs for herself. Nothing, yet. Harrison does get mail from his grandma-at-the-lake regularly. We always know it's from her because it is covered with stickers and, sometimes, has a hurried update written on the envelope like "Just saw a big, fat turkey running from the mailbox!" or "I'm making cookies today!" or "Tell your dad, he's still grounded from 1974." Inside will be a pile of coupons, a newsy note, a dollar, and another treat or two. Once, she sent Harrison four sticks of Juicy Fruit gum asking that he share it with his three siblings. So, Harrison kept three of the four sticks and divided the remaining stick into thirds for his two brothers and sister.

All of the kids get some magazines, like National Geographic, Reader's Digest, Rolling Stone, and Sports Illustrated. My wife gets Good Housekeeping and teaching related materials. She used to get some other women's magazines but I got tired of them being left open on the coffee table to articles like "Why Your Husband is A Loser" and "Is Your Husband Holding You Back?" and "Men Named Joel Rarely Succeed at Anything...and Often Smell Funny."

As for me, the days of being optimistically anxious for the mail are long gone. Most of the stuff with my name on it consists of companies that are sure my garage needs organizing, my lawn needs aerating and my fence needs painting. And those are the good pieces of mail. The rest want money. I've always liked Sundays but now I love them just for the lack of mail delivery. Holiday Mondays are big for me, too. In addition to bills and solicitation for products and services which would then lead to more bills, the only other piece of mail I regularly receive is the Publishers Clearing House stuff. Whenever it arrives, I debate whether to ignore it or wade through the various stickers and secret pockets and flaps necessary to send it in. It is a very complicated process...in fact, I understand even Einstein used to scream "Who cares if E=MC-squared...I can't find my Super Bonus Sticker!" I've quit being impressed that they seem to know me by name but I still think I could possibly win. This also explains why the rest of my family gets all the magazines previously mentioned. I just know that one of these days that van will pull up to my house and a guy with a big check and balloons will knock on the door. With my luck, Harrison will answer, take the loot, keep all but a buck and a quarter which the rest of us will divide evenly. But, I won't be empty-handed. I think I still have some of that...uh... stuff left, that I ordered from the seed-seller's catalog.

Back in the spring, when we started charting this blogosphere together, one of the first bits of nonsense I wrote was about having two sons learning to drive. It is time for an update. Both boys now have their official driver's licenses. We made it through a number of moderately close calls to get to this point. There was the time one of them saw some friends' cars and just stopped...in the middle of the street. He had arrived at his destination and was ready to get out. We had to cover the finer points of safely finding the side of the road before putting the car in park. The other one had a habit of coming up on cars stopped at a light a little too fast, especially for his mother. She officially changed his name to "Slow down...slow down....STOP....Ahhhh!" It just made things easier for her. But, overall, both boys did fine and, now are official drivers. Almost.

As many of you know, it is expensive to put teenage boys on the car insurance. When I called my agent and told him we had two to add he was quite sympathetic, in between laughing hysterically and calling the marina to order his new bass boat. Now, there are ways to get a few discounts, like good grades. Fortunately, both young people get decent marks which shaves a little off the price and both took the insurance company's DVD/workbook test to lower the amount a bit more. We also have our homeowner's policy with these folks so that gives us another minor decrease. After all these items were taken into account, we still had an increase equal to the Gross National Product of Fredonia. We decided to increase our deductible in an effort to hold back costs. I think I am now liable for any damage up to and including a dirigible accidentally hooking onto the vehicle and then dropping it through the roof of a jewelry store.

At this point it was clear that the only way the boys were going to be drivers was to pay for their share of the insurance. This also seemed to be a good way to encourage responsible driving and introduce them to the adult reality that just about everything costs money. While most folks have supported this idea, I have had a couple people say "Oh, you're a strict dad...that's a lot of money for a child." Well, short of having my inner child get a job as a bellhop somewhere, this is going to have to do.

The oldest boy, for whom getting a driver's license was never a priority until it looked like his little brother might get it first, has been hesitant to part with his dough. He is happy he has his official license now but doesn't feel any great need to actually drive. One of the top priorities in his college search is how good the public transportation is wherever he may end up as a student. The younger son, however, loves to drive. He just enjoys being behind the wheel, so, the day he got his license, he gave me the first six months worth of premiums. Well, he gave it to my wife which means the chances of it still being available when the bill comes are iffy. I think he had an ulterior motive in giving the money to his mother because I've noticed that she has gone from calling him "Slow down...slow down...STOP...Aaaahhh" to "My Dear Sweet Boy."

Now, we are starting the next step in the process when the scale starts to tip from being too worried to let the young driver go anywhere by himself to being too lazy to drive to the store for fudge-covered cheese curls yourself. We have let him drive to a friend's house about a mile away but made him call when he got there and before he left, in addition to the messages my wife and I left on his cell-phone about checking his blind spots and taking his time. At some point, we will be letting him run errands, take himself to events, and cart his siblings around...but not quite yet.

So, I thought to myself the other day as I pulled into the garage, we are done with the learner's permits...the lessons...the practicing in parking lots...the close calls...the colorful car language...all the rest....for awhile. Then, my daughter jumped in the car and informed me that a lot of her friends are turning 14 and getting their learner's permits and "well, I'm only about 72 days away from being 14 so that will be exciting...soon you'll have another driver in the family and I can help out with stuff....and I'll be a really good driver...." I don't remember the rest of what she said. I was too busy removing all the tires and steering wheel from the car. She can wait awhile. After all, how many more white hairs can my head hold and how many bass boats does one insurance agent really need?

Today is our wedding anniversary...18 years. Or, as my wife likes to say, the best three years of her life. One of these days I am going to figure out which three she is talking about. We were married on a beautiful, crisp, fall Sunday in Wisconsin. Nothing like the 90+ weather expected today. There are lots of memories from that autumn weekend like my big bachelor party blow-out the night before. My mom, her husband, one of my brothers, who was also my best man, and I played cards (euchre, to be specific) and ate homemade chewies (Special K, peanut butter, chocolate, etc.) It was a wild time. My brother offered to jump out of cake and do the hokey pokey but I said no thanks. As it was, I don't think my head hit the pillow until close to 11:00 p.m.

That Bobby McFerrin song, Don't Worry, Be Happy, was on the radio a lot and it really was the perfect background music. We really didn't have much to worry about...things had fallen into place very easily. Months before, my wife-to-be quickly found a perfect dress and tasteful bridesmaid dresses. She was even happy with the little engagement/wedding ring I'd picked out. Today, I notice that a lot of rings are huge...you could play the Stanley Cup Playoffs on them or, at least, have a grudge match between Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrington. Thanks to Jessica's parents, my mom and her husband, Pastor Fruehling and everyone else, the rehearsal, the wedding and the reception all went off without a hitch. No America's Funniest Home Videos moments to be seen. I recall as people left the church, everyone from my side of the family was expressing their condolences to Jessica, while all of her aunts and uncles were grabbing me firmly and making sure I understood the consequences of ever being less than wonderful to "their Jessica." Later, at the reception, they did the traditional "stealing of the bride/groom." A bunch of the men-folk took Jessica down the street for a quick visit to a favorite Madison haunt and then brought her back safe and sound. Meanwhile, the women dragged me down to the edge of Lake Mendota, tossed me in a rowboat and gave me a shove. I didn't mind not having oars but I thought stuffing me in a gunny sack was a little extreme.

At the wedding dance, the band was playing performance type of music. Not really the kind you can dance to very well...unless you're Savion Glover or Twyla Tharp. That name, Twyla Tharp, sounds like the noise made when you are sitting in a leather chair, in your bathing suit, on a very hot, sweaty day and, then, get up really fast. Anyway, at a wedding dance, especially in Wisconsin, you need polkas. It's the law. So, my brother, the Air Force sergeant, requested they alter their play-list. They immediately sequed from their Cats medley to The Beer Barrel Polka and all was right with the world.

For some reason, the photographer we hired had brought along her husband to video-tape everything, despite our not really wanting to have that done. We ignored the fact that he helped himself to the buffet and tried to be pleasant when he started sticking a camera in everyone's face. This was in the days before little hand-held digital cameras, so when he came up on you, you fully expected Mike Wallace to jump out of the shadows and ask you how you can live with yourself while running a sweat shop out of the trunk of your 1964 Corvair. He kept turning the lights on in the dance hall to get better shots. Each time he did, someone else would have to go dim them, again. After about the third time, the same brother who had redirected the musical selections, requested that the videographer leave the lights down. The shutterbug protested saying his art would suffer. My brother made clear that better his art suffer than his...well, than himself. At that point, my brother wondered aloud if the fellow's camera would be suitable for some of those exploratory films--A Voyage to Your Gall Bladder, narrated by Sir Laurence Olivier--that we used to see in grade school science class. The lights stayed low.

That was all 18 years ago. It's been a wonderful adventure since. I've always looked to a great authority on relationships to keep things happy. Not Dr. Phil or Oprah or, even, Jerry Springer.
No, I look to Ogden Nash, who said:

To keep your marriage brimming, with love in the loving cup,
Whenever you're wrong, admit it,
Whenever you're right, shut up.

I'm rarely right so that's not a problem and my wife has only been a little off the beam once that I can think of and that happened when she said "I do." I'm eternally grateful for her temporary lapse in judgment.

It was a beautiful day for a parade this past Saturday. The American Royal Parade rolled down the street and it was great to see so many of you out for the fun. I have trouble just riding in the truck or the back of the convertible and waving. For one thing, many of you have terrific aim and powerful throwing arms, so just being a moving target doesn't guarantee I won't end up wearing a vegetable stand by the end of the route. Mostly, it just feels little too hoity-toity. So, I tend to jump out of the vehicle now and then to cause trouble along the street. This year, some of the mayhem involved candid photos, stolen hats, and a bear-hug from Kansas City icon, Carl DiCapo.

The first parade I was ever invited to ride in after moving here a hundred years ago, was for the Liberty Fall Festival. I sat on the back of a little MG convertible while my wife was in the passenger seat and first-born son...about six weeks old...slept in his car-seat wedged between us. Some things never change: he can still sleep like a log in the car. But, some things do: for this parade, he was out of town...looking at potential colleges. Time flys away.

One year, we were lucky enough, as a family, to ride in an Independence Day Parade in, appropriately, Independence. My oldest son, the aforementioned Rip Van (or car) Winkle, and my daughter were very happy to wave and greet their "fans." Our second son wanted nothing to do with it and slumped as far into the back seat of the car as possible. It was at that parade that future Attorney General John Ashcroft was making the rounds in one of his Senate campaigns. He smiled a friendly smile and shook my wife's hand heartily, patted the kids on their little heads, then, took one look at me and tossed a blue sheet over my head. Years later, after the Department of Justice nude statues situation, I understood that Mr. Ashcroft found my face offensive.

There was another parade in a very small town some years ago. We could see the end of the route from where we started. But, though the parade pathway was a little short, the crowd was long on enthusiasm. It was very much like a scene out of The Andy Griffith Show. Which would make me Ernest T. Bass. Not long after that, I was part of a Holiday Parade in Carrollton, Missouri. The square looked festive and everyone was in high spirits. My wife and I had both older boys with us and, in a way, it was our daughter's first parade. She was due about a month later but started to make her impatience known during the parade. My wife said it felt like she was already trying wave at everybody. Samantha did make her grand arrival just a couple weeks later. Making it the first, and nearly last, time she's been early for anything.

These days, for understandable safety reasons, many parade organizers prohibit throwing candy to kids on the curb. However, a few parades ago, we were still allowed to toss goodies from the parade route. At one point, I got out of the vehicle to visit with a family wearing funny hats. As I approached, the mom lifted her four year old up to eye-level and said "Look who's here, Bobby (names have been changed to protect the innocent)? You know who this is, don't you?" The little boy was so excited to meet me! It was overwhelming! "Well, Bobby, who is this?" "The guy with the candy!" Unfortunately, I had run out of or eaten all the candy by that point in the parade and apologized to Bobby. He crinkled his forehead, looked me right in the eye and said "Well, get back in your car, then."