We had a story on FirstNews, Thursday morning, about a gang of rogue pigs! 18 nasty-tempered grunters rampaging through a neighborhood in Connecticut...tearing up lawns and tossing garbage around. As of this writing, they are still being tracked down. The authorities are hoping someone will squeal. Remember the old movie about motorcycle ruffians, The Wild One. Well, just put a snout and curly tale on Brando and you've got the picture. It reminded me of my personal pig memories. (As I get older, everything reminds me of something else. Does that mean my best days are behind me? And, how troubling is it that I actually have "Pig Memories?")

Anyway, one of the first feature stories I ever did had to do with a pig. It was for PM Magazine in Madison, Wisconsin. Many of you probably recall the show, PM Magazine. It was the most popular syndicated show in the country for long time. Until Wheel of Fortune came along. That darn Pat Sajak! Anyway, I was not a host or anything fancy like that, but I did do silly little stories for the Madison version of the program. That's where the pig comes in. (Sounds like a stage direction for the Broadway version of BABE! "Pig enters stage left and begins to sing and dance, energetically and enthusiastically, with cow. Remember, this scene will only work if you really milk it!")

About three and half hours north of Madison, there was a couple living in a nice little house out in the country. They didn't have children but they did have a pet. A pet upon which they lavished love and attention. The pet's name was Spot because he had a big black splotch on his side. Spot was a pig. No, not one of those little pot-bellied kind that were all the rage sometime ago. No, Spot was a real pig. 750 pounds worth of pig. He stood, on spindly little legs, over five feet at his shoulders. Spot lived in the house with this couple. He had his own bedroom with a comfy mattress on the floor and a full-length mirror on the wall...a swine-glass. Apparently, Spot was rather taken with his own reflection. "Mirror. Mirror. On the wall. Who's the prettiest pig of all?" He was very pleasant. You really had to root, or rut, for him. At one point, the couple thought Spot needed a playmate so they bought him a puppy, which they named Porky. Those two creatures loved to tangle with each other. It was a little unfair because of Spot's size and that fact that Spot was a black belt in karate, having been born with powerful pork chops.

Spot would roll out of bed, take a quick inventory in the looking glass: "Snout. Check. Girth. Check. Tail. Check," then stroll down the hall. If a 750 pound anything can actually "stroll." "Lumber" down the hall maybe more accurate. The man of the house had built a trough in the kitchen so Spot could eat with them. Spot liked day-old bread from the town bakery, peanut butter, honey, fruit...oh, who am I kidding. He was a pig. He liked everything. The woman of the house kept Spot clean by using the vacuum. Spot liked to watch TV. His favorite show was a big hit at the time, Hill Street Blues...no joke.

Spot was well behaved, for a pig. (Something said, with some regularity, about me, too.) He knew one little trick. When the couple had friends over to the house, the mister would drop a dollar on the ground. When their guest bent over to pick it up, Spot would...uh...stick his nose in other people's business, so to speak, and lift the guest right off the ground. Now, the couple thought this was delightful and very funny. You know how proud parents can be. Needless to say, they had few if any return visitors.

This couple's story had already been told in the National Enquirer by the time our little TV piece hit the air. That had gotten them calls from pig-lovers around the world. If they could've proved the pig was actually an alien, Weekly World News would have picked up the story or if he had an empty vault to break into, maybe Geraldo. But, as it turned out, it was the Enquirer and little old me. At the end of our visit, it was clear that when Spot went to that giant sty in the sky, this country couple would be getting another little piglet.

It has been more than 20 years since I met Spot but I'll never forget the look in his eye, the curl of his tail and the wit expressed by his snort. He was humble, never trying to hog the spotlight. He never went to market. He stayed home. He had roast beef. He was hygienic and house-broken so he never went WEE WEE WEE all the way home. Honestly, to this day, I can't look at breakfast bacon the same way. Oh, I still eat it, I just say "Sorry, Spot" in between bites.

About 20 years ago, when FirstNews was first hitting the airwaves, it soared for a number of reasons: The creative ideas of our news director and producer. The integrity and warmth of anchor Maria Antonia. And, the swaggering good humor and entertainingly delivered information of Johnny Rowlands. All of those factors plus great photographers, directors, engineers and graphic artists made the very first morning newscast in Kansas City really take off. It was in those early days, I received my station nickname. It grew out of my contribution to the program. Joel "Dead Weight" Nichols.

Anyway, I got to thinking about those early days after Johnny Rowlands took time to visit with my Broadcast Performance class last night at Johnson County Community College. The students were so relieved to finally have someone with a truly successful broadcast career lead the class for a change. Johnny is a Kansas City legend starting with his days as one of the town's leading rock and roll DJs. He was the first to hit the air, and the air, doing traffic from his plane for local radio stations back in the early 80s. In 1988, he flew onto FirstNews. Now, you can read more about Johnny's illustrious career and historic work chasing and documenting tornadoes here at TheKansasCityChannel.com, on his bio page. It's a little bit like reading a script treatment for a new Indiana Jones adventure. Instead of recapping all those hijinks and making myself feel even more inadequate than usual, let me share a few my own Johnny Rowlands encounters.

I first met Johnny, face to face, at a charity casino night. That evening, he offered to teach me how to fly. Now, I have a brother who had a long, honored career in the Air Force and another who is a recreational pilot. When I was a little kid, I took plane rides fairly often with a family friend. But, as I grew up, I started to be a little less brave. Eventually, I started to share my oldest brother's attitude toward flying: it's okay but if there were another way to get from point A to point B, I'd probably do that. So, two brothers love to fly, two--not so much. The two that do think the two that don't, lack courage. The two that don't consider the two that do, Up-In-The-Air-Heads. Speaking of my brothers, Johnny made a great first impression on one of them, Mark. Our first Christmas after moving to KC, we (by "we" I mean my wife and I, not Johnny Rowlands and I) drove home for a visit. I took a tape of FirstNews. Mark's comment: "Well, I really like the traffic reporter. He's funny and concise. Great." When I asked what he thought of my performance he said "Oh, are you on the show, too?" He wasn't being mean. He was just applying our mother's advice to "say nothing if you can't be nice."

Not long after meeting Johnny, we visited Blue Valley High School as part of career day. Remember, this was about 20 years ago and I had about two pounds of dark hair and only one chin. I certainly did not exude experience and expertise. Basically, the seniors looked at me like I was a total loser. It was a look I grew used to as my own children hit their high school years. They were fascinated by Johnny, though. He knew rock stars and flew a plane. I had a rock head and looked plain.

Johnny was the long-time main Kansas City host of the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon. He had done that for years before FirstNews started. Labor Day of '88, I took on the overnight shift on the show. The other emcees got some well-deserved rest during that period but, not Johnny. He stayed up and made the wee small hours a fun, fast-paced part of the program. It also stopped me from making too many ill-advised three-in-the-morning comments like "As you head out to change your oil, why not stop at the phone and call in a pledge...."

Over the years, we've been in parades together and at many public events representing Channel 9. Aside from work, I'm not allowed to socialize with any of the big-shot TV personalities...they all have that clause in their contracts. So, when the opportunity presents itself, like at Tuesday evening's class, it's a pleasure to catch up with Johnny Rowlands, Channel 9's Rock Star in the Sky. That's what he makes me call him.

Well, since you asked:

*My weekend started during Friday's FirstNews with the annual Red Friday street corner celebration. I was down by the Broadway Bridge all decked out in my 20 year old Chief's T-shirt, foam Arrow-Head and shorts. Now, most of my physical presence varies between pathetic and repulsive but I do have nice legs. There, I said it and I'm proud. If you just look at my calves, I appear to be in my 20s. Sadly, when you get above the knees, it all goes to pot. Anyway, I was joined by three sisters, all of whom work at Hallmark, and their brother, out bright and early to sell the Red Friday magazine which benefits Chiefs Children's Charities. Former Texan and Chief, Bobby Ply, also showed up, as he does every year. And, a couple of very energetic Chiefs Cheerleaders. Well, I know what some of you male readers might be thinking..."OOOOHHHH Cheerleaders!" At my age, with my gray hair, chunky middle and multiple chins, they treat me like an elderly great uncle. "Watch your step, sir, there's a curb there." If I could have just got them to stare directly at my calves!

*Sunday morning was the 14th Annual Heartland Run at English Landing Park in Parkville. It was a beautiful morning and hundreds of folks showed up to walk and run, raising money for the kids of Clay and Platte counties. The mayor of Parkville told me that the day before, Saturday, they had 500 dogs in the park for a big walk and adopt-a-pet event. (The Prince of Parkville, Bill Grigsby, was there, too, on Saturday. Several asked to adopt him.) If you picked up after your furry friend, you got free entry into a prize drawing. It worked! They all must have been super-duper-pooper-scoopers. The park was in great shape and didn't require any of the runners or walkers to add the long-jump to their physical activity. Thanks to everyone who came out and, especially, the women of the Assistance League who work hard all year long to make life better for the young ones up north.

So, that was Friday morning and Sunday morning. What happened in between? I watched football. The UW Badgers won. KU won. MU won. The Packers won. The Chiefs won. I ate too many chocolate chip cookies and cheese and crackers and ice cream cake. I did get off the sofa long enough to walk the dog. Meanwhile, while I was becoming a big bowl of nothing, the kids were all over the place.

Our daughter, I believe her name is Samantha, was not around much. She went from a volleyball team overnighter to an all-day debate tournament to another friend's house for a sleep-over, followed by a movie. Taylor, her big brother, was at a friend's house for most of Friday evening then at debate. He was home on Sunday. At least I think he was because I could hear his guitar. Harrison was outside almost all weekend. Playing football...then helping write a rule book for their back-yard football league. They needed to do that or the parents in the neighborhood probably would've had to intercede. It was getting pretty fast and furious out there. He and his pals also built a fort out of branches and tree limbs. He'd be out for hours then magically appear in the kitchen, a ball of sweat in shorts and a t-shirt, gulp some milk and Oreos and then be gone. Basically, all the kids were a blur all weekend long.

My wife was also busy, busy, busy. She exercised and ran and shopped and exercised and then ran some more, then shopped some more. She ran in the Heartland Run up north and then worked on stuff for her pre-school class on Monday. She made a birthday cake and wrapped presents. She helped Taylor grill his birthday steaks on the grill. (Taylor's actual birthday is today, Monday. He is annoyingly well-behaved, bright and funny.) She, too, was a bit of a blur.

I keep saying they were all a "blur." Part of that is because they were in perpetual motion while I became permanently affixed to the couch. But, part of that is also because my glasses have finally reached the point where they are little or no help at all. For awhile, I could read with these glasses and see okay far away. Then I could no longer read with them but could still see the TV. After a time, I had to perch the glasses precariously on my nose to make any distance remotely clear. Now, I have turn them upside down, stand on my head and whistle the theme from Dallas to get any identifiable image at all. Yes, I have a prescription for my bifocals, but I just haven't gotten around to getting them. So, I just sit on the couch or in the rocking chair, holding the newspaper in my toes and looking at the photographs and illustrations.

But, I digress. Frankly, if it wasn't for my digressions, I wouldn't have gotten any exercise at all this weekend.

Time to get caught up on some important "Thank yous", let you know about a couple upcoming events, and answer a recent question or two.

*Thank you to the Silver Sippers of KCK. I had the opportunity to visit with this wonderful group on Tuesday morning. They get together each week for a presentation, coffee and good talk. I was relieved to find out that I wasn't the only one who had trouble saying "Silver Sippers" instead of "Silver Slippers" or "Sliver Sippers" or "Sliver Slippers" which, honestly, sound rather painful.

*Thank you to the Peculiar Senior Citizens. Maybe I should rephrase that: the Senior Citizens of Peculiar. They were a very fun bunch. Wednesday was Hawaiian Luau Day for this monthly luncheon group. They had a couple of hula dancers, just about everybody was dressed in tropical fashions including flowery leis and me. I, apparently, was there to play the role of stuffed pig on a spit.

When I visit with groups like these, I am under no illusions. If they really wanted to learn about the weather, they'd invite Busby or Grigsby or Teachman. When they ask me to come out, it usually means they just want to kill a half hour. Both groups were terrific to visit with and had a lot of interesting questions.

"Why don't you mention Peculiar on the weather?" This is a pretty common question. Just change the name of the town now and then. It is true that, sometimes, weather folks get into a rut and mention the same places over and over and over. It's good to be reminded of that. In the case of Peculiar, I told them that years ago, when I first started at KMBC, I made a little joke about the weather being Peculiar down there. I got a letter from a viewer in that neck of the woods telling me that I wasn't funny or clever or original and just give the weather. Well, the group I visited with Wednesday has given me permission to say the weather is Peculiar down there! So, I will.

"Don't all you people use the same basic information to make your forecasts?" Well, I can't speak for anyone else but I use tea leaves and a dart-board. I used to have a Ouija board, too, but I haven't been able to find it since the big move. Actually, I do think, in addition to all the technology and satellite info, a weathercaster should pay close attention to what the animals are doing and how a person's bones are feeling. When I started doing FirstNews, I'd look at the radar and see big storms bubbling up in Oklahoma and figure we'd have rain by afternoon or see nothing percolating and predict a sunny day. Our legendary camera person, Betty, would come in and ask what the weather was going to be. Many times I would say "A sunny day, Betty" to which she would reply "Wrong. It's going to rain. Your maps are wrong and my bones are right." Her bones were right...a lot. So, I pay attention to all of it. Does it make my guesses any more accurate? No, but it gives me many more variables to blame when I'm wrong.

"How do you like the new building?" I'm just surprised they let me have a key card to get in. It is state-of-the-art technologically speaking. It does feel a little big compared to the old place. Sometimes I think I should be restocking the shelves in the housewares department. My desk is right by the back door...do you think they are trying to tell me something?...so I get to say good morning to everyone. Donna Pitman says she is going to get me an apron like the friendly Wal-Mart greeters wear. The bottom line is I still have a soft spot in my heart, to match the one in my head, for the old stomping grounds. I think I miss the fact that the old weather center was in the basement and I could sneak in and out easier. At the new place I've taken to wearing a false nose and glasses in order to get away.

"Did you meet Charles Gibson?" No. I was on vacation. The station suggested I take vacation at that time. They were afraid I'd get confused about what to call him: "Charles" or "Charlie." They were worried I'd freeze and refer to him as "Chuck." Actually, I briefly met Mr. Gibson many years ago when FirstNews visited Good Morning, America in New York. I'll never forget the sincerity in his voice as he politely asked me to drop the jelly donut and back away from the buffet table.

Again, many thanks to the two groups from KCK and Peculiar.

Now, for the upcoming events: This Sunday, September 23, is the 14th Annual Heartland Run to benefit the children of Clay and Platte counties. It will be at English Landing Park in beautiful Parkville, Missouri. Registration starts at 6:30 with the 5K kicking off at 8:00 a.m. You can find out more by going to www.mararunning.org. It is a super event put on by the Heartland Auxiliary Assistance League of KC. It will be a mild morning so come on out!

Coming up on October 13 is the Jared Coones Pumpkin run. Go to www.pumpkinrunwalk.org for the details. Mark your calendars. This is one of the best and most inspiring charitable events in town. You couldn't ask for a more kind and decent man than Jared's dad, Tom. He and the whole Coones family continue to use the challenges they have faced to make life better for so many others here in our town.

One last mention: Tomorrow morning, I will be out on the streets. No, they haven't fired me...yet. No, it's Red Friday! The Chiefs home opener is Sunday. (It will be 90 degrees!) So, as has been the case for many years, Red Coaters, volunteers, media folks and local sports stars will be out selling a special paper to support Chiefs Children's Charities. If you come across the Broadway Bridge between 5 and 7 in the morning, please, honk your horn and buy a paper for the kids of KC.

Hey, that means I'll be close to the old building. Wonder if I can get in there and find my Ouija board...my forecasts have really been suffering without it.

Lots of folks are very upset about not getting tickets to the big Hannah Montana concert coming to town this fall. We've had stories on our news about moms and dads who waited in line for hours before being told all the seats were gone. On Monday, I was walking the dog when a car pulled up to us, the driver rolled down the window and said "Joel, do you guys on FirstNews have any Hannah Montana tickets? And, by the way, you are planning on picking up what your dog just deposited on my lawn, right?" I didn't. I mean I didn't have any tickets. That was certainly not the first time I've been a disappointment to a viewer. Happens everyday, I suspect. While I do empathize with parents dealing with unhappy children, I have to admit I am really delighted that our kids are out of the loop as far as concerts and appearances of this type are concerned. At this point, if they want to see a particular performer, they generally set it up and pay for it on their own...and they don't do that very often, anyway. They can always enjoy the live performances I provide every Sunday night: "Joel Nichols Sings and DANCES the Hits Of Andrew Lloyd Webber!"

Still, I do remember a couple of times, many years ago, when I was in the line of fire for tickets and chances to meet a kid fave. Our older boys were big into the Power Rangers. Once, on after*words, I had the Yellow Ranger and the Pink Ranger as guests. My wife drove downtown with the boys to meet them. They did. Even sat on their laps! I thought that would have met the Power Ranger quota, but I was wrong. Not long after that, the RED RANGER visited town as part of the World of Wheels Expo. As much as the boys had enjoyed meeting Pink and Yellow, it was RED RED RED who was the major player. So, on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, there I was, standing in line...a long, long line...to meet a guy who did most of his acting in a red suit and mask. (Like Jim Flink on any given Saturday night, but that's another story.) My wonderful wife and tiny daughter walked through Bartle Hall, looking at exhibits while I stood in line with the boys. They would occasionally escape with mom...I stayed in line. After about an hour and half, we reached the stage. There was the Red Ranger. Alex and Taylor were very excited. We took a couple of pictures. Got an autograph. Then, after about a minute, it was over. When we got home, the boys put on their Power Ranger outfits and ran all over the house, fighting evil. That autographed picture hung on their bedroom wall for quite a few years. It was worth the 90 minute wait.

A few years later, when I was doing weather for Z95.7, they hosted a concert by Aaron Carter. Our daughter, Samantha, was a fan. Just Plain Dave, the station's morning star, was nice enough to get a us a couple of tickets to the big show and a chance to meet Aaron Carter in person before the show. I was a big hero to Samantha. Well, we walked onto Master Carter's bus for a short pre-show chat and a photo (which, like the Red Ranger before him, was an integral part of my daughter's wall decor for a number of years.) Then, it was time for the show. Our seats were right up front. I saw other, more experienced and savvy parents putting in their ear-plugs, and thought "Come on! Don't be so wimpy!" Well, when the show kicked off, I saw, really heard, the error of my ways. I'm sure there was music being played, but it was so loud and we were so close to the speakers, it mostly sounded like an ongoing collision between a heard of elephants, Ethel Merman and a calliope. My daughter had a ball and I had a headache. All the way home, Samantha talked about how great everything had been. I am assuming that's what she was saying because I could see her lips moving.

To this day, after those two events, I occasionally wake-up from a recurring nightmare in which I am being chased by the Red Ranger right into a large cave that suddenly lights up to reveal Aaron Carter singing at the top of his lungs. At this point, due to all the noise, I wake up. Despite this condition, both situations were worth it for the fun the kids had and the lingering memories they still talk about.

Our youngest son, Harrison, has never put his father through such a thing. His favorite show biz personality is Johnny Carson. He falls asleep watching the video tapes of old Tonight Shows. So, no long lines...no noisy concerts...no begging for tickets. Sure, we had to break him from pretending to be Ed Ames and throwing a tomahawk at his siblings but that was a small price to pay.

Maybe it was the temperature. Maybe it was the humidity. Maybe it was too much onion salt on the cheese bread we had for supper. Whatever caused it, last night was restless around our house. Creatures of all kinds were meandering around. Indoors and out.

First it was my daughter. After having watched some of her volleyball match at school, I was home and in bed by the time she returned. It didn't stop her from walking into the bedroom and giving me a play-by-play of all that happened on the court. It had to be later than the 9:00 p.m. the clock said. She disappeared in a puff of energy.

Then, my wife hovered. She was in and out of the room. On and off the computer. Occasionally giving the kids the "SHHHHHH. Dad's sleeping" louder than the original noise offense.

Taylor, the oldest one still at home, was mostly quiet and in his room but he had already left his mark: the aroma of burnt Texas Toast...heavy on the garlic...was wafting through the house. The rest of the city may have a GREEN Skycast for today but, in my house, it will be approaching the RED ALERT category for days to come.

Alexander is away at college but he must have been telepathically communicating with me because I woke up a couple times ready to tell him to turn off the laptop, I-pod and TV and go to bed.

The two most oddly behaving creatures last night were Harrison and the dog. At about 1:00 a.m., I awoke to see Harrison standing over me.

"What's the matter, Harrison?" I asked, groggily.

"Can I get picked up early from school?" he said, clear as a bell.

"Why?"

"So, I can watch the video."

"What?"

"So, I can watch the video."

"Well, Harrison, I have no idea what you're talking about so you'll have to run this by your mom."

As Harrison turned, Zombie-like, and walked out, the mom, who was still rambling around the house, came into the room. Remember, it is one in the morning.

"You'd better make sure he makes it back to bed," I meekly suggested.

When the mom came back, I asked her what was up.

"Well, here is what Harrison told me: 'This kid went to the city and got sacked.'"

This kid went to the city and got sacked? HUH?

Was Harrison channeling his inner Briton and using "sacked" as in "fired?" Or, was it because he was watching football right before bedtime. Regardless, Harrison will have no memory of this event or conversation. I will, since I couldn't fall back to sleep for the remaining hour of possible "sack-ed" time I would have had coming to me.

While this whole Harrison episode was going on, even the dog...usually the most likely not to move a muscle, was up and walking around. Now, this is a pooch who puts a premium on his ability not to do more than absolutely necessary. You can drop a hot dog in front of him...just out of reach and, rather than getting up, he will look at you with eyes that say "Could you slide that thing over here for me?" Yet, last night, he joined the parade of activity. Pacing and panting. An hour or so later, 2:00 a.m., when I went downstairs, the pup came with me, which he never does and, actually, went outside. In the dark! He's a bit of a chicken, frankly.

He wasn't alone outside. The neighborhood cat was on our back porch but she and the dog just nodded at each other. Then, on the way to work, I saw more than the usual number of raccoons and possums. They appeared to be playing cards. Also, a mess of deer were wandering around as if there was a casting call for the live-action version of Bambi.

Like I said, maybe it was the too-warm weather that had everybody and everything stirring. Or, maybe it was just me. You know, how sometimes you just can't turn your brain off and so you toss and turn and....uh...well...okay, you'd have to turn your brain on in the first place to have trouble turning it off. Must have been the weather. Come on, FALL!

Last week, on Tuesday, I did the weather from the Plaza where they were preparing for the big Tour of Missouri bike race. Even at five in the morning, the excitement was so palatable and the athleticism so obvious, I experienced muscle aches, chafing and a mild bike-seat wedgie...and I was nowhere near a bicycle. It did get me thinking of all the bikes I've had over the years. (Larry Moore, in his Letter From Larry somewhere else here at thekansascitychannel.com, talks about his leisure time with big-wigs like Charles Gibson. I write about my Schwinns and Huffys.) The first bike I remember was a black Schwinn. No speeds or hand-brakes. Just a regular bike. I didn't ride it, at first. I was a passenger. One of my brothers, Mark, would put me on the bar between the handle-bars and the seat, then take me for a ride. (We'd hit some bumps now and then which explains why I was able to sing high tenor well into my 30s.) Now, that sounds like a wonderful big brother thing to do...and it was. However, as with most things, there was more afoot or a-pedal, than first meets the eye. It turns out that, for a teenager like my brother, having a cute, little brother riding shot-gun was a draw for girls. Yes, I was a chick-magnet. Of course, that talent sadly left me as I reached my own adolescence, adulthood and, now, second-childhood.

In a nice little Circle of Life or "bi-Cycle of Life" moment, years later, when I was a teenager, I put my nephew, the son of the brother who had let me tag along, in the newly affixed rider seat with hopes of using his cute, little mug to lure females in my direction. It didn't work although my nephew got several offers and phone numbers with the request to "look me up in about ten years."

The first bike of my very own that I recall was a little red sportster. No training wheels allowed! My brothers taught me how to ride by putting me on the seat and giving me a shove. Now, this was in the days before helmets and pads. I finally got the hang of it although, if you look carefully, you can still see the faint imprint of the words John Deere from the times I smashed into a tractor sitting nearby. I tooled around on that little bike for several years before I got to the next level: a fluorescent green three-speed Huffy with a banana seat, high handle-bars and an orange flag flying on the back. I got it for Christmas.

WARNING! The next portion of this story contains a graphic image. If you have children it won't faze you. If you don't, you may be totally disgusted. Here goes: That Christmas morning, I ran down the stairs to discover this Green Dream Ride parked next to the tree. I was over-joyed. I was also sick to my stomach. As I stood there next to my new bike, my brother, again it was Mark, came down the stairs to find me with a smile frozen on my face as certain biological circumstances took over. I was turning as green as the bike. I gurgled "It's my new bike. Isn't it neat? I'm going to be sick all over the carpet." Being a fast thinker, Mark picked me up by my ears and stood me in the bathtub. Being an ungrateful little snot, I whimpered "What about my new bike?" At that, Mark put the bike in the bathtub, too. I used that bike to go all over town. In those days, a kid could ride to the store, to the bowling alley, to the movie theater any time. I had a lot more autonomy than we give our kids today. I rode that bike down a gravel hill near the dam. We were not supposed to but we did. I wiped out a lot. That bike got me into high school.

At that point, I got a new ten-speed for my 15th birthday. (Again, coincidentally, I had the flu that day. Is there a connection? Bikes and illness? Sounds like a tease for the nightly news "IS YOUR BIKE TRYING TO KILL YOU? THE LATEST ON THE THREAT OF THIS BI-SICK-LE BLIGHT! TONIGHT! WATCH OR ELSE!") That bike was my connection to just about everywhere I needed to travel. It went through several paint jobs. It went everywhere from the golf course to the lake to work and home again. Finally, it just fell apart. It was my last real, all-my-own, bicycle.

Speaking of bikes, I have to mention the contraption our neighbor-lady used. She and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Moely, were retired farmers. They were in their 70s when we moved next door. He rode his bike all over town. She rode her trike. Yes, she had an adult-sized tricycle with a basket. She could do her grocery shopping and make it home in one piece. She didn't let us kids try out her ride very often but, once, when she wasn't home and I was hanging around with her grandson, I jumped on. I could not get the hang of it. I was trying to maintain my balance when you weren't really supposed to be doing so. I couldn't steer it. I couldn't make it move at all. I gained new respect for Mrs. Moely. After that, when she'd pull up next to me and say "Wanna drag?" I always passed.

Our other neighbor, Bob Ostrander, would come screaming down the street ringing the bell on his bike so his mom could run out and open the garage door. If she had ever been late, there would have been an awful mess to clean up.

Today, we have a garage filled with out-grown, over-used bikes. A few were bought brand-new, like the snazzy yellow number on which Taylor learned to do tricks until he discovered the skateboard and broke his arm...twice, but others are from garage sales. Those were always the best ones. Grandma and Grandpa, at the lake up north, found some great ones. Grandpa always took them to Ace Hardware to make sure they were tuned up and safe to ride. Then, we'd wedge them into the van somehow for the trip home. Those were and are great vehicles. We also bought a little blue one from our old neighbors, The Powells. Their boys had used it, too. There was not much tread left on the tires and the paint was a little chipped, but that garage sale purchase taught all our kids how to ride. We'll never get rid of that one. When the kids take me to Maplewood Nursing Home up in Wisconsin, they're going to have to make room for that old bike.

I ran along behind and beside most of those two-wheelers over the years and, then, made the mistake of telling my wife I'd like to have a bike of my own again. She went out and got one. Whoever said you never forget how to ride a bike is full of it. I never felt comfortable on that thing anymore. It wobbled all over the place. And, the seat! How could I have spent so many of my formative years on a painful bike seat and still be to move or sit or wear pants? Well, the kids eventually commandeered that bike and I was glad. I see men my age out on the roads early in the morning. Dressed like over-achieving peacocks. Helmets. Half-gloves. Spandex-ed to the max. I admire them and wish them well, but, for me, the days of riding a bike are done. The kickstand alone makes me sweat. Over the weekend, I even had to put training wheels on my recliner.

In the days before robotic cameras, we had real, live people out in the studio with us when we did the news. Four camera-operators and a floor director shared the shows with us. Whenever it was vacation time for the regulars behind the cameras, we would have the opportunity to catch up with folks, "vacation relief," we didn't see often enough. One of those people was a wonderful woman named Lynne Roberts.

Lynne was always cheerful and upbeat, whether she was coming in for FirstNews or covering the late telecasts. I had some terrific conversations with her over the years about everything from music to travel to current events. But, her favorite topic was YOU. She always wanted to know what was new in your life. When the holiday season would roll around, Lynne's favorite soiree was the KMBC Childrens' Party. Lynne and her husband, our assistant news director, Gerry, would be there every year just taking it all in and enjoying the antics of all the Channel 9 sons and daughters. Nobody had a brighter smile at the party...or any other time, for that matter...than Lynne.

In the last several years, Lynne faced a mountain of health challenges. She did so with her usual grace, dignity and good humor. The last time I visited with her she was going through a rough patch. When I walked into her room, without missing a beat, her first question was "How are the kids?" Lynne's attentions were always turned outward...even in times when everyone would've more than understood a little self-centeredness. But, that was not Lynne Roberts.

We lost Lynne this past week. Every now and then you are lucky enough to know someone who is just a good and decent person. That was Lynne. I suspect that when St. Peter started to ask Lynne about herself, she said she was just fine but "More importantly, how are you? How are the kids?"

Having been home from Ireland for about a week, now, I've been asked several times "So, how was your trip?" Of course, that question is usually preceded by "Hey! What do you want?" and followed by "Now, get off my lawn." Anyway, the quick and obvious answer is "Great!" However, to be totally honest, that response needs some modification. The actual trip...the co-travellers...the education about Ireland...the sights...the sounds...the people: all fall into that "great" category. However, being away from the kids, the house, KC and, of course, the dog: not so great. I'll admit it: I get homesick.

Back about 16 years ago, my wife, Jessica, and I had a chance to host a trip. We were to take that Alaskan Train/Cruise deal. At first, it seemed like a wonderful idea. Then, I got home and took a look at the boys...then ages one and two...and decided we just couldn't be away from them. So, we passed on the opportunity. I knew I'd be a basket case leaving them for ten days. Not too long before, about 1988 BC...Before Children...Jessica and I went to Cancun. At the time, the only living creature we were directly responsible for was Jingles, the dachshund/chihuahua pooch. We spent the first night surrounded by the beauty of the Mexican Shoreline...all weepy and sad over that dog. Okay, it was mostly me doing the weeping.

Well, this time around, with one kid away at college, the rest in middle and high school and, most reassuring of all, grandma and grandpa kindly agreeing to fly in and hold down the fort, I figured I could make it through. I did but, to be honest, about six days in, I was starting to feel a bit anxious. During the day, being pretty busy, I was okay but at night...falling asleep...I could imagine all kinds of scenarios: What if Harrison, who has never done such a thing before, decides to take the riding mower off the garage roof? (We don't even have a riding mower!) What if Samantha decides to quit school and pursue her, hitherto unknown, dream of being the world's most tattooed person? What if Taylor, who has always been a very responsible driver, decides to change his name to Evel and see how much speed it takes to sail across the Little Blue River? What if Alex, away at school, decides to shed his clothing and sing Neil Diamond tunes from atop the Liberty Memorial?

Then, there's the house. As with many houses, there are little glitches and tweaks you need to know. For example, to keep the boys' toilet from overflowing, you need to wiggle the handle, jump up and down three times while chanting "Bubble. Bubble. Toil and hype. Please, oh please, go down the pipe!" The sump pump downstairs needs to sung to from time to time...something from the light classics usually works. The garage door opener requires the occasional talking to or it gets snooty. Frankly, there are many times when I come home from work and I can hear the house conspiring against me: "Heh. Heh. Heh. (That's how conspiratorial houses laugh.) He thinks he may actually have a dollar left at the end of the month...we'll just see about that. Roof, you lose some shingles. Fridge, start spitting artichokes out of the ice-maker. And, heater, start rattling and moaning. That should do it."

Finally, the dog. He is not pleased with me. To be fair, he did get regular walks. He got fed. He got attention. But, he is very perturbed that I was gone for ten days. I know this because he short-sheeted the bed and has not spoken to me since we've gotten home except to tell me to get off the couch and quit begging at the table. He's getting sarcastic. The other day, when I left to run some errands, I told the dog I'd be gone for just a little bit...an hour or so. He sneered: "Sure. Whatever. See you when you have time. Fine." I'm hoping he comes around soon. I hate taking my walks all by myself in the afternoon. I look silly holding a leash and pooper-scooper without an accompanying dog.

The bottom-line is that the kids, the dog, the grandparents, the house, the neighborhood all survived just fine. In fact, the neighbors told me that property values actually improved in my absence. To be honest, as I've said before in this silly space, it's not that I'm ever going to be Father Of The Year. I don't play a lot Monopoly, Scrabble or, more my speed, Candyland. I don't lead sing-a-longs. I can be pretty dictatorial about the TV. I do get aggravated. But, I'd rather be home and irked than away and worried!

I intended to write some more about Ireland Tuesday morning. But, when I got to work, the producers banished me from the building. Back on August 24, I did FirstNews from the high-tech, hi-def weather perch then disappeared to the other side of the ocean for a couple weeks before returning on Monday. Apparently, after that one day, it became clear that seeing me in high definition is something viewers can only take now and then. So, as a service to the public, the producers sent me out on the street. Because of that, I did not get the chance to write more about the trip to the land of "40 shades of green." (Okay, there has not been a flood of e-mails or voice-mails demanding that I write about Ireland...or about anything else, for that matter...but I like to think there is a silent majority just itching to know about ME ME ME!!!)

Speaking of "40 shades of green," I added to that by leaving behind too much of our own green. They use Euros over there and, frankly, if there was a mud-wrestling match between the Euro and the American dollar, right now, it would be like Hulk Hogan facing Don Knotts. The dollar gets smacked around pretty good. I swear that every time I traded dollars for Euros, George Washington was weeping. At one point, at the Blarney Woolen Mills, we decided to do the majority of our souvenir shopping. As the total was coming up on the register, my wife and I were rather pleased, thinking we had stayed within our budget. However, when the Euros were converted to US bucks, it was clear that our budget was...well...BLARNEY! There is also this Value-Added-Tax deal. The VAT. If you take your receipts or little charge card to the appropriate place at the Dublin airport, you can get a refund of about 17%. When the very helpful clerks at the various stores first started to tell me about this situation, I took great offense. I thought they were saying "Well, sir, you will need to visit the FAT area of the airport. The FAT area is exactly where you want to go. Remember. FAT." Then, I realized they were saying VAT. I think.

Of course, green is the color of the country. But, in many ways, COLOR is the color of the country. You've got the multi-colored doors all over Dublin and, in each little town, the store fronts are painted every color of the rainbow. Speaking of rainbows, we saw several. The rest of the tour group kept sending me out to find the pot of gold. I never did but, to my credit, I usually caught up with the bus by the end of the day. Even the sheep were splotched with different hues. The sheep are everywhere. They climb clear up to the top of the hills and bluffs until they are just little dots from the road. However, they also hang out right on the roadways. Because they wander so freely, the blues, reds, greens on their sides are there to denote ownership. Although, I'm pretty sure I saw an ongoing game of tic-tac-toe on the side of one of the creatures.

The towns we visited each had a personality all its own. Dublin is a very bustling city of more than a million. If you put Chicago in the dryer and it shrunk, it would be Dublin. It was also the only place my wife found a Starbucks. Word of warning to coffee drinkers: Ireland has great milk, cheese, bread and beef but the coffee is another matter. By the time we got back to Dublin on day ten, we practically had to put Jessica on an IV Drip of Starbucks.

Galway was pretty...like in the old Bing Crosby song...but, also, at night, a rather wild spot. Actually, based on what I've read about Ol' Bing, he enjoyed a good time, too. Limerick is the home of Frank McCourt, the author of Angela's Ashes. If you've ever read that great book, you know that the picture he paints of his hometown is not pretty. Consequently, he's not exactly a hometown hero. So, when we drove through town, our driver/guide pointed down a side-street and muttered "Frank McCourt lived down there." Killarney may have been my favorite town of all. First of all, we were in a really cool, older hotel. It looked like something out of an old Cary Grant movie. (Are there any "new" Cary Grant movies?) It was right across the street from the gorgeous national park. That park of 24,000 acres was donated by two prominent fellows: John McShain, who built the Pentagon, and Grace Kelly's father, John. Go out the other side of the hotel and you are on a very busy, fun street full of shops and pubs. Go one more direction and you can be sitting in church. So, you can ask for nature, ask for fun and ask for forgiveness on one short stroll. Kilkenny is another pretty town. The castle there is very well-preserved. So much so, I was hoping they could provide a similar refurbishment to broken-down weathermen. By the last evening of the trip, my wife and I had totally forgotten which room we were in...six hotels in nine days will do that to you. Nowadays, with the little key cards, you don't have a room number on there anymore. When I lived in Las Vegas, about a quarter century ago, I saw women throw their room keys at Tom Jones. Now, he'd end up with cuts and scratches all over his face from the hard plastic key cards and no room numbers. Well, we ended up sticking the card in the slot of a few wrong doors...mumbled "Candygram" or "Landshark" and ran down the hallway.

As for pictures of the trip, as soon as all the gadgets are set up to show weather photos again, I'll be using shots from the folks on the tour. I already have a bunch of great ones. (By the way, the technological reasons we can't show the photos yet, is only partially related to the half a dozen on-going games of computer solitaire I have going on all the monitors in the new, fancy-schmancy weather center.) Also, we maybe putting a few of the photos here on TheKansasCityChannel.com. I'll keep you posted. Look at it this way, at least you're not being invited over and strapped in a chair, forced to look at this or that pile of rocks or me being pelted by half-eaten shepherd's pie thrown by the other bus-riders...not that that really happened. Or shots of me being slapped by a shop clerk. It wasn't really my fault. How was I supposed to know that Erin Go Bragh has nothing to do with lingerie?

As I remember more Irish goodies, I'll pass them along. Tomorrow, a little bit about what happened on the home front while we were jet-setting. One hint: after being gone for ten days, the dog still isn't speaking to me.

First of all, an apology! I had mentioned in the last bloggerania that I would try to check in from time to time while away on the trip. Well, since I am still fascinated by 8-track tape technology, I don't have a lap-top...I have a lap and a top but no lap-top. Up until recently, I thought WIFI was a question..."Why, Fie?" Of course, that supposes you know someone named Fie. Almost all of the hotels we stayed at did offer free Internet access but, by the time my wife communicated with all the kids, parents, friends, and creditors, our time would elapse. So, I just did not get a chance to let you know what was happening. I will now play catch-up.

A person couldn't have asked for a better group to be on a trip with than the 30 or so wonderful folks who signed up for the Enchanting Ireland tour. I did my best to be enchanting. We all arrived at KCI on August 27 ready to hit the air. One of the travellers had never been on a plane before but she turned out to be a great flyer. Now, it was a long, overnight flight. We landed in Dublin on Tuesday, August 28 around 10:00 a.m., their time. That would be four in the morning here in KC. For me, it wasn't bad since I'm wandering around in the wee small hours anyway. But it did make for a groggy group getting on the bus. We tore all over Dublin that first day...visiting St. Patrick's Cathedral and Trinity College. We saw the statue of Molly Malone. She is dressed in a very revealing dress. Let's put it this way, I don't think the men of Dublin would have noticed her cockles and mussels. The locals call the statue "The Tart With The Cart."

Over the next eight days, we made a 900 mile bus-trip around the Old Sod. Here's some of what I learned:

*People in Ireland really don't say Top O' The Mornin'. I tried it once and got whacked by an old guy's shillelagh.

*My great grandmother was named Hennigan. According to our driver, the O'Connells and the O'Briens were among the most powerful families on the island over time and those names are still prominent. As for Hennigan, I saw the name on one sign and the driver didn't have much to tell me about the family name. Clearly, the Hennigans were not movers and shakers.

*When you kiss the Blarney Stone, which gives you the ability to lie convincingly for seven years...good thing for a weatherman, a guy holds you by the waist as you lean way back, while clinging to a couple of bars, pucker up and smooch the stone. It costs about 12 bucks. Now, if someone came up to you on the street and asked you to kiss some old, dirty rock while he held you by the ankles AND pay him for the chance, you'd call the police. By the way, there is no truth to the rumor that after kissing the Blarney Stone you could get the Blarney Cold Sore.

*The Cliffs of Moher, or as we say around KMBC, The Cliffs of Larry Moore, are lovely even in a driving, cold rain.

*The best thing to do in Killarney is take a jaunting car ride through the national park. We had a spectacularly funny driver. He sang American country songs, in between the tales he told. In fact, all the hotels played American music over their sound systems. Lots of Sinatra and Ella.

*Of all the sights to see, the people of Ireland are the best part: funny, patient and kind.

As the week goes on, I'll remember more of the trip to share.

Meanwhile, back at home, everyone did well. More about that this week, as well.

It was a good trip but it is great to be home again.