Most of the time, I forget that anyone is going to be reading these bits of bloggery. Sure, I know that, up in Wisconsin, Sauk-Prairie's Super Avon Woman, Diane, reads the stories now and then and, more dangerously, passes them onto my mom. And, sometimes a brother or other relative stumbles onto thekansascitychannel.com and finds the stuff. (I think some of my family will Google my name just to see if I've been fired, imprisoned or sued.) But, most of the time, I start to think I'm writing in a vacuum. I mean that literally...surrounded by flying dirt, crumbs and dust-bunnies with very startled looks on their faces, heading to their final reward...all accompanied by a loud sucking sound.

Then, something happens that makes me realize I am not alone here in the blogosphere. For example, yesterday a viewer and reader e-mailed to say she was angry that a talent consultant had apparently adversely affected my on-air performance. Sometime ago I'd written about that fine broadcast professional's visit. I must, here and now, absolve this talent coach of any responsibility for my work. The boring, shoddy, uninspiring spectacle this reader/viewer has observed on FirstNews, is my handiwork and mine alone. To be this consistently sub-par is no accident. It has taken me years to perfect such imperfection. But, thanks for your concern just the same.

Also, yesterday, one of my students at Johnson County Community College said "So, you're not buying her a monkey?" After making sure this was not some new kind of hip jargon meant to describe who knows what, I remembered that in yesterday's animal tale, I mentioned that our daughter thought a monkey would be a good pet. We had squelched that idea by pointing out the sometimes mischievous antics, occasionally unseemly behavior, poor personal hygiene habits and odor of such creatures...especially those kept in a house. To her credit, she merely mentioned her teenage brothers and the fact we let them stay indoors. She has a point. Sometimes, on Saturdays, when they first start to lumber out of their bedrooms/caves around noon, film crews from The National Geographic Channel will descend on our place, sure there has been a Bigfoot sighting. But, the point is, this student did read this thing. Now, he didn't say he enjoyed it or that it was any good, but he also did not criticize it...may have something to do with that fact that I was holding the grade-book at the time.

Speaking of our daughter, she ended up staying home from school with a fever yesterday. Of course, the minute her symptoms and subsequent absence from school became clear, our youngest son, Harrison, developed the very same problems...with the addition of a sore throat, stuffed up ears and whiplash...all very hard to prove or disprove. Over his protestations of parental favoritism and cruelty, we sent him to school.

He should have tried to stay home for emotional distress. The day before he brought home a rubbery frog which, when squeezed, can have various parts of his body...tummy, eyes, etc...bulge out. He had successfully taken part in a school fund-raiser just to get this squeezable frog. Unfortunately, "Steve the Bulging Frog" had only been a part of the family for a couple hours when he was overly squished by a big brother...losing his life force all over Harrison's homework. Initially, Harrison was furious and tried to squeeze his older brother hard enough to see those eyes bug out. Luckily, Harrison seems to be coming to grips with the loss. When I asked him, yesterday, if he still missed "Steve." His response told volumes: "Who's Steve?"

Meanwhile, back at the sickbed, our daughter watched TV, played some video-games, ate crackers and 7-Up, slept and used her cell-phone. I have a feeling the text-message bill, just from yesterday, will equal the Gross Domestic Product of Latvia. At one point, the phone rang downstairs. I answered it to find my wife's sister, Dana, calling from Pennsylvania. "So, Samantha is sick? She has a fever of 103? She feels stuffed up?" queried my sister-in-law, betraying more knowledge of the situation from her vantage point a half a country away, than I had from the living room. "Well, she is home from school. But how did you know?" I asked.
Turns out Samantha text-messaged her cousin who told her mother who called me who fed the dog who scared the cat who chased the rat that ate the malt that lived in the house that Jack built.

By the way, my conversation with my sister-in-law ended with her saying "Oh, wow, that garbage truck's on fire. Bye." I have no idea what that means.

So, anyway, I have to remember that there are people out there reading this. The good thing is I doubt there are many who read it twice. Gotta go. Garbage truck's on fire. Hey, it worked for my sister-in-law.

Well, she's at it again. Our daughter, Samantha, has decided she wants a pet. Now, we do have a dog. In fact, we've always had a dog or two since all the kids were born. But, she wants something of her own. This happens every now and then. A few months ago she thought she'd like to save up and buy a horse. Whenever our daughter says "I'm going to save up for..." we just smile and say "Okay, dear." We know there is no way she'll save up. She earns money through babysitting but it doesn't last long. On the plus side, she is very generous when it comes to Christmas and birthday presents, but, if there is no holiday in sight, she still finds things to buy. You've heard the old saying about money "burning a hole in your pocket?" For Samantha, that fire hits four alarms pretty fast. Not just her pocket but her entire wardrobe and even a few of her siblings' shirts are singed. "I'm going to save up my money and go see my friend in Florida!" "Okay, dear." "I'm going to save up my money and buy a laptop computer." "Okay, dear." "I'm going to save up my money and buy a monkey." "Okay, dear." Yes. This past weekend, "monkey" was one of her pet choices.

It usually starts with her innocent little comment about how clean and cute a mouse or a pet rat actually would be and how she would take complete care of the creature. Neither of those creatures will ever make it into our home...at least not by invitation. At our old house, we had a mouse that lived in the garage. Once I was walking in, carrying a load of groceries when my wife said, calmly, "Oh, there's the mouse." The toilet paper, tomato paste, pretzels, peanut butter, bread, milk, eggs, lettuce all went airborne. (You know, looking at that list makes me question the skills of the bagger. As a former bagger and box-boy, even I know to keep the canned stuff away from the bread!) Anyway, I'm neither proud nor ashamed to admit that rats and mice give me the willies. Even as a child, I mostly rooted for Tom and not Jerry...and for Donald and not Mickey. Sure, put pants, gloves and a tie on him, he's still a mouse. The only cartoon mice I really liked were the ones that they used to do a rodent version of the old Jack Benny program.

Part of my problem with mice and rats, has to do with a scene from a horror movie I saw as a kid. Vincent Price played a mad scientist named Dr. Phibes. In one scene, a man got into the cockpit of a small plane and the doors automatically locked. Then, a swarm of rodents (can you have a "swarm" of rodents?) came up over the back of the seat and devoured him. Dr. Phibes was behind this macabre act. Just writing that description has my skin crawling and I've checked behind my chair several times. Anyway, mice and rats...not going to happen.

Then, she shifted to gerbils and hamsters. For my money, they're just mice and rats with a better tailor.

Next, she thought we might go for a hermit crab. One of the boys had a hermit crab for awhile. Named Hermie. Hermie the Hermit Crab. Not exactly the most exciting pet around. Although they do tend to "stay" pretty well. However, they have an odor. No fault of their own...just the way it is. In a house with four kids, three of them active teenagers and, the other, a rambunctious 11 year old...plus a dog...we really don't lack for interesting smells. Samantha bounced from crab to salamander to gecko to fish. Part of the problem with any of those choices is that they would soon disappear somewhere in her room.

For such a sweet, pretty, well-dressed and groomed girl, Samantha's bedroom is like the aftermath of a volcano eruption. There's so much stuff all over, a chameleon would be completely exhausted or develop deep feelings of inadequacy. Her closet looks like it ate one too many sweaters and then had to "refund." Her desk is covered with snow globes, pens, pencils, paper, books, something that once was popcorn and photographs. Her nightstand looks like a junior chemistry set. If you ever need a penicillin shot, just walk through her room and the mold should do the trick. I am not going to mention her bathroom as this is a family web-site. In some ways, her room would probably be a perfect habitat for certain creatures...available food...places to hide...things with which to build a nest. Frankly, there may well be an entire civilization of creatures living under her bed. It's just too scary to look.

I know that Samantha's feelings of compassion and caring toward animals is something we should celebrate and encourage. Just not right in the same house. Especially the mice and rats. Did you just hear something behind me? Dr. Phibes? Is that you?

I felt stupid this weekend. Well, that's not such a change from any other weekend...or weekday, for that matter. But, this past Saturday, I really felt stupid. Like I should spell "stupid," STOOPID! I was honored to be the moderator for the three final rounds of the Science Knowledge Bowl at Rockhurst University. It is the Department of Energy Regional Contest sponsored by the school and Honeywell, Inc. Nearly 90 schools were represented. All I had to do was ask the questions. Now, when Alex Trebek does that on Jeopardy, he always seems a little smug to me. "Oh, no. The correct answer is Who is Charles Dickens' tailor's dog. Thought you'd know that...." Of course, Alex knows the answers. They're right there on the card in front of him.

Years ago, as I've mentioned before here at Blog Central, I co-hosted a kid's quiz show called Jellybeans. My co-host, the real star of the show, was a clown named ZAP! Yes, the capitalization and exclamation point were part of his name. He would do magic tricks, occasionally yell something like "OOOHHFROSSTIGIBBLE" and help the children through the obstacle course they'd run after answering some questions correctly. I just asked the questions. Since the show was really designed for five to seven year olds, I would estimate I knew the answers to about 35% of the questions. To this day, every now and then, I am approached by full-grown adults who tell me they were once contestants on the show. They're usually quite disappointed when I tell them that I am not ZAP! When I tell them I was the one asking the questions, they have no recollection at all. They remember the clown, the obstacle course, the green slime at the end of the show and the prizes. The host? Not so much.

There have been a few times that I've moderated spelling bees for young folks and adults. I quit doing that because the competition gets too heated. Personally, my competitive edge is about as sharp as mound of lime jello. Folks in a spelling bee, however, are out for blood! For the moderator, the only real skill is pronouncing the word correctly. That sounds pretty easy until you see the words. Sure, they put that little phonetic helper next to the word but that just confuses me. All those different dots, slashes, smilely faces, lines...even words I thought I knew how to pronounce look totally different. By the end of the bee, every card I would look at seemed to be the bubble above Hagar the Horrible's head when Hagar is cursing. I was nearly chased to my car on a couple occasions by participants or participant's parents insisting that my muddle-mouthed announcing was the difference in the match. On the plus side, many of the words they were hurling at me, I did know how to spell.

That brings us to Saturday's Science Bowl. The very friendly and devoted educators running the event handed me four stacks of question cards. One for each round and a pile of extras. The first two rounds were important, as the winners would get the chance to compete on the national stage in Washington DC this spring. The last round was intended to name the Grand Champion of the regional contest but some of the pressure was off since both competing teams already knew they were going to nationals.

As I looked over the questions, I knew I was in trouble. First of all, my eyes are in the middle-age middle-ground where I can't really read small print very well. The print on the index cards was right on the edge but once I focused, I was still confused. These questions were out of this world. "If a equals c to the ninth power, on a Tuesday, in the rain, what color was the hair of Louis Pasteur's third cousin on his wife's side?" "Two cars and a train leave New York at the same time, traveling different directions, going the same speed. How many opossums will they each hit and what is the skeletal structure of each creature called?" "Name the element described by the letters EIEIO." The scholars answered in a flash. By the way the answers are: Dirty Blond, eight with furry bones and oldmacdonaldite. Obviously, the real questions were so complicated that I have totally blocked them from my memory. But, you get the point. Regardless of how complex or obtuse the question, the scholars would buzz in and have the answer. These kids are scary smart! Let's hope they use their genius for good and not evil!

Anyway, I drove home mumbling to myself. If there had been just one question about chocolate chip cookies or something from an episode of Seinfeld or a math equation that allowed for the phrase "somewhere in the neighborhood of" I'd have felt much less ignorant. Seeing these brilliant young minds made me hopeful for the future of math and science progress in our country. As for my own progress in those areas, let's just say, I found myself missing ZAP!

President Bush is paying a call on the metro today and that has me remembering my own personal encounters with our leaders over the years. Okay. I've never had a "personal encounter" with a president. But, I do have a long-standing interest in the presidency. Obviously, when it comes to presidential history, I'm no Michael Beschloss or Doris Kearns Goodwin but I did have a poster of the presidents on my bedroom wall when I was a kid. No, it didn't begin with Washington and end with Millard Fillmore. I'm not that old...I just look that old. Anyway, the poster was right next to the one featuring Vice-President Farrah Fawcett.

Years ago, I did a story the morning of a presidential State of the Union address, asking people on the street what they would say if they were giving the speech. In a newsroom, that kind of story is called an MOS, which stands for Man On the Street. It really should be POS for Person On the Street or HOS for Human On the Street or, just to cover everything, COS for Creature On the Street or to designate an exclusive chat with Bill Cosby. Anyway, on a big dry-erase board in the newsroom they list the subject of a given story, the program it maybe used on, the reporter, photographer and type of story. For my State of the Union story it broke down like this:

Subject: State of the Union
Type: MOS
Reporter: Joel-LEFAR
Photographer: WDSS
Program: UOID

I guess I should explain those other acronyms. Like I mentioned earlier, MOS is for Man On the Street. LEFAR stands for Lame Excuse For A Reporter. WDSS means Whoever Draws the Short Straw. And, lastly, UOID indicates Use Only If Desperate.

After getting lots of comments from interesting, well-informed, clever folks, I ended the story standing in the produce aisle of a grocery store and said "Overall, from my perspective, the state of the ONION, is great! But, the kumquats are marginal, at best. Joel Nichols KMBC Nine News." Now, do you see why they don't let me do stories, anymore?

Well, back to personal presidential encounters. Around KMBC there are lots of reporters that have had one-on-one time with the leader of the free world. Kris Ketz was once shushed by President Clinton during a speech. Micheal Mahoney has followed most of them around the country during campaigns. Larry Moore has interviewed a number of them. Jim Flink claims to have compared hair-care products with President Reagan.

Even members of my family have had some brushes with history. My grandma once saw JFK on the street in Milwaukee. He wasn't president yet but she thought he seemed like a nice young man. If he'd just taken time to chat with my grandma, I suspect he could've avoided that whole Bay of Pigs thing. I believe my brother, Mark, met the first President Bush when Mark was named Airman of the Year sometime ago. Of course, we called it Airhead of the Year, but that was just the green-eyed monster talking. I don't mean envy or jealousy. We actually had a green-eyed monster living in our cellar. He was very unpleasant and bitter. But, he was a whiz at playing Scrabble and very adept at adjusting the rabbit ears on the TV so we kept him. For the younger reader, in the old days, TVs often had antennas sitting on top in an effort to pull in the signal. Sometimes we would put tin-foil on the ends or just have our cousin with lots of fillings stand there and hold on.

Over the years, I've only had a couple of "sort-of" commander-in-chief moments. One was with a man who ran for the office, and may do so again, John McCain. He was in town to talk about his first book, so my wife, youngest boy, Harrison, and I went to hear him. Our son was only about two years old and rather bored. He fell sound asleep as I held him. As we were standing in line, Senator McCain walked up...signed my copy of his book...tapped the snoozing Harrison on the head and said "That's the effect my speeches usually have on people."

The other time, in 1989, I was leaving KMBC for home and found myself stopped at the corner of 10th and Broadway. Police were everywhere. It wasn't long before the motorcade went cruising by, including the limo with the presidential seal on the door. The first President Bush was arriving at Bartle Hall to speak to the FFA. (Remember the Bluecoats?) As his car went past, I am sure the president waved at me. I must say I was surprised he didn't ad-lib a mention of me in his subsequent speech. Something like "On my way here today, I saw an amazingly handsome young man sitting in his well-cared-for Dodge Dart. It was clear from the look in his eye, that he is a true leader in this community. So, I've decided to declare that young man a national treasure and not require he ever file with the IRS again. Read my lips. No new taxes...for the amazingly handsome young man in the Dodge Dart." It didn't happen but, at least, I am convinced I got a presidential wave.

My eyes are a little itchy and I feel warmer than 98.6. I have trouble concentrating...okay, more trouble than usual. My hands get clammy. My feet sweat. My toupee slips and slides and I don't even wear one. What is my malady? A bad cold? Influenza? No. It's POWERBALL FEVER! I am not alone. When the jackpot goes above the 100 million mark, lots of folks get very interested. So, this morning on FirstNews, intrepid reporter Rob Yagmin, was giving us the odds of winning. Not great. The morning crew does go in on a pool when the number gets big enough. They even allow me to contribute...which means I have to raid son's wallets. (They get tips at their jobs and always have a buck or two. I have four children and no buck or two.) My wife is not a fair-weather lottery fan. She plays twice a week and uses the same numbers every time. These are just numbers that came to her, one day, in a flash of inspiration. She is sure they will hit one of these days and, so, she sticks with them. As her husband, I admire this kind of perseverance and am truly grateful for her willingness to stay with what, thus far, has been a loser of a choice. (Alright. Stop your snickering. I was referring to her lottery numbers not me.) You might be wondering why I don't pick the numbers, seeing as how, doing the weather, I work with numbers all the time. Wait a minute. You've seen my forecasts. Predicting the right numbers is, obviously, not one of my strengths.

Actually, my wife is much more of a gambler than I am. We went to the boats once and a casino in Wisconsin one other time. She didn't win but she loved every minute of it. Our deal had been that she could go through a twenty dollar bill. That took about two minutes. She ended up dipping into a little non-gambling money. It could've gotten out of hand if I hadn't stepped in. I still have to explain to two of four children why they have no college fund. To this day, when we drive by a gambling establishment, she gets a crazed look in her eye and starts to inch a little closer to me on the front seat of the car. The first time this happened, I thought she was being romantic but then I realized she was in an amorous mood but for Washington, Lincoln, Hamilton and Jefferson. Not so much for me. Sadly, her luck just isn't that good. In fact, we've gone by the casino completely, only to be pulled over by a gambling officer and told my wife actually lost ten bucks just by being near the place.

As for me, when I lived in Las Vegas for a little while, I would throw a coin in the slots now and then. Once I won enough to pay for show tickets to take my mom to see Liberace. In fact, I got thoroughly confused by my rare good luck and mistook the sparkling, brightly-attired entertainer for another slot machine. I ran to the stage and shoved three quarters in his mouth, pulled his arm and waited. I actually won four sequins and an emerald brooch shaped like a grand piano. By the way, the winnings fell out of his armpit. Get your minds out of the gutter!

Along the lines of trying to win big money with little effort, for a time, I was pretty consistent in sending back those Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes things. I figured I'd have a better chance if I ordered magazines...although they say that's not so. Well, I went through Time and Newsweek and Rolling Stone and Reader's Digest etc etc etc. Finally, I was down to Salamander Quarterly and Belly Button Lint Collector International. Still, I never won. One time a van did pull up in front of our house and a guy came running up carrying a giant check. Turned out it was our banker returning one that had bounced so often it was completely flattened out.

Right now, I'd better finish this thing up. I have to go find my wife. All this Powerball talk has her into full "Wanna make a bet" mode. In fact, I think I see her out in the street trying to get the neighbors into a dice game. Luck Be A Lady!

Over the course of these e-pistles (that's an epistle or letter done on a computer. Yeah. Made it up. Pretty clever. Feel free to use it. I can imagine the Apostle Paul using his PC to stay in touch with Corinth, for example. He'd have the best IT department around. I wonder how many sentences I would have to write in order to win the award for longest, most incoherent parenthetical comment?) I have made passing reference to teaching at Johnson County Community College or JCCC. Understandably, that is troubling to anyone concerned with the future of education in our country. When President Bush heard I was teaching, he instituted a new program called "No Fake Professors Left Behind."

Back in the early 90s...1990s, smart alecks... a JCCC instructor was visiting the KMBC newsroom and asked our news director if he had any suggestions of someone who could teach an evening course called Introduction to Broadcasting. My boss, mishearing the question as "Is there someone here who should take a course called Introduction to Broadcasting?" immediately suggested me. I was already handing out syllabi...syllabuses...those pages with the course information on them...when the error was discovered.

The first semester I taught, I imagined myself as John Houseman in The Paper Chase. I was going to take those "skulls full of mush" and create great lawyers...I mean broadcasters. The students didn't respect me very much. Perhaps, it was because I demanded a lot of them and was a very tough grader or, maybe, I shouldn't have worn a cap and gown, while carrying a diploma-like scroll, into every class period. This lack of professorial esteem may have also had something to do with spelling "broadcasting, " "broodcoasting" on the chalk-board the first day of class. Another factor was age. Back then, I was not that much older than most of the students. They looked at me as more of an annoying older brother than a teacher. Now, I am treated with much greater deference. I like to think it is due to my dignified demeanor, professional stature and obvious deep knowledge of the subject matter. More likely, the students see me as a frail, old man and pity me. At this stage of the game, I can accept that.

Because I teach in the evenings, I have, occasionally had students older than myself. Less often, lately. One of my first classes had a woman, old enough to be my grandmother, who had no interest in a career change to broodcoasting or broadcasting. She actually detested TV and radio and wanted to find out why such messes existed, at all. Once she came into class totally disgusted with a story she had seen on the news the night before. It was a ridiculous segment about Groundhog's Day. She went on and on about what a waste of valuable time the story was and how it did nothing to educate or enlighten! "The reporter was ignorant and, frankly, rather homely." Oh, she hated that story and felt it exemplified everything wrong with the media, today. You know the punch-line. It was a story I had done. Nothing she said really hurt my feelings. Well, the "homely" part seemed a little mean. I was big about it, though, and as it turned out, she got an "A" in the class, because she was a very good writer and did all the assignments well and on-time. (As I told the authorities at the time, I had no knowledge about the stuffed groundhog's head that ended up in the backseat of her car.)

Well, now, I teach Introduction to Broadcasting and Broadcast Performance. I rely heavily on guest-speakers, field-trips, hands-on projects, movies and class discussions...trying to keep my actual influence to a minimum, in keeping with the aforementioned "No Fake Professors Left Behind" act. I don't know if any of my former students have actually entered the broadcast field. I suspect you'd be able to pick out the ones who took the class, though. Just keep an eye out for any story having to do with groundhogs.

Well, for the most part, it was a snow "storm" people could sit back and enjoy. Just about everyone ended up with between three and six inches of the white stuff by early Sunday morning and it turned out to be that great packing snow! By the way, if you're saying to yourself, "It wasn't so good, you nimrod! I had to drive in it on Saturday evening!" (By the way, I appreciate being called "nimrod" as it is much kinder than what I usually hear around the station, around the house and around town.) Just so you know, I drove a little bit on Saturday evening, too. I had nowhere to go, but my wife suggested I get out and about a bit. "It'll be good for you...take the car with the old tires and remember, the Wisconsin rule, the faster you take the corners, the better!" It was slushy but not too bad. Of course, I do most of my driving with my eyes closed so maybe it was worse than I realized.

It was great snowperson (see how politically correct I am!) building weather on Sunday. When the kids were little, I would go out and try to help them create something. I always envied the neighbors who worked so hard and creatively...even using food coloring to add to the effect. Snow Dogs...Snow Homes...Snow Villages...Snow Planets. (I did think the snow version of The Signing of The Declaration of Independence, was a bit much.) But, in our yard, it usually ended up more like Snow Pile...with a hat and carrot. The snowmen and women I'd create for the kids always had serious body image problems. More than a few ended up consulting the Snow Psychologist created down the street. (Maybe all snow people have some serious issues. As our oldest son, Alex, pointed out yesterday: "Wouldn't a snowman wearing a scarf have some sort of death wish?" Just think about that....)

Yesterday, our youngest was more into snow football than snow sculpture. The oldest boy was building virtual snowmen on computer and the second oldest had Nintendo Wie on his mind not sliding-down-the-hill WHEE! That left snow-creation duties to our daughter, Samantha, with an assist from the dog. She made a snow-family which you maybe able to see on FirstNews Tuesday morning, along with creations from others on the morning crew. For those of you with troubling ideas about exactly what the dog, Casey, contributed to the creations, it had nothing to do with color-enhancement. Yes, the dog is a male but he learned most of his behaviors from the old dog and she was a she. Casey has been approached by Jerry Springer for his "Gender Confused Canines and the Masters Who Love Them" episode.

Anyway, reporters Rob Yagmin and Chris Nagus, both of whom have also been approached by Jerry Springer for a variety of program ideas, are in a competition for best Saturday night snowman and you can check those out and vote for your favorite right here at thekansascitychannel.com. Also, don't forget, Tuesday morning we will show some creations from some of the FirstNews crew. Finally, thanks to all of you for sharing your fun photos, too. I showed a bunch of them this morning on the show.

As for me, I have given up building snowpeople. Frankly, I am prohibited by court order. In a class action suit filed by Frosty, et al, I run the risk of a hefty fine and random placement of charcoal and carrots, if I try again. Most of it comes from my thoughtless naming of the last snowman I had a hand in, so to speak. I called him Puddle. Bad choice.

It's time for true confessions: I have never been snow skiing. Yes, I'm from Wisconsin and I even worked at a ski resort up there for a winter season. But, for a number of reasons--money, ability, fear--I've never tried to ski. Although the wonderful folks out at Snow Creek have offered many kind invitations to try, it just hasn't happened. My brother, Craig, once spent a lot of money on cross country skis, which he may even have used once. Cross country skiing is supposed to be great exercise but, to me, it always seemed like just a snooty cousin to snow-shoeing. I suspect, on skis, I'd be more Body Cast than Bode Miller. However, my lack of Jean- Claude Killyasity, does not mean I am averse to fun in the snow. I have gone downhill in so many ways, including my looks, career, mental acuity, that going downhill for real is not a big deal.

Once, out at the aforementioned Snow Creek, I competed in a trash-bag race. It involved a large, plastic garbage bag and several other sliders. I am proud to say I finished, and then, my family put me out by the side of the street for pick-up. I also have a pair of Fanny-Skis. They are just what they sound like. You strap them on your bottom and off you go. It's not really a one-size-fits-all contraption. As I get older and wider...not wiser, but wider...when I use the Fanny Skis, the trail left behind looks like Babar the Elephant has arrived at the Waldorf carrying several pieces of luggage.

Where a person goes sledding may be more important than what they go sledding on. Our first house, north of the river, had a great hill right out the front door. Now, the kids have to walk only about a block to get to a pretty fair course. When I was a kid there were two main places to go sledding. One was good. One was evil. The good one was called Steuber's Hill. It was just out of town and wide open. No dangerous trees or roads to worry about. It was named after the family of my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Steuber. She ranks with the best teachers I ever had. When I was in her class, about nine years old at the time, my oldest brother and his wife had their first child. In fact, that baby was the first of that new Nichols generation. The little arrival was a girl which made me nervous, thinking that would make me an aunt, not an uncle. After answering that question for me, Mrs. Steuber, being an amazing artist, made me a really cool, over-sized card to give to my new niece. To this day, we still get Steuber originals at Christmas-time. (She also gave me a "D" in penmanship once. It got my attention. Something a great teacher can do!) Anyway, Steuber Hill was so bright and happy a spot, it would have made Currier and Ives think their own work was too dark and foreboding.

Speaking of "dark and foreboding," that describes the other sledding place in town. It was a narrow, icy path right off of the main drag, Water Street. Way too close to that busy thoroughfare. You'd fly down the chute with trees and branches and rocks everywhere. If you veered just an inch off the beaten path, you were done. If you went too far, you were in the river...which didn't always freeze too completely. A good friend of mine urged me to go sledding there. So, I traipsed along. When I got there, I swear I heard that music all kids associated with death back then...."dum..dum...dumdum...dumdumdumdumdumdumdummmmmm." And, dumb is how I felt, too. This was not a happy woodland setting. There was no Bambi or Thumper. There was one scruffy looking chipmunk sitting in a tree, smoking a Lucky Strike and drinking an Old Milwaukee. Every now and then, he'd yell to nobody in particular, "Darn you Alvin...that shoulda been me..." The trees and rocks were not soothing. It was the type of setting Walt Disney would've created had he gotten a bad piece of olive loaf in the studio commissary. Well, I chickened out and went home. Either that day or the next, the good friend who had encouraged me to try it, went off the trail and broke his collar-bone. He blamed the chipmunk.

But, the best place to go sledding and have fun in the snow, for the last 25 years or so, has been out at Grandma and Grandpa's lake cottage. They have a very long, fast hill that is perfect for any kind of sled. Thanks to the snowmobiles, you can get a ride back up to the top. (Also, it is comforting to know that a warm fire and hot chocolate are only a step or two away.) Over the years, our kids have had a blast on that hill but my most memorable moment came before I was a father. I may have told this story before but I don't really remember, and, after the story, you may understand why. You may also understand many other things about my behavior, too.

Before I was the mean dad, I was the perfect uncle. When I was 20, I had about 11 nieces and nephews. On the day before Christmas Eve, I decided to go out to the lake and make a really good, fast, but safe toboggan run for all the little kids to use when they visited Grandma and Grandpa the next day and night. We had plenty of snow on the ground which needed to be properly shaped for the best sliding performance. Well, I took the toboggan out of the garage, set it down right at the top of the hill, took several steps back and, then, ran full bore to the sled, jumped on, flat on my stomach, and went flying. Up ahead, I saw a large tree approaching but there was a giant snow bank in front of it. All that snow would surely stop me. I put my head down and sailed into the snow....through the snow....out of the snow...through the air...into the tree. Head-first. After impact, I immediately jumped to my feet, just in case anybody inside had seen it. It was just like in a cartoon...I saw stars and heard little birdies. I went in the house and locked myself in the bathroom to check my pupils. (Something I must have learned from Mrs. Steuber since a good teacher always checks her pupils! Get it? Pupils? Even in pain, I still got it!) Other than a dull ringing in my ears, everything seemed okay, although my family did wonder why I kept picking up the phone and saying "hello" to a dial tone. In the days that followed I discovered I had torn some muscles in my chest. This was a major surprise, as I didn't think I actually had any muscles...in my chest or anywhere else. The other lasting effect from my "tree"-mendous collision: I lost about a quarter of an inch in height. Before: 5'11". After: 5' 10 3/4". A quarter-century later: Still shrinking.

This weekend, enjoy the snow, if we get some, and the hills and the sledding but watch out for those sneaky trees and bitter, old chipmunks.

Yesterday I wrote a little dog blog. A bloggy about a doggy. Apparently, our daughter, Samantha, and I are on the same wave-length...a frightening thought for her teachers, I'm sure. (Speaking of teachers, the other day, our youngest son, Harrison, age 11, showed a bit of temper during class and was asked to go out in the hall. The very understanding teacher went out to find out why he was upset. After explaining his side of the story, she said she understood and he should tell his mom and dad he's not in trouble. Harrison responded: "Well, my mom will probably say 'Oh, Harry.' But, my dad won't be mad because his own school record isn't exactly clean." Watch this space for reasons why Harrison would say that.) Back to Samantha. She let the Cone-Headed Golden Retriever, Casey, out yesterday morning...in that light falling snow...and he was ready to play. That inspired her to write the following poem. Now, if you're thinking that I'm again using the work of someone else to fulfill my responsibilities...like I did with my brother's letter last week...you're absolutely correct. If I could convince people that I actually knew how to make pancakes and grow tomatoes, I'd be stealing from The Letter From Larry! Anyway, here's the latest from our family's poet laureate:


Snow Dogs

The snow is falling
It is on the ground
Casey is sitting up on a snow mound

Checkers, the old one,
Is jumping around
Catching the snowballs
Before they hit the ground

Casey looks up with his lazy eyes
He stands up slowly
Then runs with a burst!
He's a competitive dog...he'll try to catch 'em first

Checkers just looks at him
She doesn't mind
The snow will keep falling
They've got plenty of time

Finally, a friend comes out of the house
She's happy to throw snow for awhile
But then she gets cold
So, she and Casey lie lazily in a pile

Checkers just looks, with her cocked, little head
Then she plays some more
Who needs to go to bed?

She chases the snowballs
She chases the flakes
For her, a snowy day
Is certainly great!

Well, Checkers is gone, she left when it was hot
Now, covered with ice, a cross marks her spot
It's winter right now, and I think I know,
She's playing with God in some heavenly snow.

Many years ago, after a little slippery stuffy blew in, I did a feature story about how to safely walk across slick areas. This was most certainly not intended to be a HealthWatch report or, for that matter, anything remotely helpful to anyone. In fact, just about none of the stories I did during my feature reporting days were helpful to anyone. I also didn't do stories that would touch a viewer's heart. Apparently, my stories did make a connection with some bodily organ, as the water department reported a major increase in flushing when my stories were on the air.

The fact is, I started in TV doing silly stories. First for PM Magazine, which some of you may remember from many years ago. I did a story about a couple with a 750 pound pig for a house-pet, for example. His name was Spot and the woman of the house kept him clean using a vacuum cleaner. They built a trough in the kitchen so he could dine with them. When I started doing FirstNews, I still went out just about everyday and did a story of some kind. Again, usually on the ridiculous side. Like what your fingernails say about your personality or a visit with the woman who collected 2500 cat whiskers. As I said, these are not exactly "lump-in-your-throat" stories. Hair-ball in your throat, maybe.

Anyway, our weather the last few days reminded me of that old story about how to walk on icy surfaces. Last Friday, while slip-sliding behind the dog, I encountered a man moving at high speed right over the slick stuff. He noticed my curious look, stopped and held his foot up to show some traction-providing teeth on the bottom of his boots. Like chains for little tiny car tires. If the Smurfs had to traverse I-35 in the winter, they'd need these things. Well, as happy as I am for that walker, I think he's cheating. Why not make the trip, and potential trip, a little more exciting? For example, the other day, my wonderful wife walked with the dog and me. She chose running shoes with no tread left. It was thrilling for her and hilarious for the dog and me. I truly believe she gained, not only physical exercise, but an increase in her mental and emotional fortitude...not to mention an amazingly expanded vocabulary.

Some people do the baby-steps method. It works and, if you add a white, shaggy wig, under-your-breath mumbling and Harvey Korman, you can pretend you're Tim Conway. Some people do the no-blades, Michelle Kwan deal. You just pretend to skate across. That's fine but adding a double axel and triple salchow is just showing off. You also run the risk of earning a low score from the judges sitting safe and warm in their breakfast nooks. Some people just get down on all fours and make their way. Yes, I've seen adults do that. Not always on purpose, but once they're down there anyway...they do the "Plastic Army-Man Crawl" or "Hinder Bounce-n-Slide." (That sounds like something Suzanne Somers should be selling on QVC. "Since using the Hinder Bounce-n-Slide, I've shaved three inches off my tush and haven't had to dust the floor in a month.")

During my Wisconsin childhood, it was imperative that our walks, steps and porch be kept clear of ice and snow. And, of course, by "imperative," I mean "dad said so." It was not enough to just get a narrow path shoveled out. If there was concrete underneath, you'd better find it. Most of the time it was snow, which was much easier than chipping away at any ice. I don't know if that "all or nothing" shoveling strategy is still in place up north, but I have to admit, I'm not as vigilant about snow/ice removal as I was raised to be. I'm such a rebel. However, we do have some neighbors that make a point of getting out and chopping away at the stuff. Their driveways look great...they can turn in and out without making an Evel Knievel-like jump...you can approach their front doors without using a sled-dog. I think part of my reasoning in not clearing things out as much, has to do with the fact that, in America's Dairyland (that is STILL Wisconsin in my book, regardless of what those happy California cows say) when winter settles in, it lingers for a long time, but, around these parts, if you wait a couple days, Mother Nature takes care of it. That's one reason. The other is I'm lazy.

My rules are as follows: Ice-I leave it alone. It's just too hard and will eventually melt.
Dusting to 2" of snow-If it can be swept, I leave it alone because it just
is not macho to use a broom.
4"-8"-I send the boys out to shovel.
8" or more-Wait for Spring.

That leaves 2-4 inches of snow...if it is in that range I may shovel, myself. If I'm not already deep into a jigsaw puzzle or watching The Rockford Files.

However, back to the original point of this story, I will walk the dog in any of these conditions. So, remember, as things melt in the next few days, be careful out there. The bottom line is you don't want to end up flat on your bottom line.

Hope you all made it through the return to winter that barreled into the midwest this past weekend. Out in our neck of the woods, it never got too bad. Certainly not bad enough to tell the dog "No walk, today." Casey is a Cone-Headed Golden Retriever. I'm not sure that is an official breed recognized by the dog show folks, but it does apply to this canine. From a certain angle, his head looks just fine. From most vantage points, however, he looks like he is wearing a furry dunce-cap. He also tends to be rather lazy. If he is stretched out on a sofa, bed, floor, or, occasionally, child, and you drop some food in the kitchen, he will hear it...open one eye...look at the available treat, then glance up at you as if to say "You know, it'd be great if you could just slide that over here where I can get at it. Think you could do that? Thanks a million." By about 7:00 in the evening he is ready for bed and, if you come home at anytime during the day, his eyes are little slits...and, if dogs can have bed hair and sleep creases, he has them.

Yet, when it is time for his walk, Casey, is raring to go...even in the slick, cold conditions of this past weekend. In fact, the cold seems to wind him up. Usually he gets going a little too fast for conditions and appears to rear-end himself. It's just that the brain wave, which may or may not be smaller than average, takes too long to ripple all the way back to his hind legs and they keep moving long after his front has stopped. There have been times when his backside actually got home and was asleep before the rest of him made it in the door.

This weekend also reminded me of our, now departed, pooch Checkers. She was a true mutt...in the best sense of that word. We were never sure what-all she was made of but I suspect there may have been some husky in there, as she really loved the cold and snow. Maybe it was actually more polar bear than pup. Even when she was very old and seemed to have trouble even standing up, if she got a look out the door and there was snow or ice or sleet, about ten years just fell off of her. She would run around the backyard and chase snowballs for as long as you'd stay out with her. And, if you wimped out and went indoors, she'd just laugh at you and stay put. When we'd go for walks on a cold, snowy day, her tail wagged the whole way.

So, say what you will about the Dog Days of Summer, around our house the Dog Days of Winter are even better.

In just about every line of work, nowadays, there are consultants. They arrive with a brain and briefcase full of ideas and suggestions. Sometimes their presentations are made to a group, sometimes one-on-one. I think it is an honorable profession. In fact, my in-laws are in a branch of this kind of business. They focus on finding successful strategies for health-care facilities. At least, I think that's an approximation of what they do. It always sounds so complicated to me that I'm not entirely sure what it entails. Their business involves charts and graphs and long, well-written proposals. They have to know about medical stuff and life-style stuff and money stuff. At one point, I think they mentioned something about physics, trig, calculus, Euro-Asian history, biology, chemistry, botany, glass-blowing, playing the lute, and using a strand of Einstein's hair. On the other hand, my job is easy to explain: I stand in front of maps and pretend to know what I'm talking about. Every now and then, I have to point at something.
That's where our long-time talent coach/consultant comes in.

This morning, when I am done lowering the overall quality of TheKansasCityChannel.com, I have to sit down with the person paid to try and make me do a better job. I know it's my turn because I can hear his sobbing all the way down in the weather center. Let's call him Eric. That may or may not be his actual name. If you were at all involved in my career, would you give your real name? I didn't think so.

This is how it works: Eric sets up shop in a conference room with a video tape machine, a pile of legal pads and lots of enthusiasm. One-by-one, the on-air folks take their turn. I don't know what happens in the other sessions...I suspect it is mostly positive reinforcement. Look at Moritz, Moore, Gish, Pitman, Flink, et al. They are all perfect. (Well, maybe not Flink but he gets extra points for unreasonably good hair on a man of his advancing years.) When I first started here at 9, I would have an appointment with Eric whenever he visited. Eventually, it became clear that I was beyond help and hope and, then, I rarely was scheduled with Eric, anymore. I also heard that, after each visit with me, the cost of getting Eric some sort of grief counseling was getting too steep for the station to cover. Part of these sessions involves watching yourself on the screen. That was always uncomfortable since I am my own worst critic. Hey! Quiet down...I know you think you are my own worst critic....but I think I am and I'm the one writing this. Well, we'd watch parts of the tapes and Eric always had many good things to say...about Maria or Lara or Donna or Jim or Jere or Johnny or the stagehand who accidentally walked through the weather segment: "See how naturally he moves? He seems very comfortable and friendly, yet professional." Then, he would move onto my performance. Now, Eric, is not a coach in the drill sergeant mode. He's pretty tactful. He would clear his throat. Look me in the eye. Clear his throat again. Glance at his notes. Clear his throat. Then, say, "Joel. I understand Johnny Rowlands needs someone to scrape the bugs off his bi-plane goggles and stitch up the frayed ends of his long Red Baron scarf." (Remember, these were the early days of FirstNews.) Once, I got a glance at his yellow-legal pad and noticed, next to my name, the comment "suggest further education...in a land, far, far away...tell him there are unicorns with bright, shiny horns in the next room, then lock and bolt that door..."

As I mentioned, after a few visits, I was no longer put on the list to see Eric. But, this morning, I have an appointment so that must mean they think I CAN get better at this job. They like me! They really, really like me! Or, it may mean that they're going to, yet again, suggest I find a new line of work. I'm pretty sure I saw someone who looks a lot like Sally Struthers in the lobby. As soon as she saw me she said "hotel/motel management...locksmith...shepherd...data entry...ice-cream parlor operator..." Whatever they try, I'm ready for them. Unless there really are unicorns in the next room.

This morning on FirstNews we had some wonderful video of a huge walrus doing his exercises. (I say "His" although I am not sure if the creature is a boy or girl...just, to me, all walruseseseses...walrusi?...look like Wilford Brimley. I wonder if there is any video, anywhere, of Mr. Brimley doing ab-crunches? Just so you know, I think he is a great character actor. I'm a big fan of Mr. Brimley, too.) Anyway, this gentle giant was feeling the burn. It got me thinking that maybe it's time for me to initiate a real work-out plan. It's not that hard. I've started a new exercise regime hundreds of times.

When I was a kid, for Christmas one time, I got boxing gloves and decided I might be the next Rocky Marciano. Looking back, I realize that the gift was given to me by one of my brothers who could then use it as a pretext to "spar" with me. Not a good idea. Although, I do remember one time, when my brother, Craig, who is at least a decade older than me...at least, was 17 and came up to me and said "Hit me in the stomach as hard as you can." Well, I wound up big time and then leaped into the air and popped him in the jaw, instead. That was the end of my boxing career and the immediate start of my 50 yard dash to the side of our mother.

Growing up, I was running around outside a lot and riding my bike all over and swimming everyday so any kind of organized work-out would have been redundant. It was in college that I first decided to actually try exercise on purpose. It turned out that eating Oreos and chocolate milk for breakfast, snacking throughout the day, and wolfing down M&Ms while watching The Bob Newhart Show after the 10:00 news, as great as it was, did not make me look like Hans and Franz...more like Hardy and.....Hardy. Well, having grown up seeing Jack LaLanne on TV doing every possible exercise using only a wooden chair and a white German Shepherd, that's the model I decided to follow. I borrowed a chair and painted our dog. Then did jumping jacks, sit-ups, squats, lunges and push-ups. The results were amazing. I suspect they would've been even more impressive if I had done it for a second day. But, I had to return the chair and the dog moved out. Also, I found that the evil secret fit people don't tell you is that you have to do this stuff consistently and, not continue to eat the Oreos and M&Ms during the actual workout. Also, I was once laughed at by an observer who said my push-ups looked like some kind of giant, poorly-groomed emu trying to find his lost contact lens. I was particularly offended by the "poorly-groomed" comment.

Then, for awhile, I tried to run a mile everyday. By day three, my lower back, knees and shins refused to speak to me. Not long after that, I bought some free weights. They lived up to their name as I felt perfectly free to step over them on a daily basis. Then, for a gift, I got one of those all-in-one workout machines. It took me the better part of a year to put it together. Too many wheels, pulleys, rubber bands, chains. At one point it looked like The Tin Man after a wild night at the Emerald City Tavern. Later, the fire department had to be called to rescue me from the top of the apparatus. They lured me down with a bowl of warm milk and cheese curds. Once I got this monstrosity put together I was far too exhausted to use it. I decided to call it a modern art piece and let it go at that.

Now, I live in a house with a wife who exercises and runs everyday. A daughter who plays every sport possible at school. Two sons who will play football with anyone coming down the street and another son who swims like a fish. Even the dog looks at me with disdain for my lack of physical activity and he sleeps 22 hours a day. So, after having seen that walrus this morning, I've decided to buckle down and get to it. Maybe Wilford Brimley can be my workout buddy.

One of the first blogs I burdened you all with, many months ago, had to do with our two oldest sons learning to drive. Well, the world, and steering wheel, have both gone around many times and, as of last fall, we have two more drivers in the family. In many ways, it has been very helpful: picking up the little kids, running errands, getting some groceries. So far, we have been very fortunate in the mishap department, too. Only one, very minor, fender scraper, in which, our son was the hittee not the hitter. Now, there was a "mishap" of sorts at the gas station, when one of the boys, trying to do the right thing, decided to put gas in the car. He decided he wanted to put the best fuel in, which, based on the price, was something called "diesel." The poor punk had chosen the only station in our neighborhood that sells the stuff and, then, pulled up to the solitary pump that had it. Fortunately, he came straight home and told me the car was acting funny. I got in and backed it up a bit. It was like having Mel Blanc in the back-seat. ( Mel Blanc was the man who did the voices for most of the Warner Brothers cartoon characters like Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd, Porky Pig, etc. He also was the "voice" of Jack Benny's car, as it coughed and wheezed its way to life. That brings us to Jack Benny. He was an amazingly funny man who got more laughs from a quiet stare at the audience than most comics get from a torrent of jokes. Johnny Carson used the same stare a lot on the Tonight Show. Johnny Carson? No, even youngsters know who he was. Right? Please?) Anyway, the little Ford sputtered and lurched. I think it actually said "Please, turn me off. I don't feel well. It was something I ate." I asked the pumper for the receipt and there it was: "DIESEL." Not good for a non-diesel engine. The car was towed and, 600 dollars later, it worked again. I figure that makes him in to me for about 30 fill-ups at $20 a tank.

Considering all the things that can and do happen when a teenager drives, the diesel dilemma was not too big a deal. In fact, if you think about it, there are lots of things you take for granted when you've driven for a hundred years. Not using diesel is one of them. This same boy didn't know where the defogger was one night and when I got in the car the next morning you could see where he had reached up and rubbed the inside of the windshield with his sleeve. For a moment, when the headlights of oncoming cars hit the smudge, I thought I maybe in possession of one of those items that becomes a sort of shrine. You know, like the grilled cheese sandwich or foggy window-pane that seems to show an image of an important religious figure. In the case of my windshield icon, I'm not sure very many people would have made a pilgrimage to a hazy, sort-of-looks-like portrait of Clara Penner. ( She was the woman who did the "Where's the beef?" commercials.) Later that day, I showed the young driver where the defogger is...where the rear defroster is....where the insurance card and registration are located.

The fact of the matter is our garage is empty a lot, now. My wife has her van and one of the boys has my car...much of the time. For example, this past Sunday, my wife was at a Secret Prayer Sister Revealing Tea at church. I know it sounds like a matter for the Department of Homeland Security but, in reality, it's a group that exchanges names and prayer concerns...anonymously until all is revealed at the January get-together. My wife's Secret Sisters never seem surprised to discover my wife is the subject of their prayers. It may have something to do with her list of concerns being only one phrase "My husband." Anyway, she was gone. Soon, one son took my car to a football game with friends...returning it in time for the other son to take off to "study" with friends. I am astonished by how much of today's studying requires that they visit the video-game aisle of the local Wal-Mart. My son insists the Wal-Mart is actually on the original route of Lewis and Clark and that's why it qualifies as homework. Whatever the reason, the garage was empty again. Now, I had absolutely no place to go. Regardless, I felt kind of agitated that, let's say I actually had a group of friends (or just one) and wanted to play golf or something, I'd be stranded. Okay, it's a long-shot that I'd be able to find anyone to do anything with, but still.

The only time of day I am guaranteed what-used-to-be my car, will actually be there is at 2:30 in the morning, when I go to work. Some of you with teenagers, may be thinking even that time frame could become questionable. When I get in, there are some little things that have to be adjusted like the mirrors and the seat. The tape I was listening to is usually replaced by something else. I have lost more dry-cleaning slips than ever. There have been chunks of a Kit Kat bar left on the passenger seat. But, by and large, it gets back to me in a drivable fashion.

The lamentable plea that serves as the title of this story is not from our sons. It's from me. Yet, on the plus side, apparently my sons' friends who sit in the backseat are doing pretty well financially. I have found enough change on the seat...and even a buck or two on the car floor...to buy a new pair of shoes. Walking shoes. Looks like I'm going to need them.

By now, some of you have probably seen the little commercials running on KMBC, inviting you to take a trip to Ireland with me, the Baron of Blarney. There is something very fitting about sending a weatherperson to a place called Blarney. I've gotten a few e-mails and phone calls asking for a review of the specifics of the trip, so here goes: The trip is from August 27 to September 5 and includes visits to Dublin, Killarney and many spots inbetween. For a free KMBC/Holiday Vacations brochure call 1-800-826-2266. It sounds and looks like a beautiful trip and, if you can forget that you have to be around me for ten days, it should be great fun. My wife is coming along and she is a much better travel companion than I am, so you can always chat with her and totally ignore me.

Ireland is one of those places that people have strong feelings about, usually rooted in family heritage. I'll be honest, when it comes to ethnicity, I'm a mutt. Some German, a little Swedish, a bit of English, a dash of Danish, a sliver of French. Also, according to family lore, there maybe some Native American thrown in for good measure. When it comes to Irish, I did have a great-grandma named Hennigan, so that qualifies, although, I regret to say I have no idea where her family was from on the Emerald Isle. Maybe we'll run into an Irish morning weatherman with little or no clue and that will be evidence of a genealogical connection. When I was a kid, I really thought our family was big-time Irish because of that great-grandma. On a couple of elementary school St. Patrick's Days, I dyed my hair green. It didn't show up very well in dark hair but if the sun hit me just right, you could see it. (Frankly, going to school with green hair, it wasn't just the sun that would hit me just right.) I know what you're thinking: "Try coloring it green today...you don't have as much of it and, what you do you have, is not nearly so dark! At least the white and silver hairs would green up nicely!"

We've all heard it said that "Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day!" If that is true, then actually setting foot on the enchanting spot of green, must make you Irish for life whether you have a great-grandma named Hennigan or not. So, I hope you will call 1-800-826-2266 and consider joining us for our August journey. But, if you can't, you still get the benefit of not having to look at me doing the weather for a couple of weeks! Everyone wins!

The title of this bit of blog is the subject line of an e-mail I got yesterday. It is from one of my brothers, Mark, whom I've mentioned several times in these missives. Just a little background: after serving our country in the Air Force for many years, he recently retired and has started a second career as a postal worker. Our kids have taken to calling him Newman...after the mailman on Seinfeld but my brother prefers comparisons to Cliff from Cheers...though he laments the lack of as nice a watering hole as the place where everybody knows your name on the TV show. Actually, that last part would be true just about anywhere in our hometown...nobody is anonymous. (It's funny that, now that he's a mailman, his e-mail was actually sent back in September and just arrived now. ) Anyway, sometime ago, I told a story about Mark's giant noggin. It's just a fact: as a child he had a massive melon. He has almost grown into it...almost. Frankly, he'd have to be eight feet tall and 400 pounds to really be in proportion. His hair isn't really thinning. He has just as much hair as anyone but those follicles are fighting a losing battle trying to cover such a wide expanse. Now, to be fair, there is a lot of gray matter inside that super-sized skull.

A few other reminders before we get to Mark's message: I have also mentioned our much, much...much older...in fact, oldest...brother, Randy, on occasion. He was a wrestler in high school and always smelled like oranges. Also, Mark mentions our other brother, Craig, about whom I've not written much. You'll see why as you read on. It's mostly a fear-thing. I've decided Mark deserves to have his side of the story recounted. Why? Because I'm a fair-minded person and it saves me from having to write very much today. Any smart-alecky comments I have to make will be in italics, which I think makes everything seem just a little more witty and intelligent.

"I was recently informed about your Blog. (Sounds like a lawyer...not that I would know what a lawyer letter threatening some sort of court action would sound like.) I feel compelled to clarify, amplify, enhance, explain or just talk about some of the items that have appeared. About the big-headed little cutie in the grainy black and white picture. The picture wasn't really grainy, as such. Back in those days, they didn't have the wide angle lenses to accommodate the size of my huge cranium, so they had to back up far enough to fit the whole beautiful sight in one frame. As for the fly, (The photo being mentioned here, included a fly crawling around Mark's head as he stood in his playpen. He was 18 at the time...the fly, not Mark.) he thought he was safe traversing the huge expanse of a cute baby's head. Unbeknownst to the fly, was the fact, that someone--either a parent or doting older brother--was soon going to swat the heck out of him whilst (Yes. My brother used the word 'whilst.' I only hope he wasn't wearing his frilly shirt, knickers and monocle as he wrote this with his feathery-quilled computer.) still on my head. I'm sure I had more newsprint on my head than most dogs will know in their entire--times seven--lives. Mom and dad didn't need to buy one of those sticky, curly fly strips to hang from the ceiling. They just put me in the playpen, in the middle of the room, to attract the flies and, then, beat the stuffing out of them and, coincidently, me. I'm not sure, but I think Craig planted the flies on me and just sat back and watched the fun. Maybe that's where I got my head for news. Craig tried to do me in on more than one occasion. For example, once, he dropped a training rifle on my head (It was hard to miss.) from the top of the basement steps. I got 17 stitches and he got a Hershey bar and a Coke. (I seem to recall a story about Craig and Mark pretending to be truckers and Craig acting as a guide while Mark backed his three-wheeled "big rig" into a parking spot. Craig kept motioning for Mark to back up until Mark went right off the porch. Maybe Craig just wanted another Hershey Bar.)

Your blog about Randy being a hairy person reminds me of one time in church when I was in junior high and Craig and Randy were in high school. In the pastor's sermon, he referred to Jacob and Esau, quoting scripture saying 'Esau was a hairy man.' Needless to say, Craig and I burst out laughing. From that point on, Randy was also known as Esau. (If Randy was Esau, then Craig and Mark would have been Cain and Abel...we know how that turned out. I guess, from the Old Testament, I'd be one of Joseph's little known brothers, Skip. He did the morning weather on a station in Babel. They had a great tower-cam...for awhile.)

As far as baby-sitting goes, I was the one who watched you most of the time. (Mark is considerably older than I am.) When you were about three or four, I always took you out for bike rides because then the girls would come to see cute, little Joel. You were a great chick magnet. " (Sadly, as I got to be a teenager, I became more chick maggot than magnet. Sometimes I would approach a girl, hold up a picture of myself at age three or four, just to see if it still worked. It came across as a rather pathetic and creepy twist on Dorian Grey.)

Well, that's most of what my brother had to say in his e-mail. I hope there will be more to come. But, I guess I will have to be a little more careful with my facts from now on, since I know there's a witness out there, lurking. A clever writer...with a memory like an elephant...and a head to match. (Sorry. Craig made me say that.)

As I've alluded to before in this space, my kids are night-owls. They have the ability to stay up until the wee small hours for no apparent reason. Of course, it helps when you can sleep until noon the next day, but still, it is quite impressive. When I was a kid, staying up late usually meant hearing the first few notes of The Tonight Show's theme music and Ed McMahon saying "Here's Johnny." A relative once told me the safest place to be between 10:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. was in bed because, according to him, "nothing ever happened there." I think it was a reference to safety and not a commentary on the state of his long marriage, but I'm not sure. I was never too interested in staying up late with the exception of two nights a year. I used to try and watch the entire Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon...with limited success and, on New Year's Eve, I'd try to make it until midnight.

New Year's Eve meant watching Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians playing their hearts out on stage at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City. My grandma and I would sit and play Yahtzee or Gin Rummy, listening to the music. Many years, I didn't make it to midnight so we'd just celebrate with the eastern time zones. But, on the rare occasions I could keep my eyes open, my grandma and I would fill our fancy champagne glasses with grape juice and toast the new year. Despite my head not hitting the pillow until 12:01 a.m., I would always be up early enough to watch the Rose Parade. Not because, I particularly cared about the floats and bands and Grand Marshall. I would make sure it was on so my mom would see it and then I'd start lobbying for a color TV set. "Wow, I'll bet all those flowers would be something to see IN COLOR!" I'd say...with great subtlety. My mom was not then, and still isn't, much of a television watcher, so something like the Rose Parade was about the only chance to try to get her vote toward a color TV. It never worked. My dad said he'd buy a new TV for the parade if it was smell-o-vision so you could enjoy the aroma of all those flowers but that was as close as we got. I know we did get a new black and white TV when President Kennedy was killed because my dad wanted to make sure we could clearly see that sad and historic event but I don't quite remember when and why we eventually made the jump to color. I think it was about the time he also got a power mower and lawn sweeper and a small boat...all of which happened about the time my older brothers moved out of the house. Maybe he just didn't like them.

Over the years, I've only been actually out on New Year's Eve about two times. The first was when I was working at a ski lodge in Wisconsin and got hired to provide piano music in the dining room. It was quite sedate as people were eating their holiday meals but, around midnight, even the dining room was a little too rowdy for my taste. As the clock struck 12, I realized I had neglected to learn how to play Auld Lang Syne. I tried to play it by ear but it was lousy. It sounded like an inebriated chicken rehearsing the first few measures of Smoke On The Water. Fortunately, a kindly old waitress sensed my distress and started everyone singing the song to drown out my pathetic pecking. I was not invited back the following year.

The only other big night out, was at Union Station on December 31, 1999. The whole family went to the party and it was terrific. That wonderful building had only recently been renovated and it was spectacular. The balloon drop was memorable and we saw the amazing McFadden Brothers perform. It would be hard to top that celebration so we've been happily home for the holiday ever since, including this past year.

Our oldest son went to a party with his friends. Our second oldest had to work. I was in bed by 10:00 because we had FirstNews on January 1. (By the way, traffic at 2:30 a.m. was like the middle of the day. I'm pretty sure that very few of my fellow road warriors were hurrying home to turn on the show at 5:00 a.m.!) My lovely wife and the two little kids made it to midnight. The dog was in Time's Square hosting the ball drop for Animal Planet. Okay. That's a lie...which means I've already broken one of my 2007 resolutions...again.

Here's hoping you and yours had a healthy and happy holiday season. Having been away from this bloggy beat for almost two weeks, it is time to get back up to speed, which, for me, as regular readers know, is about as fast as a wagon with one wheel in the sand. Here's what's been happening:

*I got a haircut. Yes, as mentioned in a prior bit of on-line bloggiosity, I had decided not to get my hairs cut until we were back in Wisconsin so my mom's husband, Gordy, could do the job. He has been clipping his way through life for 60 years. I don't think I could've gone much longer before needing the shearing. It got to the point that, waking up in the morning, I looked like I should be carrying two stone tablets down the side of a mountain. Gordy also made all three of the boys look presentable, again. It was particularly important to my mom that Gordy give me a good haircut, since I was scheduled to sing a solo at the 3:00 p.m. Christmas Eve service. After I was done singing, many folks came up to me and said "Didn't care much for the song but your hair looks nice."

*I sang a solo at church. As mentioned above, at the request of my mom, I sang O Holy Night at the church where I grew up. One of the nicest and most talented people around, Mrs. Staff, played the piano while I muddled my way through the beautiful carol. I ended up singing three verses in order to allow plenty of time for all the candles to be lit. The more I croaked along, the quicker the acolytes worked. They figured out that the faster they did their job, the sooner my caterwauling would be over. I understood, but I didn't think those three people in the front pew had to whip out their Bic lighters and start helping the robed kids. Also, the flame thrower from the choir loft was a bit over the top. Anyway, I got through the song and it appears my mom will only have to attend church in disguise for about another three Sundays.

*I have a very generous daughter. Up in my hometown, they have a new St. Vincent de Paul store. It is presided over by very attentive and orderly women who keep the place and the merchandise spotless. Well, our daughter, Samantha, went Christmas shopping there and came back with a pile of wonderful things, including a couple sweaters for grandma and a framed picture of hunting dogs for grandpa. She also got a Mother's Plate for her mom and a ceramic piano bill holder for me. She felt like Santa, himself! Not to be outdone, our sons gave me the keys to a 2003 Lexus. Not the car, just the keys. (I promise, as soon as I find out where they got them, I will return them.)

*I have brothers who actually read this stuff. On Christmas Eve morning, quite a bit of family showed up. One brother said "So, I'm the one with the giant head?" Another chimed in "And, I'm the one who smells like oranges." You see, some time ago, in previous blogs, I referred to them with those particular descriptions. They were good humored about it and, lacking a snow bank to throw me in, they merely held my head in the holiday ice bucket for a short time. It is amazing how fast their reaction times are at their very advanced ages.

*I was in a fog. When you drive to Wisconsin in the winter, you take your chances. Over the years, we've encountered our fair share of snow, ice, freezing rain, sleet and vomit. (The last was inside the van. Please see the story "Happy Hurl-idays.") But, this time, the only weather issue was some thick fog. While I'm sure I heard the hounds outside Baskerville, Iowa, howl at one point, it wasn't too bad. Certainly not like the last time when we were driving on a little country road as half-snow, half-ice, half-egg nog stuff was coming down. (Yes, I know, that's three halves but you had to be there.) As I was struggling mightily to stay out of the ditch, my lovely wife and reassuring co-pilot said "Oh, I forgot to tell you, the guys at the shop say three out four of our tires are bald...illegally bald, in fact." I drove the rest of the way trying to put the bulk of our weight on the left rear tire that still had, at least, a faint memory of what tread is like. This time we had good tires and help from Mother Nature. And, no regurgitation.

*I am becoming too fond of starting sentences with the word "I."

Well, that's just a start on getting caught up. I haven't mentioned everything. Like, the Christmas Cookie addiction that our dog seems to have developed or the possibility that my wife's 94 year old grandma beat me in arm-wrestling. But, it's a start. If you're holiday was anything like mine, we're both very lucky people.