Over the years, I have had the good fortune to visit lots of different schools, all the way from pre-school kids to college. I can honestly say I have never had a bad experience while talking to young people...if you don't count in my own home. Yesterday was no exception, as I spent part of the morning with the students and faculty of Grain Valley Middle School. Of course, there were endless questions about the chance of a snow day...and that was just from the teachers. One student asked me if I'd ever been chased out of town by an angry mob. He's obviously been a faithful viewer over the years to realize that would be a distinct possibility. Anyway, they were all terrific and it made for a very enjoyable morning. Thanks for the invitation and hospitality!

Naturally, the presentation...such as it is...varies depending on the age of the audience. For the littlest of the little, I usually read a book, Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs. It is a funny look at odd weather in the town of Chewandswallow. The copy I read from was given to me by a small school in Wisconsin. All the students signed it and included a picture. Today, most of those kids are well out of college. Everytime I use the book I think fondly of those kids as I actually hear my personal aging process. For the record, it is sort of a creaky, crunching sound.

High schoolers enjoy talking about weather but, also, have some serious questions about careers in broadcasting. Most are very encouraged by seeing how a person with such, obviously, limited abilities can keep a job in this field. I am always a little intimidated by the great questions, witty insights and, in the case of the male students, the ability to grow a full beard. When I first started visiting schools more than 20 years back, the young folks were polite but you could sense a little bit of "Hey! Who are you to tell us about careers or weather or anything? You're mostly a punk, yourself." Now, with white on top and more in the middle, the students treat me with greater respect. Like I was their father...or grandfather. I think it's respect. Maybe it's just pity...which, at my stage of life, I am perfectly willing to accept.

In some ways, middle school kids can be the most challenging audience. I say this not just because of the job-related visits but because of having been a close-up witness to the trials and tribulations of 6th, 7th and 8th grades, three times...with one more about to enter those important years. Those are the years when you want to be treated like an adult but aren't quite ready to let go of being a kid. A friend of mine, when his daughter was in 6th grade, said he felt like he was dealing with Sybil. One moment, this 12-going-on-40-year-old was acting like a high-strung runway model then, after the fireworks, he'd find her in her room playing with stuffed animals. Speaking for myself, and my good friend Sparky the Stuffed Aardvark, I think that showed great mental balance.

Just a little idea: if you're ever feeling blue about the state of the world, make plans to visit a school. Maybe even volunteer in some way. The future never looked so good.

"I'd rather deal with six inches of snow than a half inch of ice!" I've heard that refrain, or variations of it, quite a bit over the last day or two, mostly when I'm talking to myself. I've mentioned before that snow, being from Wisconsin, is usually not too big a deal, but ice is just plain miserable. So, when the National Weather Service issues an Ice Storm Warning, like it did this morning, it gets everyone's attention. Now, before I go any further, let me put in my two cents about the day's weather. I think there will be some relatively minor ice problems later today into tonight, and we still have a chance of some snow on Thursday, although, as of early Wednesday, it looks like the heaviest will be to our southeast. Stay tuned to KMBC or come back here to thekansascitychannel.com for the latest updates to the forecast. Having said all that, I have to admit, when I hear the phrase "ice storm" I immediately flash back to January of 2002.

I remember driving home after FirstNews on the last Tuesday of that month. It was warm and gray. By afternoon, heavy rain had moved in. I packed a couple suits, some peanut butter sandwiches, emergency chocolate and headed back into downtown. That was the start of nearly four days spent downtown. Now, with an ice storm, once it's here, it's here, so the main reason for being at the station was to make sure you were already at the station. I feel like I am repeating myself by repeating myself.

Back at home, they had a great time. Warm cookies. Hot cocoa. Board games. A cozy fire. When I would call home, I'd tell them all they were lucky to still have power because so many of our fellow ice-stormers were without. Actually, I never got to say that directly to any of them. We have caller ID so they were screening the incoming calls. But, I did leave that message. Several times. Along with pleas for sympathy about how hard I was working. No, they didn't buy that, either.

By Friday of that week, the worst was over and, after the morning show, I drove home. As destructive as the storm was, it did leave behind some beautiful scenes. So, we all got in the car and took a drive ending up at a local bookstore for some treats. It may have taken all week but I was finally enjoying some of nature's handiwork like my family had all week. Then, we got home and all the power had gone out. Remember, all week, while I was gone, they had power and fun. Now, I was home and neither commodity was available. Naturally, they all blamed me.

We all slept in the living room that night. I was in the "flea section," wedged between the two dogs. Living quilts. My oldest son's main worry was not having power to watch the Super Bowl which was coming up on Sunday. Well, by later in the day on Saturday, power was restored. We were certainly much more fortunate than many people who endured the dark and cold for days. From that day on, we made sure we had flashlights with batteries, a transistor radio, cellphones fully charged...all the things we should've had ready before.

Actually, my wife and kids have a different strategy for the next ice storm: make dad, and his obviously bad cheesehead karma, stay away a couple extra days!

I have two tool boxes. When I get the small grey one out, all the kids, my wife and the dog leave the room. When I get the big red one out, they exit the house entirely. When I get both out...plus the ratchet set...they make for the church to say prayers. Bottom line: I am not handy around the house. I once tried to fix a lonely little drip in the shower in an upstairs bathroom and ended up with water shooting through the ceiling fan in the living room. If I had just added some high-brow music from Mozart or Wierd Al Yankovic, I could've opened "The Nichols Living-Room Dancing Waters Show!" Eventually, I did get the water to stop coming through the ceiling and got the drip to stop in the shower. However, if you turn the tap too far to the left, now, it just keeps on spinning. Too far to the right and the radio in the next room comes on.

As frightening as my plumbing skills are, they are exceeded in danger-level by my talents as an electrician. Lately, I have been really using those nearly non-existent abilities a lot. You know that hard sugar stuff that some Easter egg decorations are made of? It appears the builder of our house used the same material for the light switches. Lately, they have all been cracking and crumbling, leaving the connection in a precarious state. That means, sometimes the light lights, sometimes it doesn't and, eventually, it won't. For a normal, reasonably adept, person, replacing one of these little do-hickeys probably takes about five minutes, including the time it takes to go downstairs to the fuse box and turn off the power. For me, it can be the better part of an afternoon.

First of all, it takes me a long time to figure out what basement switch corresponds to what upstairs room. It is well-labeled but I get paranoid and spend an extra amount of time making sure I have the right one. When I am sure I have turned off the proper charge, I go back into the dark room and then forget which switch is the fan and which is the light. I usually end up taking both off to see which thingy is in pieces. Oh, add to this, the time it takes me to find all the little screws I drop on the floor or in the sink or in the toilet. (Yes, I have finally learned to close the toilet seat and plug up the drains.) Sometimes I leave the screwdriver downstairs by the fuse box...which adds to the total time taken for a five minute task. It takes me an inordinate amount of time to pull the wires out of the old fixture...sometimes the wire breaks and I have to try to get the plastic casing off, to reveal enough wire to make a new connection. I've seen people use a little wire cutter to easily expose more wire but I usually end up cutting more wire off than necessary. Well, after getting the old deal off, I never seem to make the new connection work the first time. That means hooking it up....going back downstairs....turning on the juice....coming back up and finding that not only does the light still not light but the fan or other light, which was not a problem before, now doesn't work either. So , I start all over.

Once, in the midst of all this self-inflicted confusion, I forgot to turn the power back off before starting that obligatory second attempt. I got a little jolt of reality that time. My whole arm was sore for a couple days. On the positive side, I was able to act as my own nightlight for awhile.

Well, as I said before, it seems all of these sugar-cube fixtures are falling apart at once, so, I felt I was getting pretty good at this particular area of home maintenance. On Sunday, another light didn't work. I got out my tools, said goodbye to my family, and went to work. No matter how many different times I went through my aforementioned routine, I could not get that light to come on. Finally, I just gave up...certain the problem was much deeper and more complicated than I could solve. I took all my tools back to the closet and sat, pouting, on the couch. The one home duty I can actually accomplish in less than a day, and it didn't do the trick. I was also calculating the cost of a real electrician coming out right before the holidays. I was almost literally smoking from the ears and this time it wasn't because I'd forgotten to turn the power off, first.

As a sat and stewed, our youngest son came into the room. "Sorry about the light, dad, " he said. "Too bad it wasn't just a burnt out bulb." You could have knocked me over with a 60 watt feather. I grabbed the shining light bulb over his 11 year old head and headed for the darkened room. A few turns later and there was light. And, it was good. Turns out I was not the only dim bulb in the room.

So, how many college-educated, blown-dry, TV-talking weather dorks does it take to screw in a light bulb? Just one. But it may require several screwdrivers, a pliers, a tweezers, multiple walks up and down the stairs and good three or four hours. Oh, and a 5th grader with more common sense than his dad wouldn't hurt, either.

The lights of the season continue to go on all over the metro. Of course, the Plaza did their deal on Thanksgiving night followed by the Mayor's Tree on Friday. We usually try to make it to the second event each year. This year the tree was beautiful, as always, plus they had some dancing water fountains and musical fireworks. Oleta Adams sang like a Christmas Angel. But, the main reason we attend each year has to do with the host, Bill Grigsby. It just wouldn't be the holidays without a Merry Christmas from Bill. He's our area's year-round holiday present. It was good to be out and about Friday evening, after getting our own decorations up over the previous two days. All went well for us in that regard... with the exception of the Christmas tree.

As I mentioned, due to allergies, we use a fake tree. (We're on our second one. Up until last year we still put the old one up, upstairs by a window, but it is so decrepit, now, even Charlie Brown would hold his nose...dogs would only snicker. This year, in honor of the old tree, we just took a pile of plastic green needles and spread them on the carpet.) Regardless, I still make everyone bundle up and sing carols as we march into the basement. After looking at lots of invisible trees, I say "Here it is! The perfect tree for our family!" Then, we drag it back up the stairs. I pretend to chop off the bottom to make it perfectly even. My wife and children have just about reached the end of their patience for this whole charade and, this year, the dog absolutely refused to wear the horse costume and pull me around the driveway in a wagon filled with hay.

All went well...at first. The older boys put the branches in the right spots and then spread them out to look relatively real. Now, before going any further, I should mention that we moved the furniture around over the summer. So, the place in the living room, where the tree usually would go was not feasible without moving everything back to the old configuration. When we had made this change it seemed the obvious and best place for the tree would be in what is meant to be an area for a little kitchen table. We have never used it for that purpose. Our kids do a lot of their fine dining standing in the kitchen and when we all want to sit together we do have a dining room table. So, for awhile we had a piano sitting in the nook. (I don't care who you are, the word "nook" is just plain wierd.) Then, we put a reading chair, there. As I mentioned, we figured it would be easy to move the chair and put up the tree right in that spot.

The idea has a lot going for it. It means you can see the tree through the front door and out the back windows. It allows plenty of room for the dog to get by without knocking every ornament from mid-tree down, onto the floor. It really is more centrally located than the living room location which allows you to see it from almost every vantage point. The only problem: the permanent light fixture in the ceiling! I had already removed a bunch of the chain-links and used a latch-thingy to put the fixture as far up and out of sight as possible. Still, after the tree was up, my eyes were automatically drawn to the light. Maybe it is because my wife and kids have always encouraged me to move toward the light if that option ever presented itself.

Even though the lights and ornaments on the tree looked great, the star on top was competing for attention with this big, hooded globe. My wife, being much more reasonable, said nobody would notice...we'd always leave the overhead light off and all eyes would be drawn to the tree. All eyes but mine. So, I took the hood and globe off. That was worse. Now it looked like we were going to be interrogating Humphrey Bogart about some bank job. I took the bulb out. Not good. My wife said to put just the globe back on and it "look like a giant snowflake!" Or, a very out of place light fixture ruining my Christmas tree. All the wires and the excess chain-link were still messily bunched up. I was up and down the ladder more often than a middle-age man sleeping in a bunk bed after attending a coffee-drinking festival. My language quickly turned from merry to menacing. By this time, all the kids and the dog had disappeared. Then, in a moment of inspiration, my wife grabbed some white, glittery garland and wrapped it around the cords and wires all the way down to the white globe. She actually took that ugly light and turned it into a decoration.

Now, when people visit we will just tell them "Oh, that? That's Planet Christmas circling the sunburst star on top of the tree. Yeah...we came up with it ourselves. Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray have both called to see if we'd let them use the design on their shows but we're thinking of keeping it all in the family. But, if you come back next week, we're having Bill Grigsby host an official lighting ceremony."

For some folks this day is all about shopping. In our house it is Decoration Day. There are almost as many decorating traditions as their are glowing lights on the Plaza. There are still some families, for example, who will wait until Christmas Eve and reveal everything the next morning. My mom always wanted us to wait until the church season of Advent started. Then, we used lots of blue lights, which is the color the Lutheran Church assigns to the season. Today, with this being the big shopping day it has become, blue lights all over your house may result in a bunch of people pushing carts and asking where the discounted deep fryers are located. In addition to the Blue Lights of Advent, we also kept the Lutheran tradition of decorating the tree with lefse, lutefisk and cups of coffee. It is a little known fact that a fourth Wise Man also visited Bethlehem and brought a tuna casserole. He was the Lutheran of the group.

I am aware of one married couple that rarely argued. They saved most of their acrimony for the day they picked out the tree and put up the lights. The first of many disagreements on that day had to do with which tree to select. They really could have used an accompanying arbitration panel or, perhaps, the ghost of Henry Clay. (He was called "The Great Compromiser" for coming up with the Missouri Compromise in the 1800s. I'm including this bit of history as a holiday gift to all my history teachers who were convinced that the only thing I'd learned in their classes was how to create the perfect spit-wad and fire it with amazing accuracy.) The tree was too big or too small or the needles were too long or too short or too green. That last problem is really indicative of a nit-pick. Eventually, they got through it all and the house would look great...once they touched up the paint where the tree-topping star had been thrown with laser-like intensity.

In our house, we have an artificial tree now due to allergies. But in the early years we did try the real tree route. I always had trouble getting the tree to stand straight in the stand. For some reason, we had a stand that really did not appear to understand it's job. It did everything possible not to stay level. It required a certain sense of balance to work properly, a combination of Feng Shui and nuclear physics. One year, in an effort to get the tree to look right, I kept lopping off the bottom. Eventually, our eight-foot tree stood at a regal 3'11". Came out to about twenty bucks a foot. Most of our ornaments dragged on the floor.

Then there were the years we'd put the tree in a playpen to keep little hands from helping themselves. Years ago, when my nephew was about two, he saw a beautiful blue glass ornament hanging on grandma's tree. He took it off, grabbed his new baseball bat and hammered a line drive straight at the piano. His eyes got huge as the blue bits of Christmas exploded all over the living room. We avoided those particular problems with the playpen. Truth be told, it wasn't just the kids we had to discourage. We have had a couple of occasions where the dog has eaten an ornament. One that got wolfed down was actually made of a MilkBone so that's understandable. But, another time, the dog ate a regular glass ornament. Now, that sounds like a recipe for disaster but this dog has an InSinkerator where his stomach belongs so it just went down and...uh...out. It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase Yule Log.

Because my wife has the patience of Job and the artistic eye of Michelangelo, I suspect our decorating will go just fine. The weather is warm for the outdoor stuff and the kids are plenty old enough to do their share. If I show up on FirstNews, Monday morning, leaning on crutches, with Einstein hair and babbling incoherently, it will be totally my fault.

It's the perfect day to say thanks to all of you who have read this silliness over the last several months as well as those who are with us for FirstNews in the early morning. When Maria Antonia and I started doing the morning news almost 20 years ago, sometimes we wondered if anyone was even out there! And, that's when the show went on at 6:30 a.m. Well, as it turns out, even at 5:00 a.m. lots of you are sharing part of your busy morning with us and we sure do appreciate it!

It was only after I was doing weather on TV that I started to hear how busy the day before Thanksgiving is for travel. When I was growing up, most folks stayed home or headed down the road a few miles to see the grandparents. We were in the second group. We would go to church then pile into the car and go about eight miles to my grandma's apartment. As I have mentioned before, both of my grandmas lived at a retirement village called Bluffview Courts. One was a tad taller than the other, so, in my youthful wisdom I called my mom's mom Big Grandma and my dad's mom Little Grandma. (Even at that early age, I was master of the obvious.) Anyway, it was Little Grandma's apartment that we would descend upon around 11:00 on Thanksgiving morning. The greeting as we came through the door was not "Happy Thanksgiving!" or even "Hi, Grandma!" It was "Is it time to eat, yet?" Now, we all knew it would be several hours before the food was ready, but we liked seeing Little Grandma get a irritated by the time she heard that question the fifth or sixth time.

Of course, like most folks, Thanksgiving for us included lots of good food, lots of good football and lots of good naps. As for the culinary choices, everyone seemed to have their favorite stuff. Some waited for the pumpkin pie. I liked the mashed potatoes. My oldest brother loved the baked beans. We tended to avoid him for much of the rest of the day...or month. But, for me, it also meant a chance to drive. Having three big brothers, I could usually convince one of them to stay off the couch or floor long enough to let me sit in his lap and steer the '63 Corvair around the barely-paved streets of Bluffview Courts. Take that, Ralph Nader!

Memories like those are among the many things I have to be thankful for everyday and it has been fun to share them with you, on-line. Hope you have a day filled with great moments that become wonderful memories, too. Happy Thanksgiving!

WARNING! Parents, the story you are about to read involves graphic images and behaviors that may not be suitable for all ages. The names have not been changed to protect the guilty. No live animals were injured as a result of this incident. Close cover before striking. Apply ointment to infected area. Keep out of reach of children. Do not place near open flame. Do not insert into ear or nose. Do not remove tag under penalty of law. I'm sorry. When I start warning someone about something, I tend to get carried away. But, seriously, this is a rather disturbing story.

For our first Thanksgiving in Kansas City, many years, dollars, kids and calories ago, my wife, Jessica, and I were excited to have her parents visit from Wisconsin. We had never prepared a turkey before, unless you count me putting on a tuxedo for the wedding ceremony, so we had a bit of apprehension. Channel 9 had generously given all employees a turkey that year so that was a great and helpful thing. However, we didn't quite clue in to the whole "let the frozen bird thaw out" step. We put the no-so-little critter in the oven early and cranked it up to 3000 degrees or so. In the late morning, we checked it and discovered the outside was burned to a crisp while the inside was still frozen solid. It looked like Superman's ice fortress in there. Clearly, this bird was cooked, figuratively speaking.

I got a strong sense of foreboding as we pulled it out of the oven and took it to the back patio. If the charred carcass had teeth and eyebrows, I just know it would've been sneering at us. At the time, we had a little Chihuahua-dachshund mix named Jingles who thought he was about to get the world's largest rawhide bone but we kept him in the house. It just didn't seem right or respectful to allow this once majestic, albeit homely, beast to become a chew toy.

Well, Jessica's family arrived and, thanks to her mother and a new non-frozen turkey from the store, we had a wonderful meal and time together. Later that day, after the outside of the first attempt had cooled, I put it in a garbage bag and whisked it away. But, it was not through with us just yet. Left behind, on the concrete, was a clear outline of the bird. We tried scrubbing with hot water, soap...even bleach. It was still there. Obviously, we had received some sort of Edgar Allen Poe-ltry. Eventually, we even tried to paint over it with gray, concrete paint. The outline still bled through. Now, it was not the kind of thing you hear about on the news where a grilled cheese sandwich or foggy window pane takes on the likeness of some religious figure. If anything, this ghostly image looked like Art Garfunkle playing the bagpipes. Mostly, it looked like an evil Turkey Zombie. It was there for the rest of the time we lived in that house. When we sold the place, we told the buyers that it was a flaw in the concrete...rather than in our own inner Julia Childs, that caused the lingering silhouette.

Well, we've had more luck with turkeys in the succeeding Thanksgivings and have only happy memories of that house. However, there are some times, as the holiday winds down and the leftovers are in the fridge, that I'm sure I hear the haunting gobble of that first bird and see a faint outline of the half-frozen, half-baked foul creature on our current patio. My wife insists it is just the way the light hits it, but I'm staying vigilant.

Quoth the turkey "Nevermore!"

Last evening, around 6:15 or so, I found myself wandering up and down the hardware aisles of our local Wal-Mart. I wasn't there long before a helpful employee came along and asked if he could help me find something. I told him I needed to find copper wire. "Oh, are you doing some electrical work?" he asked, quite reasonably. "No. My daughter is building an atom."

Yes, it was "science project" time in our household...for about the 357th time. Over the years, our kids have created any number of wierd and odd exhibits. When they run out of time, they just ask the class to look at their father on the TV and that usually counts. We make them do it themselves, although sometimes it is difficult for my wife not to take over and create something spectacular. I have noticed, when you visit the classroom to see the students' work, some seem to be the result of parental intervention. One tip, if you're going to "help" your child with their project, at least remember to remove the Sharper Image price sticker. Once, one of our sons worked on a battery-operated boat. It was part of a unit on electricity. He put in a lot of time and effort. When the craft was put out to sea...in a basin of water...it sputtered, coughed and, then, sank. You could hear the miniature, papier mache Leonardo DiCaprio yelling "I'm king of the world...." as it went down. I thought the accompanying Celine Dion music was a nice touch. Meanwhile, a couple of kids just down the hallway had used their battery-powered project to provide juice to an automatic feeder which then provided high-energy food to a family of hamsters, who then took turns on the wheel in their cage to light not just one little light bulb, but the entire City of Sheboygan...by remote control. Okay, that maybe a little bit of an exaggeration but it did seem like some of the other projects had to include excessive parental assistance not to mention some input from NASA engineers.

Meanwhile back at our own little Los Alamos, my daughter was hard at work creating an atom. She had been told by her teacher that Styrofoam balls were okay but would show a "lack of creativity" and be downgraded. What? How can you do anything related to an atom or solar system or a bug's anatomy and NOT use Styrofoam balls? It seems almost un-American. I think we have the beginnings of a brand new Scopes Monkey trial here but, instead of evolution being the point of contention, it is the highly offensive exclusion of a junior scientist's best friend: the Styrofoam ball! I am almost certain I read somewhere that Louis Pasteur, Madame Curie and Jonas Salk all used Styrofoam in their experiments. If I had been doing the project, I probably would've used them anyway...just for spite. But, my daughter, having this need to excel...gets it from her mom...didn't want to run the risk of a poor grade just to defend her father's Styrofoam ball principle! Instead, she whipped up a pile of homemade modeling clay, dyed in several different colors, and then shaped it into balls with little holes in it for the plastic tubes to go through which would then hold the little bally things out away from the middle do-hickey. All of those terms are scientific in nature and stand for electrons, protons, neutrons and osmonds. My daughter insists that last one doesn't belong but I think she's wrong...then again I'm a little bit country and she's a little bit rock and roll.

As often happens in such intricate procedures, it turned out the now-hardened clay's holes were too small for the plastic tubing. If you tried to widen the gap by hammering a nail through, you ended up with a pile of dust. Yes, my daughter split the atom in our kitchen sink. So, all the work it took to make the clay and dye it and roll it into dozens of balls and then let dry was for naught. (The unused red and green orbs were still sitting...forlornly... on the table this morning. It looked like we had been visited by a Christmas Rabbit who doesn't really get enough fiber in his diet.) In the kitchen, my wife and daughter went through a litany of possible replacements for the discarded clay, while I, hidden from view on the sofa, would yell my obvious choice: "Cranberries....(Styrofoam balls!)....Powder Puffs....(Styrofoam balls!)....Washers....(Styrofoam balls!)....Ping Pong Balls....(STYROFOAM! STYROFOAM! STYROFOAM!) " In the end, they used a different type of clay. When I went to bed, the project was still in full swing.

This morning, there on the counter, hanging from a plastic hangar, was the prettiest giant atom, (that's an oxymoron from me, an ox-like moron) you will ever see. It is so impressively realistic, I'm pretty sure the United Nations will be contacting my daughter about entering into multi-lateral talks regarding her atomic power program. In the meantime, if this teacher doesn't give my daughter an A, I just may have to do my own science project. Maybe a huge replica of my inner ear canal...built entirely of Styrofoam balls.

This past weekend we made our annual Holiday Season visit to Branson. We head down there quite a bit over the course of a year. Having grown up near another touristy spot, Wisconsin Dells, I find Branson rather nostalgic. Just the right blend of natural beauty and unnatural tacky. Anyway, we love to visit...especially around the holidays when the area shines from Silver Dollar City to their new, on-the-waterfront joint called The Landing. This year was little different, however, because our oldest sons had to stay home....leaving us two cards shy of a full house.

They had good reasons. The oldest had to work and the other had a debate tournament. On the Branson end of the deal, we had fun and it was a little less expensive, with dinner costing me only the shirt off my back, rather my shirt and pants. But we did miss them. As I've said before, I'd rather have my kids around and annoying me than not around and worrying me. So, I was on full worry mode...sure SOMETHING would happen. SOMETHING!

Now, these boys are not little kids. In a matter of months, the oldest one will be, more or less, on his own at college and the second one comes and goes pretty often, already, with work, swimming and debate crowding his calendar. Still, leaving two teenagers to their own devices is a little unsettling. My wife left a detailed list of things to remember including " let the dog out in the morning...lock the doors...keep your cellphones charged and with you...don't get the burnt toast out with a fork...review where the valve is for turning the water off to your toilet, just in case...in fact, just go out in the backyard." Well, she didn't actually suggest the last part, but it did come to my mind when I considered the possibility of coming home to an indoor tropical rainforest.

We've all heard the stories of parents going out of town and the kids deciding it is a perfect time for a "get-together." One person I know, told me that his child decided to have a few dozen friends over and, in order to avoid suspicion from neighbors and passing authorities, put up signs in the yard saying "Lordy, Lordy, Look Who's Forty!" Gotta give the young person points for creativity but he still got caught. Garrison Keillor has a wonderful story about a couple leaving the farm for a fishing trip, forgetting something at the house and circling back to discover a major celebration in progress. As the story unfolds, for a lot of funny reasons, the dad ends up having to borrow money from all the kids at the party and then gets back on the road.

Well, we got back early Sunday morning. The sun was up but the sons were not. The dog was not walking on his hind legs with his knees together so it was clear he'd been out while we were gone. There was no water dripping from the ceiling. The power was still on. All very good signs. There was actually a message written on the piece of paper my wife had left out labeled "Messages." It was from grandma. We found out later that grandpa had asked the boys if they had the house ready for the party they were probably going to throw. Thanks for the help! The kitchen was clean. There was still cereal left. And, more importantly, Oreos. The living room was picked up. Now, it might be funny, at this point, to say I opened a closet and eighteen kids tumbled out or we went upstairs and discovered a goat dressed like C. Everett Koop in our bedroom but those things didn't happen.

What did happen? Our debater was barely home due to the tournament and put 1.7 miles on the car...the exact number of miles to and from the school. The college-bound boy had spent his time, with the house pretty much to himself, filling out scholarship forms and writing admittance essays. I did notice, on the caller ID, my wife had made roughly six thousand calls to check on things. Turns out, there wasn't anything to check on.

NOTHING HAPPENED! And, that's NOTHING to be thankful for!

This is the time of the year when a lot of kids start getting excited about Santa coming to town. When I was growing up, I looked forward to the jolly old elf's appearance, too, but not as much as when Aunt Helen would visit...or we would visit her. Most of my mom's brothers and sisters lived in Wisconsin or Missouri but Aunt Helen made her home in Connecticut. To a small-town cheesehead, that sounded like a pretty exotic and exciting place. And, it was...because of Aunt Helen.

Twice when I was growing up, we took a car-trip from Wisconsin to visit Aunt Helen and her family in, what was for us, The Far East. I always thought Aunt Helen was rich! You see, they had a pool in their backyard and that, for me, meant great wealth. The only people I knew with a pool back then were the Beverly Hillbillies. My brothers and I would go from car to pool in about five seconds flat upon arrival. It wasn't the pool, of course, that made the trips memorable. It was Aunt Helen.

She was always in a good mood. Not that her life hadn't been filled with challenges. Her husband, Uncle Bud, had fallen down a silo, landing feet first on the concrete floor. The doctors told them he'd probably never walk again, to which, Aunt Helen replied "Nonsense. Not only will he walk...we'll go dancing." It wasn't easy but Uncle Bud did walk...and dance...again. Of course, it took medicine and therapy and surgery but, I believe, the real reason he got back on his feet was Aunt Helen.

Aunt Helen and Uncle Bud came out our way every now and then, too. Now, our house, with four boys running around, was pretty busy but when the Connecticut contingent arrived everything went into overdrive. Once we ran into Madison...when Aunt Helen was around you never just went somewhere...you RAN. It was a shopping excursion. Something a boy of 12 would usually avoid like the plague. But, if Aunt Helen was going, so was I. While we were there Aunt Helen decided I needed a new suit. By the time we left, I was quite the fashion plate. Dark blue pants, light blue sportscoat with a minor pattern, blue tie, pink shirt and white shoes. Peacocks consulted their lawyers about copyright infringement. Yet, I thought I looked like one of The Rat Pack. Who needed Calvin Klein? I had Aunt Helen.

Whenever Aunt Helen was around there was fun, laughter and music. Whether it was a card game, a boat ride or just sitting around talking, she made it a memorable moment. I never saw her lose her temper or get annoyed over big or little things. She'd go anywhere and try anything. She made the lyrics to that old song Anywhere I Hang My Hat is Home absolutely true. She felt completely at ease from Las Vegas, where she visited me when I lived there a long time ago, to a downstairs bedroom at a cottage on Lake Wisconsin. She really was totally comfortable in her own skin and made everyone else feel that way, too. She was delighted to be, and we were blessed to have, Aunt Helen.

She passed away a couple days ago. Now, I have this picture in my head of a long line of people waiting to go through the Pearly Gates. About half-way down the line there's a lot of laughter, good talk and music. One of those waiting up front asks St. Peter "What's all the racket going on back there?" St. Peter looks down from his post, smiles, and says "Oh, that's just Aunt Helen."

Heaven will never be the same!

This morning, on FirstNews, and for the next several, Jere Gish is bringing us the Great American Toy Test. As in past years, a group of experts...kids...get a chance to play with the latest craze from Toy-ville. If you watched Thursday morning, you saw one of the "hot" toys: stacking cups...for forty dollars! Plastic cups=$$$$$40! Is it just me or does that seem a little excessive? Seems like you could just buy some cheap, plastic glasses and, oh, I don't know, use a CLOCK with a SECOND HAND to time your efforts. It is no surprise to me, or any other parent, I suspect, that something simple like these cups would be a big draw for kids. Children like to use their imaginations and, nowadays, with computers and TVs and video games and all the other gadgets, sometimes they don't get the chance. When our kids were little, all grandma had to do was open a cupboard and get out some pots and pans and the little ones would build and stack and create for a long time. Even today, when our 17 year old is bored, we sit him in the middle of the kitchen with a pile of pans and he is content for hours. Certainly, he'd rather play with them than wash them.

I've mentioned before the big cardboard box of old toys my mom bought at a garage sale for ten dollars. She thought there might be some goodies in there for when the grandkids visit. Well, it has become a major hit over the years. Many of the toys are in good shape but a few are in various states of deterioration...not unlike myself. No matter. They all get played with. (I always questioned the whole "Island of Misfit Toys" deal in that Rudolph The Red-nosed Reindeer show. Those mixed up playthings would be big hits for most kids. A bird that swims! A Charlie in the box! A spotted elephant! All would be great! And, by the way, exactly what is the that little dolly's problem that landed her on the island? It must be psychological...because she looks like, well, a doll.) The point is, for a ten dollar bill, my mom found many lifetimes of fun for a bunch of kids.

There is the old saw that you give a kid a big present and he or she would rather play with the box. The interesting thing about that saying is...it's mostly true. There is nothing better than an empty box when you're a little kid. The bigger, the better. Whenever someone in the neighborhood had ordered a large appliance or TV or something, us kids would circle that house like vultures...just waiting for the empty box. The possibilities were endless...a tunnel or a fort or a sled or any number of other ideas would fall out of that empty box. The big toy prize when I was growing up was when one of those giant spools would show up...one of those large wooden "wheels" used for cable and other things. Occasionally, an adult would get one with the intention of making something totally useless like a picnic table out of it. As kids, we knew you had to get inside of it and roll around...preferably down any hill available. You felt like the lost sock in a violent dryer. My many such trips as a child may explain my many misjudgments and odd behaviors as an adult.

Our little town had no toy store. The basements of both hardware stores were dark and foreboding places for 11 months of the year. But, after Thanksgiving, they would become our version of Santa's Workshop. The toy-hunting season was pretty short back then but, I think, it was more exciting than having shelves full of toys available at all times, not to mention being able to point and click your way to toydom whenever the mood strikes you. Having a June birthday, also meant, for me, a long dry spell in the toy receiving department so when the downstairs lights went on at those stores, I was all over it. Despite the new toys out there, I think the ones that were favorites then are still favorites now...Play-Dough, Etch-A-Sketch, Slinky, Tinker-Toys, Build Your Own Bratwurst...that one may have been just in my town.

Anyway, stay tuned for more of The Great American Toy Test on FirstNews. Maybe somebody has decided to take bubblewrap...dye it different colors....add a timer and score sheets....and create a game called "Pop-A-Lot! Increase your child's manual dexterity while having all the Poppin' Fun you can take! Learn to Pop different designs! Use your feet to Dance and Pop at the same time! Pop-A-Lot! Pop-A-Lot-A FUN! Only $40! Order NOW!" Of course, you'd have to add $7.95 for shipping and handling...including the bubblewrap.

There are certain words a weatherdork can mention that cause major repercussions. For example, back on Monday, it appeared we could wake up this morning to some big, wet snowflakes, so that is what I said. It never looked like it was going to be much, if anything. However, that four-letter word...SNOW...gets peoples' attention. The only other thing I could utter (I'm from Wisconsin so I am required to use the word "utter" at least once a day. I know it's not the same as "udder" but don't confuse me with the facts.) that would make people sit up and take notice would be "I am taking this opportunity to announce my retirement..." THAT would be met with loud cheers and enormous sighs of relief from the executive wing alone. Well, Monday afternoon I was overwhelmed with questions about when the flakes would start and how many inches would pile up...over and over and over. And, that was just at my house. Yes, my children...and my wife...are afflicted with SDAD. No, that's not what George Gershwin called his father. ("Gee, s'wonderful to s'see you, S'dad!") No, SDAD is Snow Day Affective Disorder. If there is even the most remote chance that school may be called off due to winter weather, they go bananas...frozen bananas.

They wear their pajamas backwards. They put spoons under their pillows. My wife makes me sleep in the backyard wearing my Rockford Files footie pjs, holding the spoon in my left ear. I'm not sure if that really has anything to do with getting a snow day. Anyway, they all do whatever they think may lead Mother Nature down a snowy path. I fully understand how attractive it is to imagine being all warm and snuggly in the house...venturing out only to go sledding...coming back in to a cozy fire and hot chocolate. But, as I try to explain to these strange people living in my house, a major snow storm means I either go in overnight or drive through hazardous conditions and, then, still have snow to deal with on the way home. I can't really blame them for seeming to ignore me as I say all of this, since it is hard to hear my protestations over their boisterous singing of Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow.

In Wisconsin, we rarely had snow days. Even when there was enough snow to make bus travel unwise, us town kids would trudge to the classroom. From reading these bloggerifiques, you know that my time in class did not help in terms of grammar, spelling and proper sentence structure. With so few of us in the room, most teachers set aside the day's lesson plan and let us play traditional Wisconsin games like "Cheesecurd. Cheesecurd. Who's Got The Cheesecurd?" and "Cold Pipe Tongue Challenge" and "You Might Be A Red If...." That last one was a hold over from the McCarthy era and should not be confused with comedian Jeff Foxworthy's famous "redneck" routine. Ice storms were much more likely to shut down the school. I remember one that knocked out power for several days so we all ended up at the neighbor's house across the street since they had a gas oven. Lots of cards got played and lots of lies about ice fishing were told...like the one about opening a can of peas and placing them neatly around the hole in the ice. When the fish comes up to take a pea, you grab him.

Although snow days were rare, the school did have a plan that involved what were called "snow homes" that would take the country kids in for the night, if a blizzard hit during the day and buses couldn't run when the school day was over. I lived only about a block from the school but my parents still signed me up for a "snow home" and encouraged me to use it whether it was wintry or not.

Back to the present: I know my kids and spouse will be a little perturbed that today turned out to be snow-free. But, I will tell you one thing: it is better to mention snow and NOT get any than the other way around. Once my wife and I were driving up to the airport to pick up a grandma. One of ours, not just one at random from the "Grandparents 'N Such Shoppe." Our daughter, about three at the time, was riding along. As we headed up the highway, big wet snowflakes started to fall. I mean giant, frozen Frisbees. As they splattered on the wind-shield, my little princess said "OOOH. Look at those pretty snowflakes." I was filled with fatherly emotion over my little girl's wonder at the beauty of our natural world. (Please, feel free to wretch, if you must, after that last sentence.) "Wait a minute," she continued. "Did you say it was going to snow?" I had to admit that I had made no mention of snow that morning. None. My daughter pondered this latest example of her dad's incompetence, sighed and said "Well, it's pretty anyway."

I have more to say about snow and snow-days, but, right now, I have to go out in the backyard and get my alarm clock, pillow and blanky. My wife said I can sleep indoors tonight.

One of the big hits on ABC this season is Dancing With The Stars. I've never seen it. Not just because of my odd work-hours, which make my Prime-Time viewing fall between noon and 2:00 p.m. Not just because the idea of Jerry Springer in a sequin-covered leotard makes me break out in hives. Not just because, as a child, I was once scared by a Tommy Tune appearance on Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. No, the main reason I've never seen the show is because it would dredge up memories of my own pathetic attempts to trip the light fantastic. Or, in my case, "Look, he TRIPped over THE LIGHT! FANTASTIC! Now we have to replace that, too!"

Genetically, I should be able to maneuver across the dance floor without looking like a driver-less Zamboni. My mother is a great dancer. As a child, she was the Shirley Temple of northern Wisconsin. Her dad would play the fiddle or guitar and she would dance. As an adult, she loves weddings...not for the ceremony so much....but for the dance that comes later. In fact, when she cleans the house or works in the kitchen, if there is music within a 20 mile radius, she will hear it and jitterbug, polka and two-step her way through the chores at hand...or, more accurately, at foot. My oldest, much, much oldest, brother inherited the lion's share of her terspichorean talents. I really believe, had he been given the opportunity, he could've been one of those dancers you used to see on the Carol Burnett show or something. Part of me believes that he purposely had all daughters just so he could always have one of the featured dances at their weddings. To this day, even at his very, very advanced age, he will be the last one to leave the dance floor. Did I mentioned his advanced age?

As for me, I can't cut a rug. I can't even cut a welcome mat. I almost cut a handkerchief, once. Part of it goes back to some long-gone wedding dance. I was around 12 and remember being out on the dance floor of some smoky supper club. I could fake my way through a polka and almost do a simple box step, actually turned out to be more of a trapezoid. But, when the band started to play a modern type of song, I thought it was time to try something new. So, I released my partner...who shall remain nameless and shameless...and said "Let's try this." After which I started to throw my hands up in the air and swivel my hips. I was attempting to recreate things I'd seen on American Bandstand. Now, we didn't watch that show much in my house. We were more likely to have the Lawrence Welk show on...which also showed folks dancing from time to time or at least leaning on each other to the beat. Well, my attempt at being a cross between Twyla Tharp and Chubby Checker fell flat. My partner burst into gales of laughter and I slunk to the side. For a very long time, I didn't venture out onto a dance floor. In fact, my anti-dance resolve was so strong, I never attended a dance in high school. That decision was completely supported by all the girls in my class...and every other class.

Many years later, when my wife and I were expecting our first little bundle of joy...which, by the time they hit their teen years is more like a bundle of laundry...we decided to take some dancing lessons. I don't know what we were thinking. My wife was very pregnant and I was, by evening, always very pooped. Despite those facts, as well as the lingering pain of my inner-Fred Astaire and the questionable rhythmic aptitude of my lovely spouse, we signed up. Each Tuesday night we would head over to a middle-school gymnasium to learn some new step. We totally botched even the simplest instructions. Others were quickly gliding around the hardwood while we were stepping all over each other. Worse than that, we found it very funny. Our laughter indicated to our rather grim instructor that we simply were not taking this as seriously as we should. We got the evil eye continually. Still, we persevered through the first three weeks of the six week course. Then, on the fourth Tuesday, it all fell apart.

We made a number of mistakes before we even got to the gym. First, I ate one too many onion-seasoned hamburgers and too large a pile of spicy fries. Secondly, our yet-to-arrive son was apparently taking some sort of pre-natal martial arts class that day. And, finally, our attempts to actually practice at home were quickly replaced by watching Star Trek reruns and eating chocolate-caramel ice cream. When we arrived at the class, me feeling like a bloated flounder and my wife auditioning for a part in the sequel to Alien, we heard the words we had been dreading: "Tonight, we take a big step," announced our instructor. "Tonight, you will dance with others! That, my children, is the true test of a dancer. Taking your talents and melding them in a creative explosion of footwork and heart. When we have accomplished this, we can rule with impunity!" Okay, the last part may be a bit off the mark, but the first part...dancing with someone other than your original partner...that was true and totally frightening. My wife and I exchanged knowing glances filled with fear. In the first dance of the evening, without saying a word to one another, we stutter-stepped our way toward the door and waltzed or rumba-ed or samba-ed or line-danced right to our car. (Not knowing the difference between those various dance moves may be a clue to our cluelessness.) When we got home, we were pretty sure the rest of the class wouldn't even miss us and that the teacher figured her withering glances had finally pushed us into the basement.

Now, on FirstNews this morning, we had a story about the physical benefits of dancing...the waltz in particular. Researchers say doing the waltz is just as effective as biking or running on a treadmill in rehabbing people with heart problems. Well, fortunately, it's not my heart that has the problem. It's my feet. I don't need a researcher to tell me that dancing won't do my feet...or my wife's...any good.

I participated in a very adult activity Friday evening. Something I've rarely been involved in and, frankly, have a significant fear of. The Dinner Party. When I was growing up, the phrase "dinner party" always made me think of the Dick Van Dyke program. Rob and Laura would have Sally, Buddy, Mel, Jerry, Millie and a bunch of people we never met, over for a lovely dinner and then a cabaret show would break out! Sally would sing. Mel would get out his ventriloquist dummy. Buddy would tell jokes and play his large stringed instrument...because there's always room for cello. Finally, Rob and Laura would sing Mountain Greenery or some other duet-friendly tune, accompanied by the full orchestra apparently hidden in Richie's bedroom.

My parents didn't really have formal dinner parties but they were in the rotation for card parties. That meant setting up a pile of card-tables around the house with bridge-mix, peanuts, chocolate stars and pretzels available as well as a few grown-up libations. On Fridays, couples would show up after hitting the fish fry. You could always tell the serious card-players. They were the ones that looked at me standing there in my hand-me-down Davy Crockett PJs...I think they had once been Davy Crockett pajamas but they'd been worn quite a bit by the time I got them so it looked like Davy had a pony-tail instead of the full coon-skin cap and was riding an armadillo...anyway, the serious players would give me the "Time-for-bed-little-boy-because we're-here-for-cards-so-you'd-better-behave-and-make-yourself-scarce-or-we'll-make-sure-your-parents-ground-you-until-you're-in-your-20s" look as they headed for their table. And that was just the women. There was no singing and dancing like at the Petrie's New Rochelle house on TV but I would hear people yell "EUCHRE!" every now and then when they'd gotten what's called a loner and taken all the tricks for a total of four points. As far as I know, they weren't playing for money. Just pride and, maybe, the right to have lefse without lutefisk. The morning's after were often fun for me because, if the tables were still up, I would cover them with blankets and create a very cool tunnel city where I could subsist on dropped pretzels and chocolate stars until it was clean-up time.

Well, that brings me to last Friday evening. A very nice couple we know had made a generous winning bid on "An Italian Dinner for Eight" to be made and served at their home. Like everyone else we know, they adore my wife and that high level of adoration trumps (now, I'm back to euchre) their well-placed uncertainty about having me in their home. But, as my wife lovingly puts it, "I can't really leave him home alone and the kids have started charging me for babysitting, so Joel will have to come along. Do you have some crayons?"

We arrived at their lovely home around 6:00 p.m. and enjoyed some pleasant conversation while the last touches were being applied to the meal. Honestly, my wife had most of the good conversation although I did ask if they had one of those crayon boxes with a sharpener because the Midnight Blue was a little dull. At the meal, I didn't spill anything or tell any inappropriate stories involving cow chips, cheese curds, or mucus. I didn't challenge anyone to a belching contest. I didn't use their bathroom, go through their medicine cabinet then come out and ask "Who's using the itchy skin ointment?" I didn't slurp my food or chew with my mouth open. Frankly, my behavior was so exemplary, I really think I could have been allowed to sit at the main table with the adults.

There was a gorgeous piano in the room off the dining room and immediately I started to think this might turn out to be like a Rob and Laura Petrie party. I wondered which of the other guests could dance...which was hiding a puppet somewhere that would soon spring to hilarious life...which would be able to play the piano and sing Gershwin tunes. I decided I had to initiate the entertainment part of the evening. Just as I was about to launch into a medley of Broadway showtunes and do my world-famous impressions of famous people doing bird-calls, my wife's cellphone apparently rang. She mumbled a few "okay...be right theres" and then said "Well, that was our son and he needs a ride so I guess we have to be going." Somehow, she knew that the shelf-life on my acceptable dinner-party behavior was just about up. We thanked our hosts for a truly wonderful time and headed out the door. As we got in the car, she insisted the phone call was legit. She also made me turn around and take back the Midnight Blue crayon and the ointment.

As a kid, I still heard a lot of folks refer to November 11 as Armistice Day, remembering the end of WWI or "The Great War." The end of the war happened at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. By 1978, November 11 officially became Veteran's Day. In these unsettled times, such a day becomes even more meaningful. There will be a commemoration at the Liberty Memorial on Saturday, starting with a 9:30 a.m. parade. All over town, flags are on display. Speaking of flags, it would be pretty great to see more flags flying in our neighborhoods, especially tomorrow. It is going to be a sunny, breezy day. Perfect for Old Glory. When I was little, every house came with a place to fly the flag and, if by some strange chance, the place didn't have one of those brackets, you went to the hardware store and got one. These days, I know lots of homes still have the gadget necessary because I see flags in support of the Chiefs and various colleges...even some banners celebrating the arrival of fall. Might be nice to substitute our nation's colors for the those others, even for just a day.

Just about all of us are related to or know a veteran. My nephew served as did his father, my brother. In fact, that brother was named Airman of the Year a few years back. (I'll admit we teasingly changed that to Airhead of the Year...but that didn't mean we all weren't as proud as we could be.) My brother was actually due to retire from the Air Force back in 2001, but, after 9/11, he didn't really see how he could walk away. He stayed in for about five more years.

I know one veteran who is a part of what Tom Brokaw has rightly designated The Greatest Generation. He served in the Navy during World War II, including the battle of Okinawa. Unlike the heroes portrayed in Brokaw's book, this man never talks much about his service. He just did what he felt he should do, saw some things he'd rather not have seen, then made it back to this country's shores in one piece. His reticence doesn't make him any less a hero. He nurtured a talent with the GI Bill and got about the business of earning a living, raising a family and being a solid citizen of the country he had helped preserve.

Down in Branson, this is a big weekend. They roll out the Red Carpet for all vets. But, anytime during the year and at just about every show, they take time to ask the veterans to stand and be recognized. I suspect if the quiet man I just mentioned was ever there, he might be pretty hesitant to call attention to himself. But, I would hope he would stand up. Not really for his sake, but for ours. It's important that we see these men and women who risked it all for our freedoms.

So, to all the veterans...from the dwindling number still around from The Great War to those coming home today: Thank you for your service. Thank you for our liberty.

The street I grew up on was lined with elm trees. They kept us cool in the summer without the need of air conditioning. That was a good thing considering the fact that my mom has never really fully approved of such artificial cooling. First of all, she thinks it is a little unhealthy and I tend to agree. I understand that folks with allergies sometimes can't have the windows open but, overall, I think all the places we are being "chilled" makes us more likely to catch a cold or get the sniffles. My mom liked to be able to hear the birds singing and breeze blowing. She also had that white-tailed squirrel to keep track of...as I've mentioned in previous stories. She felt that you should live your life as if your windows are always open...it may make you behave a little better. I think that is true...with A/C and allergies in our house, our windows are closed a lot which leads us to behave more like the Osbournes than the Osmonds sometimes.

But, back to those trees, they did provide shady comfort in the hot times of the year. In the winter, standing there, uh, naked as a jay-bird they could look a little forlorn. (For some reason, saying "naked as a jay-bird" seems less offensive than the word "naked" all by itself. I've never known why we would use a jay-bird as an example of being, well, naked. Most birds I see are fully clothed in feathers, except when first hatched, so maybe we're talking about a baby jay-bird. You could also say "naked as the day you were born" but, in my case, being very self-conscious, modest Lutheran from Wisconsin, I was actually born wearing a snowmobile suit. My mom didn't appreciate the helmet.) So, the trees look melancholy against the cold, gray steel of a winter sky. Wow! That last sentence was almost real writing.

Summing up these childhood elms: Summer=cooling. Winter=naked. Inbetween=work. Yes, they were lovely to look at as the leaves changed color but once they started to fall for fall, it meant work. I am pretty sure they all came down at once on a pre-planned schedule. They usually waited until they knew I had something I wanted to do and then made their dive. (Remember, our windows were all opened so the leaves could listen in and know how to ruin a boy's fall Saturday.) It wasn't all bad. The transistor radio would sit on the front porch tuned into the University of Wisconsin Badgers football game and the raking would begin. The other fall ritual...changing from screens to storm windows...I was not usually in on, other than to provide the appropriately enthusiastic laugh when my dad would drag the heavy things out of the garage and say "These are a real PANE!" It never got old.

Actually, I can't complain too much about raking leaves since my dad went out and got one of those "lawn sweepers" after my brothers were all out of the house. While those guys were in charge of raking, my main job had been to jump into any pile they left...kicking as many back into the yard as possible. No wonder my brothers never send me birthday presents. Regardless, with the sweeper, we just had to mow the lawn...using the power mower dad also purchased after the big boys left...and then sweep up the leaves and clippings. This sweeper was very wide and hard to steer but it was also powerfully efficient. Once I actually swept up a football, two small cats and our next door neighbor. She was a small, white-haired woman who actually seemed to enjoy being swept off her feet.

The biggest raking job I ever attempted was when I was in college. One autumnal week, my mom and her husband, Gordy, were on a trip. They have a wonderful house and nice big lot on the lake. Back then, they also had many, many trees. Even Joyce Kilmer would've thought it was overkill. Anyway, all those trees inevitably meant an abundance of leaves. Well, I decided I would surprise them when they got home by raking the yard. I raked all day Saturday...prayed for no wind that night...then finished up on Sunday. By the time I was done, you could've jumped into the pile from a Cessna and been okay on landing. Frankly, that was the real reason I had done this "dutiful son" deal. I wanted to jump into the pile. When you're in your early 20s those chances start to dwindle away. Also, since nobody would see me do it, I could maintain my image as a suave, intelligent collegian. (Looking back, I was the only one who thought of myself that way.) As a kid, I could jump into those leaves for days and never get bored, but, being a mature, sensible man at that point, I could only keep it up for about five hours. Then, it was really time to burn them. Showing a rare case of good sense, I waited for Gordy to do the honors. I was pretty sure their gratefulness for my hard work would've been muted had I set their house on fire.

That brings me to yesterday. I was walking the dog and went by the neighbor-with-the- perfect-yard's house. I've mentioned him before. The grass is always wonderfully green and manicured. The edging around the sidewalks is amazingly straight. He has two small trees in his lawn which have recently shed their leaves. Naturally, being trees in his yard, the leaves fell off in numerical order and landed in six neat stacks...like yellow Pringles. Passing by and approaching our yard, I noticed that we really should rake the leaves. We have a few birch trees in the front that are, frankly, rather snotty about their leaves. It takes them forever to make their grand entrance in the spring. Sometimes their stand-offishness really irritates me. So much so, that more than once my wife has found me on the front yard yelling, sarcastically, "OOOh, Mr. Big Shot Birch tree...we're all SOOO impressed with your leaves....OOOHHH...they're so much better than any other tree...." After about a day and half, they start to turn yellow. They hang on in that yellow state for a long time before they fall to earth. I've never really raked them up. After waiting so long for them to appear, I hate to get rid of them. Also, we can't burn them and that's part of the fun of raking. I know there are probably environmental and safety reasons for such a burn ban, but I miss the primal feeling of satisfaction when you set it ablaze, as though you, Alley Oop, have discovered fire. I also miss the smell. I think Glade should come out with that aroma in a can. Or, a cologne called Eau d'LeafSmoke.

It is probably better for the lawn to rake up the leaves and all the stuff matted down in the soil but leaving them there also covers the thin spots in the yard. Sort of a seasonal natural comb-over. Wait a minute: I just thought of the perfect reason to rake the leaves. Not because of pressure from Mr. GreenJeans down the street or for the health of the grass. No...the perfect reason is to give my teenage sons an outside chore to do. Then, after they've gotten all the leaves in a nice big pile, I'll jump in it. That would be fun even if it means no more birthday presents from them, either.

Our older sons, Alex and Taylor, are now working at the same restaurant. This could be a problem. As happy as I am that they are earning some of their own money and learning about holding a job, the potential for danger increased exponentially when both started earning and learning at the same spot.

Heading into last summer, Taylor, then 15, got a job at a fast food place. He went out and got the job completely on his own without letting us know what he was up to. He did well. Worked a lot of hours. Earned some good money. He got to where he could make a soft-serve ice cream cone with his eyes shut and, from the looks of his uniform each day, did. In the meantime, his older brother, Alex, applied at several places...often as part of a group of teenage boys. He came to find out that applying for jobs as part of a mob just didn't play well with folks in a position to hire. You're just sitting there in your "Knick-Knacks N' Such" shop, when in walks the cast of Porky's II. That's right...not even the good Porky's. Once he went out on his own, he, too, found gainful employment as a host at a sit-down eatery. He has gotten so good at it, that even at home he greets us at the door to the dining room and seats us quite cordially. Unfortunately, we are always stuck right by the kitchen.

Well, with the busy-ness of the new school year, Taylor decided to retire from the frozen treat trade and focus on getting the semester started on the right foot. However, he quickly found out that car insurance costs money...video games cost money...next summer's fun will cost money. I did my part to help by cutting his rent by 11 percent. As luck would have it, of the places he applied, it was his big brother's employer that brought him on board. It is a tribute to the good track record of Alex that they were happy to hire Taylor. However, having said that, I have a little word of warning and expression of concern.

When you put the two boys together anywhere near food, you are tempting fate. First of all, Alex will find it necessary to do entire Steve Martin routines, word for word, in an effort to make his brother laugh. Meanwhile, Taylor picks up the humor gauntlet and goes off on flights of fancy. Once, while we were eating a wonderful Sunday dinner, I mentioned how good the homemade rolls were. That set Taylor off. He created an entire story-line about the quest of a single, lonely roll to find his (or her?) way in life. We had some classical music playing at the time in our ongoing effort to appear more cultured than we actually are, and, that, led Taylor's doughy lead character to dance dramatically. He called it "Buntasia." The saga ended with "Buntasia" leaping...if a roll can leap...to his or her demise from the top of the stairs. Then, he or she was devoured by the dog. It was quite an epic and is still discussed in hush whispers around our house.

It could be worse...our other two kids could be working there, too. Samantha gets to laughing so hard, so often that the milk coming out of her nose is actually counted as one of Kansas City's eight million fountains. Harrison also goes in for a little performance art from time to time. Once, after polishing off a couple of chicken legs, he took the bones in this hands, then scrunched his arms up into his sleeves so that it looked like he had chicken leg bones for hands. Just imagine Foghorn Leghorn crossed with Edward Scissorshands. It was pretty goofy looking and set his grandpa to laughing so hard we thought we might have to call the EMTs. Grandpa's face looked like a grape with a gland condition, it was so purple with hilarity.

All I'm saying is that any restaurant that hires one of our kids is getting a good solid worker. Any restaurant that hires two of our kids is getting a potential comedy minefield. Any restaurant that would hire three or four of our kids should be investigated for financial shenanigans since it would seem obvious that they were hoping to collect on the insurance.

Well, maybe this particular place should go with the flow and start advertising a floor show with the meal: "Fresh from a long and successful engagement at The CopacaNichols, it's Alex and Taylor. Seating! Serving! Silliness! They have it all! Gentlemen, guard your ties! Ladies, hide your purses. You never know what might happen when The Happy Hosts are in the house! Alex and Taylor...Better Than CATS!...Messier than Dogs!"

Here we are...Election Day, 2006. I know for a lot of folks, the best part of today will be that, starting tomorrow, no more election ads. They will be replaced by holiday gift/sale commercials. I hear that Tickle-Me Elmo may be going negative against Mr. Potato-Head:

Deep, serious, concerned voice with just a touch of disgust:
"According to published reports, Mr.
Potato-Head has appeared in public
without his nose and ears. Don't
your children deserve a toy that
is ALL THERE...ALL THE TIME?"

"For years, Mr. Potato-Head
smoked a pipe. He claims he
didn't inhale. Didn't inhale? If
that's true, explain why he has
been spotted with his eyes in
his ear holes and vice versa.
Face it. This Spud's a Dud!"

On the other side, the Mr. Potato-Head supporters are insisting Elmo is just a puppet of the special interest groups. Well, I hope it doesn't get that ugly.

Personally, I will sort of miss all the political ads. Then again, I belonged to the "Root Canal Club" in high school. Truth is, I like politics. When I was growing up, our family was quite fond of the Kennedy's. It wasn't a party or policy deal. It really just grew from the fact that my grandma once spotted JFK crossing a street in Milwaukee. He was still a senator at the time and my grandma thought he looked like a fine young man. From that beginning, we started to think of ourselves as sort of a cheesehead version of the Kennedy's. Of course, you had to imagine the Wisconsin River being Hyannis Port, our leaky fishing boat being a yacht and our Fargo-esque accents sounding like a Harvard-educated speech pattern. Occasionally, we would try to imitate their famous touch-football games but it is hard to catch a long bomb when you have a bratwurst in one hand and cheese curds in the other.

In grade school, a friend of mine and I tried to get other kids interested in the 1968 presidential election. We chose to support Hubert Humphrey instead of Richard Nixon based solely on the fact that the design we came up with using the three H's of Humphrey's name looked cooler than the initials from Nixon's. Years later, my friend and I thought we might end up on Nixon's infamous enemies list...well, the junior list.

I always had a fascination with presidential politics. While other kids in high school had that famous Farrah Fawcett in the red swimsuit poster on the wall, I had a poster featuring all the presidents and most of them were fully clothed. The two exceptions were Chester Arthur who had insisted on wearing bikini briefs and Warren G. Harding in a very tasteful two piece. Actually, truth be told, I did have that famous Farrah Fawcett poster, too. But mine was the little known and rarely seen version of her holding the Constitution behind her back.

I wrote to Lyndon Johnson when I was about five, giving him my advice on how to get out of Vietnam. I got a very nice letter in return from his secretary and several autograph cards. I also wrote to Presidents Nixon and Carter in later years. The Nixon White House sent me a cool picture book about the White House...who knew that years later, there would be sort of a "Books-On-Tape" version. From the Carters I got a "History of Washington DC" pamphlet which included a 25 cents off coupon for Billy Beer.

In the 1980 race between Ronald Reagan, Jimmy Carter and John Anderson, I was part of a national news story. At the time, I was living in Las Vegas and got a call from CBS News, the night before the election, asking who I planned on voting for and why. I told the caller I'd be happy to answer the question but only if Walter Cronkite got on the line and asked me personally. That not being possible, I declined to answer but gave permission to be called back the day after the election to answer questions. Sure enough, on Wednesday, CBS called back and asked about my voting behavior. I told the woman on the other end of the line (I think it was a woman and not Walter Cronkite, unless Uncle Walter was wearing his boxers about seven sizes too small) that I had not voted at all...despite having every intention of doing so. Being relatively new to Las Vegas, I really didn't have a good handle on the local races but planned on voting in the presidential. However, when the networks (there were only three at the time and not much else) called the race early for Ronald Reagan, I decided my vote wasn't relevant and stayed home. (Really, I think I went to a Tony Bennett concert...he's a candidate I could get behind!) Well, the voice on the other end of the phone said, mostly to herself, "Wow, I'm hearing that a lot from the western states." Sure enough, that night on the news, the lead story was about how the networks jumping the gun on results may have seriously depressed turn-out in the west and affected state-wide and local races in big ways. Naturally, I expected to be quoted by name in the story but was not. I know if I had just gotten to speak to Mr. Cronkite personally, I would've been his lead story.

In college, I got to work on a congressional campaign as an intern and loved it. I helped write some speeches that our candidate, who was a very decent, bright person, would then completely mangle. Coming out of his mouth it would've been "We have nothing but fear itself to be fearful of unless we fear it fearlessly" or "Ask not what I can ask about for you but what you're asking about for the rest of us" or "Four score and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie of the people, for the people and under the people." He lost. After college, I got a job in the Wisconsin State Legislature as the one-person staff for a state representative. For the record, she was what the pundits would call "a moderate Republican." But, mostly, she was a hard-working, conscientious, smart public servant. The Kennedy's used to talk about the nobility of politics and government, which, admittedly, seems a little hard to swallow sometimes. But, Representative Lolita Schneiders lived up to that lofty goal. Whenever I feel my cynicism about politics and politicians reaching an unhealthy breaking point, I think about Lolita and remember that there are those willing to serve for all the right reasons.

Oh..oh. This just in: Elmo and Mr. Potato-Head have agreed to a series of debates leading up to the holidays. It will be moderated by Ken and Barbie with questions coming from Raggedy Ann, GI Joe and Betsy Wetsy. Mr. Potato-Head says he will embarrass Elmo and "leave the little monster totally red-faced." Elmo promises to "mash" his opponent. Stay tuned for continuing coverage. Or not.

Some people think that doing weather would be great training for being an auctioneer: speaking quickly and using what sounds like double-talk. Also, in both areas you are dealing with numbers...for the auctioneer you hope they are always going up, up, up. Well, let me just say, auctioneering is yet one more talent I lack. (I believe that brings that particular list to...uh...infinite.) However, it was great fun to be a small part of the auction for St. Patrick Catholic School in KCK. They called it "Raisin' the Roof on the Ol' Red Barn," since it was held in their "red barn" of a gymnasium. At first, I thought I'd have to find something to wear that featured dried fruit...because of the "raisin" part of the night, but my children explained that was not the theme so, instead, I wore a tie with roosters all over it...however, as one attendee told me, considering what I do for a living, a shovel may have been more appropriate. I was greeted at the door by two "sheriffs," guns-drawn...later these two morphed into nuns...but remained armed! Turns out they were among the many dedicated teachers in attendance. All the classes donated wonderful hand-made items to be auctioned off. All were listed as 'priceless' in the program and they certainly are just that!

The host for the night was Monsignor Mike Mullen. You couldn't ask for a better person to provide warmth and good fun for such an event. More than once, he was the one getting the bidding going! Speaking of bidding, the auctioneers were the Nigro Brothers who do an awful lot of great work for charities all year long. I had two main jobs...well, three if you count staying out of the way of the bidding. First, I did the initial drawings for a game called Lucky Numbers. I never really understood what I was doing. Again, much like being at work. The best I could tell, if you heard your number called, you were out of the running for the cash prizes. That may have explained the low hiss and growl each time I read a number. My other job involved reading the list of items up for bid. There were over 40 items, including those class projects I mentioned, trips to places like Colorado and Las Vegas, artwork, entertainment items, wine tasting, a live Christmas tree! One of my favorites was the chance to buy your child an opportunity to be Principal for a Day! Oh, the things I would've done! Maybe allow the water coolers to be filled with chocolate milk...make M&M's an official lunchroom menu item...replace the rope climb and 600 yard run in gym class with the "living room dash" seeing how fast you can get up off your dad's Lazy Boy, to the TV, change the channel, and get back to a lounging position. (Of course, we didn't have channel changers.) Well, as great as being Principal for a Day sounds, I suspect I would have ended up being sent to my own office at some point during the day, anyway.

It was a wonderful evening of fun and fundraising for a great school. I was part of the festivities when they first kicked it off 12 years ago. It only took them a dozen years to get over that visit and have me back!

Saturday night brought another auction: This one to benefit the Epilepsy Foundation of Kansas and Western Missouri. The gala was called Bluejeans, Boots and Salsa at Mission Hills Country Club. It was a room of great people all in western wear there to have a terrific time and help an important cause. A few years back, when my children were still too young to realize that being seen in public with me could cause irreparable damage to their reputations, they all came along to this event. When the program and auction were over and it was time to dance, the floor remained empty for a time...until our daughter just couldn't let the music go to waste. She hit the dance floor with gusto. Eventually, encouraged by the pint-sized Ginger Rogers, the crowd got moving. So, when I got there Saturday night, the main question for me was "Where is your dancing daughter?" I explained that she was babysitting and couldn't attend. Despite that, they let me stay.

After an inspiring message about living with epilepsy from Bryan Griffin, auctioneer Travis Wheeler took it away. I mentioned to him that my mother's maiden name is Wheeler and he, immediately and assuredly, denied any possible family connection. Very similar to the way the Nichols family of JC fame have made it clear we are not just from different branches of the family but entirely different trees planted in entirely different ground! In any case, the celebration was a glittering success, full of fun, and I appreciated being a small part of it, as well as the St. Patrick's night. Thank you all for the good times and goodies!

While I'm at it, I want to thank the staff, students and parents at Montrose School for their kind hospitality when I visited last Wednesday. In the one building, they have around 92 students, kindergarten through 12th grade. I got to visit with grades 3-6 and we had a great time. It is a wonderful school, filled with energy and ideas. Thanks for having me!

Now that I'm thinking about it, I just might incorporate auctioneering into my weather forecasts. I'll just start saying numbers and let you, the viewers, bid on which temperature you want. Sure, it may not always work out...but, really, how unusual would that be!

This morning on FirstNews, I did the weather from the Crown Center Ice Terrace in honor of the opening of their skating...and holiday...season. It is the scene of one of the more interesting events in my checkered broadcast career.

Many years ago...I didn't have any gray hair, yet...I was filling in on the 5:00 p.m. news for Bryan Busby and, being a beautiful January day, the producer of the newscast, sent me down to the rink to do the weather. Being several bricks short of a load, I decided to do the live-shot on skates. Just as I opened my mouth to start the forecast, a little kid slid into me and knocked me on my best side. As I collapsed, I knocked down another kid standing next to me. It is always the innocent bystanders that get the worst of it. I heard the anchor-people, Dave Eckert and Kelly Eckerman, laughing heartily as I hit the ice. It was the first time I had fallen completely on my kiester doing the weather...well, literally speaking. Figuratively would be another matter.

Well, we showed that tape for the rest of the week. Toward the end of my fill-in stint, the "assailant's" mother called to say the boy felt awful and that it had just been an accident. We invited him on air and gave him some presents. Frankly, everyone in the newsroom wanted to shake his hand for doing something they'd often longed to do themselves. Knock me on my fanny.

After the fact, one of my co-workers, said, after watching the tape many times, that he was convinced the errant skater had taken me down on purpose. This Oliver Stone of KMBC, was sure I had been a target. He then started to implicate Fidel Castro, LBJ, the CIA and the cast of Happy Days. But, the initial nugget of his premise started to seem plausible. Over the years, we've shown this little clip fairly often...including about 400 times this morning. Most people who see it seem to think the "accident"wasn't really accidental.

Last year, when we showed the clip, a viewer called to say that the boy who knocked me down is now studing orthopedics at KU Med Center. I hope that is true. Maybe he got his inspiration after hearing my bones creak and crunch as I hit the rink. Or, maybe he was thinking ahead to his career and figured, by leveling me, he could one day have a new patient with problems incurred in an unfortunate skating accident.

That brings us back to this morning. Again, not having learned my lesson, I did most of the show standing on the ice, in skates. I didn't really move much. I mostly stood. When I did attempt to slide it was like the Tim Conway "World's Oldest..." character on the Carol Burnett show. As the morning wore on, more and more good skaters arrived and I started to watch their eyes carefully. Wondering...just wondering...if that "boy" was lurking out there...waiting for an opportunity to send me to the frozen mat, again. Of course, now he would be a young man and I am a middle-aged one, so the collision would've possibly had consequences beyond a bruised bum. Still, I kept a wary eye on the circling crowd.

Now, our daughter is a great skater but she had other plans at 2:00 a.m., like sleeping. Our second oldest son is a good skater, too, but he would only accompany me if it meant getting out of school for the day; not a deal I was willing to make. So, that left it to me, to be on skates. The most embarrassing part of it all, is being from Wisconsin, growing up around a lake, and not being able to skate. What I really needed this morning was a pair of those double-bladed skates like I used when I was very little. I wonder if they come in adult sizes?

This past Monday was my first day back to work after a nice, quiet week off. I don't know about you, but, for me, the first day back at it after a break seems a little more tiring than usual. The two in the morning alarm clock is particularly shrill and unforgiving. Even the clock radio gets a little snippy. For example, Monday morning, the radio did not lull me awake with some gentle James Taylor or Paul Simon tune. In fact, I'm pretty sure, when the thing went off, it was Darth Vader singing They're Coming To Take Me Away. Anyway, I stumbled out of bed and made my way to the station. After achieving my usual level of almost-mediocre performance on the morning news and, then, as per my contract, doing the monthly oil change and tire rotation on the news anchor's cars, I headed home.

When our kids were little, they were never very interested in taking naps so I never got into that good, healthy habit. Now, with all the kids at school you'd think I'd know better...especially on a more-pooped-than-usual day. I have a very good role model around the house now, in the form of our dog. He must sleep 23 hours a day. He gets up around 5:30...eats...goes out...sleeps until I get home...takes a walk...sleeps...wakes up to say hi to the kids as they get home...sleeps. Every now and then, if he's feeling chipper, he will get up from the floor and climb up onto the couch. If I am in the kitchen and drop some food on the floor, he just looks at it...then up at me with a look on his face that says "I'd like to eat that but it would mean getting up so, if you don't mind, could you slide that over here." On weekend nights, when I make the effort to stay up a little later than usual, the dog starts giving me dirty looks around 7:30 p.m. Well, he opens just the "dirty-look"eye. The point is, I should heed the dog's un-woofed advice, and take a snooze. But, I don't usually have the smarts to do it.

Instead, I did a few little chores. (Coincidently, my family has always considered me a bit of a little chore.) I mowed the lawn. Took the dog for a walk. Read the paper. Before you know it, the kids were getting home. By that time of the afternoon, it would've been self-defeating to take a nap but I made up my mind to get to bed as early as possible. As it turned out, that was 9:00 p.m. Here's where this meandering, obviously irrelevant story takes a nasty turn.

About 10:00 p.m., I woke up...scratching my legs like crazy. I felt like Ray Milland in The Lost Weekend except it wasn't the weekend and I'm not a suave movie actor. My first thought was that the itchy stuff was from mowing the lawn. Maybe I had stepped in some nasty, itch-producing patch. I thought about one of my brothers who had gotten into some allergy-producing plant while trimming in his backyard and ended up looking a little like The Elephant Man. He always has had a large noggin but, with the swelling, he looked like a float in search of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Well, I did not have any rash on my legs...just the itching. Also, why would it take all day to start to feel the effects of a sneaky outdoor predator? Then, I thought, maybe the dog had gotten into something and, sleeping on the bed as usual, he had passed it onto me. Well, this canine is allergic to everything and has very sensitive skin. He's a Golden Retriever who's a little afraid of the water and would probably break out in hives if he ever touched a duck. Since he was not in any discomfort, I ruled out that possibility.

I got out of bed and scrubbed my legs just in case. (This was very out of character, as my normal bathing day is 15th of each month.) Then I thought "Maybe it's just very dry skin." I've sat through enough Lifetime movies with my wife, to know that dry skin is, quite possibly, one of the worst things that can happen! I grabbed a tube of something and slathered it on. (I was going to insert a joke about accidentally using Preparation H and, then, discovering my ankles had shrunk so my socks wouldn't stay up, but I decided that would be in poor taste. ) After these therapies, I went back to bed, but not to sleep. The scratching and itching continued. The clock struck 11 and I got up from bed again and headed out the door. Everyone was still up! At 11:00 at night! My suspicions were right: after I go to bed, they all party! Chips. Dip. Music. Games. I tapped my wife on her shoulder just as she was about to do the limbo, and asked if she had any idea why I looked like a boot camp for fleas. She did not. She suggested I take some allergy medicine but I declined, knowing I had to be up in about three hours.

I trudged back up to bed. Then, it hit me! The dryer! Softness! Little white sheets! I am not prone to allergies. Only a couple things produce such reactions for me: the possibility of doing hard work and...those little white sheets you throw in the dryer to take care of static cling and make your clothes softer. How could this have happened? Early in our courtship, I had confided this weakness to my wife-to-be. She promised to keep my secret and not use them. Had she gone back on her word? Was it an innocent "oversight" or something more nefarious? I rushed into the laundry room and there it was...a box of the stuff. They can put all the little cuddly bears and words like "fresh" on the container they want...all I see is the work of the devil. Satan not satin!

As I started to change the sheets, the woman who promised to love, honor and go without soft towels, entered. Her first words: "I thought, maybe, you'd outgrown it." She meant the allergy not the Eeyore PJ's I was wearing. Outgrown it? I'm 45 years old. That's like saying I should buy shoes a couple sizes too big so I can grow into them. I'm on the other end of the growth continuum now. Everytime I put on my extra strong glasses and look down, the ground is getting closer. I'm shrinking. There's no such thing as a compact car for me anymore. My ears constantly ring. My eyes have decided to go Mr. McGoo on me. My gray hair is struggling vainly to cover a bald spot that will soon look like a landing pad for NewsChopper 9. And, my lovely wife, thinks I could still grow out of something?!

Well, her answer was actually sort of a compliment so I couldn't really be angry. I ended up getting about an hour and 15 minutes of sleep Monday night but decided I really shouldn't take it out on my wife. After all, it was just one night for me, while, for nearly 20 years, I've made her skin crawl.

Here it is: The Day After. Not that movie from the late part of the Cold War, depicting life in our area following a nuclear detonation. Although, there are some similarities: people walking around looking dazed and confused...wrappers and half-eaten Three Musketeers mixed in with smushed and rotting Jack-O-Lanterns. But, actually, I mean, The Day After Halloween, when stockpiles of candy are found everywhere. WMDs. Weapons of Mass Destruction of Wastelines and Tooth Enamel...I guess that makes them WMDWTE...MOUSE. In our house, only two of the kids made the rounds last night but they came back with plenty. Our daughter, Samantha, hit the neighborhood with a gaggle of friends...stayed at it for two solid hours and returned home with a little bit of everything. Meanwhile, Harrison went out with a couple of his friends from down the street and his friends' father. Their dad is a military man and, apparently, executed Operation Give Me Candy, with amazing success. They were only gone for about thirty minutes but ended up with an enormous stack of sweet stuff. It really was a thing of beauty. Door-to-door-to-door...quickly, efficiently, politely raiding every candy bowl...then, planting the flag in the front yard before moving onto the next goal. Clint Eastwood has already purchased the rights for his next movie.

While last night was certainly a success for our two Trick-or-Treaters, as well as our dentist, the most candy I've ever seen collected was by our second oldest son, Taylor, a few years back. Frankly, he was lucky to get to go. He'd been a bit of a pill in the days leading up to Halloween and I was leaning toward grounding him for the holiday. But, as often happens, my forgiving wife interceded and kindly pointed out that the boy didn't have many more chances to Trick-or-Treat before being too old for it. You can look at her point in a couple of ways: She was being compassionate and showing common sense or she was undermining my authority and undercutting my fatherly disciplinary techniques! The bottom line: Taylor got to go candy hunting with his pal. I was put in time-out. Anyway, he and his buddy hit an older neighborhood and turned out to be about the only kids on the street. He came back with a pillow case overflowing with bounty. Not just the little treats...huge chocolate bars...full bags of chips. He had so much candy, he had to get a restraining order naming Willie Wonka and Milton Hershey as stalkers. By the end of the night, the homeowners, disappointed by the meager turnout in their neighborhood, were just dumping their stuff into his hands. It was quite impressive although we did make him return the keys to the Lexus and deed to the lake-house one Halloween-Happy fellow had given him.

Taylor, by the way, made that candy last for almost a year. He is a hoarder...a saver. He always rationed his Halloween take. He does the same, now, with his money. He is frugal. He is careful. Let's face it, he's cheap. So tight, he squeaks. His older brother's candy usually lasted until he got home from Trick-or-Treating. The two that went out last night are somewhere in the middle. They are smart about preventing my wife and I from sampling. They open just about everything immediately. Take a bite or a lick and put it back in their pile. Actually, we, as parents, are pretty good about not taking the kids' candy. My wife also, wisely, buys candy to hand out that we don't really like. One year, I did the purchasing and, by the time the holiday, rolled around everything was gone. I ended up handing out slices of wheat bread and assorted spices. I can still hear one kid asking, "What's paprika, mommy?"

I remain surprised by how many generous folks out there give full size candy bars and multiple treats per child. When I was a kid, it was all about the mini-stuff. We also got pop-corn balls which always looked better than they tasted but made great projectiles, especially when tossed at high speed from behind a tree...in the dark...at your older brother's girlfriend. Then there were the people who insisted on giving us apples. As an adult, I understand their good intentions but, from a child's perspective, giving healthy treats on Halloween is just plain wrong. What's next? Broccoli? There was one person in our neighborhood who handed out pencils with the name of his insurance firm on them. We were not interested in whole life...we wanted chocolate and sugar! As in many towns, the local dentists handed out tooth-brushes, although, from a business standpoint, they really should have been tossing sticky, sugary caramels in our bags. Another thing I used to get that my kids don't: pennies. There were always those folks who had totally forgotten about the big day and would reach into the bottom of their purse or pocket for change. I often walked away with a couple of coins and a ball of lint.

Nowadays, our children are pretty savvy about avoiding houses that are clearly not interested in the routine. Porch lights off...no pumpkins glowing out front. Again, they are smarter and more polite than I was. A darkened house was an invitation. There were a few neighbors that had reputations for not wanting to be bothered which meant, of course, we'd rumble onto their front stoops, bang on the doors, and scream "Trick or treat...smell our feet...give us something good to eat!" Usually no one came to the door...occasionally you'd hear a muffled "Kids...kids...kids..." then the door would open a crack and a piece of Jurassic Park fruitcake or musty olive loaf would come sailing our way.

By the way, we never pulled any tricks if we came away empty-handed. We were all too scared. In a small town, there is no anonymity. If we'd thrown one roll of toilet paper into one tree, it would've been a headline in the Sauk-Prairie Star and the theme of every Sunday sermon. That was a much scarier proposition than any vampire, werewolf or mummy.