However, there is a weather person here at KMBC who has serious Groundhog issues. 

This person really lets the little critter get under his/her skin.  He/she is not alone.  There are other folks who do weather, out there, who feel somehow threatened  by this buck-toothed prognosticator or jealous of the rodent’s one day in the sun or shade, as the case may be.  I say, when it comes to weather-guessing we need all the help we can get!

For example, the late, great Betty-Cam, of FirstNews fame, had achy knees and elbows that were more accurate about predicting rain or snow than any of our big-buck computers or radar.  Her personal joints were better than our weather joint. 

So, bring on the Groundhog and, for that matter, the hedgehog and beaver and badger and mole (for small meteorological changes) and armadillo and bilby and ferret and gerbil and hamster and shrew and, if he’s not too busy with his tongue-twister, the woodchuck.

This is a hedgehog. 

The toothy soothsayer also came up during one of the Johnson County Community College classes I teach.  (Yes, the fact that I am allowed to be a teacher, is a major indictment of this nation’s educational commitment to excellence!)

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 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.

This year, even if the hairy clairvoyant sees his shadow…six more weeks of this kind of winter is okay.

One of Mrs. Wilkinson’s 11 children, Keith, and I walked to school just about everyday from first through 12th grade.   

After my peanut butter toast and chocolate milk breakfast, I’d stroll about a half a block to the Wilkinson’s house.  There were lots of kids in that house.  No matter how chaotic things got, Mrs. Wilkinson always had a smile on her face and laugh in her voice.  I’d stand inside the back door and wait for my buddy,  Keith, to come barreling into the kitchen.  Then, we’d walk.  Rain. Sleet. Snow. Ice. Heat.  We were practically mailmen.  Grade school was only another block away.  The middle school was about a mile away and the high school, a little closer than that.   Even after we got our driver’s licenses and our school-mates were cruising into the school parking lot, Keith and I walked. 

Keith was one of those people who did many things very well.  He was a gifted athlete, a scholar, he went out for some of the plays and got good parts.  On top of that, I don’t remember him ever being in a bad mood.  Despite all of that, I liked him anyway and considered him one of my best friends.  On those walks, we talked about current events like gas prices, the lagging economy, politics; movies–like The Sting; what was happening at school; the future.  It was a great way to start the day. 

This is either a scene from The Sting or, just maybe, it is a picture of Keith and Joel…ready for school!  You be the judge.

There was no TV blaring in the Wilkinson house…no computer humming…no video games.  Just a bunch of kids looking for shoes and books.  Wolfing down cereal.  Laughing.  Growling.  When Keith and I got outside, it was usually very quiet.  Especially in the winter.  Serene.  Now, from the biting-the-hand-that-feeds-me-and-mine department, I really think the world would be a better place if we couldn’t turn on our TVs, radios, computers, cell-phones until about noon.  Okay, maybe we’d be allowed to listen to Gershwin or Sinatra or Beethoven, but no chatter.  No strident voices.  No “BREAKING NEWS!”  Ease into our days rather than being agitated and prodded and pushed.  If silence is golden, no wonder our society is in debt.

Those were special mornings.  Thanks in large part to the always laughing and happy Mrs. Wilkinson.

When my Mom would run into Mrs. Wilkinson at the grocery store, “Ma” would always ask “How’s my Jody doing?”  That was Mrs. Wilkinson’s name for me.  Makes me feel good that she’d even remember me with all those other young ones bouncing around.  I will always remember her.

My hometown probably feels a little bit less spunky since Mrs. Wilkinson moved on but I’ll bet heaven is an even happier place.

 Yes, our conversation was severely truncated…trunk-ated.  But, that years-ago visit reminds me of other mammoth memories.

KING TUSK!  One year, when the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey circus was in town, the big star was a BIG star:  King Tusk.  He was nearly 15,000 pounds and over 12 feet tall.  True to his name, he had two long…six and seven foot…tusks.  My oldest brother, Randy, loves sweet corn so much we call him King Husk.  However, he has never been featured, so far as we know, by the Greatest Show On Earth.  There was a travelling carnival that came through town once that wanted to put Randy on display as “The Amazing Randu:  The World’s Hairiest Man Eating The Most Sweet Corn In One Breath!!!!”  Nothing came of it, however, when the sign painter passed out from the paint fumes before being able to finish the title card.

King Tusk was the focus of my story for the evening news.   After giving all the important stats, the exciting climax of the tale involved my taking a seat on the tusks and being lifted skyward.  Frankly, the royal giant looked a little bored with this shtick.  Clearly, at every stop, he had to elevate some local TV loser like me.  But, as the rider, I can attest it was an interesting experience.  One false move and I could have been moved to the soprano section in the church choir.  But, King Tusk was gentle with me and I made it through the ups and downs of that particular assignment with my pants, if not my limited dignity, in tact.

POOP HEADS!  One man’s art is another man’s, uh, elephant dung.  I did a story about one of the elephant-keepers at the KC Zoo, a number of years back, who just plain stepped in some future artistic expression while cleaning up after his large-eared friends.  He decided to use the exotic meadow muffins left behind the behinds in some new and fascinating ways.  After allowing adequate drying time, he would paint faces on the pachyderm piles and, then, market them.  He used a different name than “Poop Heads.”  So, while I apologize if you are offended by the title of this subsection, rest assured it could have been much worse. 

For example:  Caca Countenances.  Face Feces.  Facial Fertilizer.  Droppings Displays.  Manure Masks.  Expressive Excrement.  Not to mention a few that aren’t suitable for this family friendly fodder.  Also, I hope you weren’t standing downwind while reading this part of the e-rticle.

I don’t do hardly any feature stories for the news anymore.  They have real reporters, now.  The stuff I did was quite often silly and a little off-the-wall.  The features often didn’t have any redeeming value other than to provide a smile or two.  In today’s news climate, that kind of thing is not a priority, I guess.  But, back when I was regular contributor and a story like this one came along…Elephant Pile Profiles…I was the go-to guy…the first person the producers and news director thought of as “perfect” to tell the tale!  I wonder why?

BABS ON THE LOOSE!  My final mammoth memory has nothing to do with a news story.  It comes from my childhood.  Once we had a little circus, Carson and Barnes, come to town and set up shop in the grade school playing field.  Among the things to see, was a seemingly placid pachy.  After spending the day helping put up the tent, this six-ton leathery lady, named Barbara,  decided to take in the sights of Sauk-Prairie, Wisconsin.  Barb ended up at Maplewood Nursing Home and made her way inside.

Nobody, including Barbara, was hurt but I can imagine some of the quizzical looks at the nurse’s station when residents reported an elephant on the move.  Certainly, types and levels of medication were quickly checked.  Eventually, the authorities…meaning some embarrassed circus folks and nervous police officers…arrived and calmed the situation.  It was an event nobody in my town will ever forget.  There is still a sign in that hallway of Maplewood that says “CAUTION:  ELEPHANT X-CROSSING.”

I have a soft spot for elephants due in part to all of these encounters and because as I get older, I am getting larger, grayer and tend to snort more often than before.  Also, one of the first jokes I ever remember hearing and  stealing was this:

What’s the difference between an elephant and banana?

Have you ever tried to peel an elephant?

We had a little movie-house down on Water Street, back in my hometown, that was called the Midway Theater, now it’s the Bonham. Didn’t matter what was playing on a Saturday afternoon. If you were a kid and had a couple of dollars, you’d go. It was upstairs from the bowling alley and you could quite often hear the strikes and spares during the movie. If it was a war picture, it just sounded like a battle scene. But, in a comedy or drama or musical, it could be distracting.

Like the opening scene of The Sound of Music when Julie Andrews comes tearing across that mountain top, just as she opened her mouth to sing, someone must have rolled a turkey downstairs because it sounded like “Maria” belched. Maybe too many Austrian sausages.

Most of the movies that came through town had already been out for quite a while or had not done very well. I remember seeing every Dr. Phibes (starring Vincent Price) movie ever made, there, and most of the post-Dean Martin, Jerry Lewis movies, as well.

The first movie I ever saw in a theater was Mary Poppins. I loved it…especially when Dick Van Dyke danced with the penguin waiters. However, for some reason that never was clear to me, my dad never liked Julie Andrews. Maybe he thought she really had let one rip at the start of that other movie. He always thought she acted a little too nice…a little too sweet. I’d like to imagine that he and Miss Andrews had been through some torrid romance during World War II which ended badly…he traipsed back to the north woods of Wisconsin while she went onto stardom. The trouble there is, the only accurate part of the story is that he did traipse back to the north woods of Wisconsin. No matter, he just never warmed up to Julie Andrews.

If you ask my mom the latest movie she saw in the theater that she really liked, her answer would be Cactus Flower, starring Goldie Hawn and Walter Matthau…circa 1969. It is a funny movie…but, 1969? It had been awhile before that since she had been to the movies. I seem to remember her being amazed by the Technicolor and, saying, with reverence, “It was a talkie!” Okay, I may be overdoing that but she was not and is not a real movie-goer.

When I was about eight years old, we were on a family trip up north in Chetek, Wisconsin and, due to a rainy day which kept us off the lake, we all went to a movie. It was set in the 1930′s and was supposed to be about dancing and big-band music. Seemed right up my parent’s alley. Well, we all settled into the darkened row. My dad on the outside, then a brother, then my mom, then another brother, then me and then another brother. Instead of a happy, upbeat pastiche of good fun and great music it turned out to be a real downer. The title should have tipped us off: They Shoot Horses Don’t They? It starred Jane Fonda and Gig Young and was about dance marathons. Very sad and gloomy. We would’ve been happier outside in the rain.

The only thing I really remember is that there was a shower scene. That’s about all I can tell you as, just as the water started running and the camera focused in on the scrubbing bubbles, a hand swooped in over my eyes. It was my mom’s hand. Now, she is not a tall person. How she got her short, little arm stretched all the way past my other brother and over my eyes, is still a physical feat I don’t quite comprehend. All of sudden she was Inspector Gadget.

There are a few other movies I remember from those years like Oliver. My brothers all thought that musicals were unintentionally hilarious…after all, how often does someone just burst into song while waiting for a taxi or buying a pair of shoes? Sometimes, after seeing a film like Oliver, my brothers would, for several days sing things like “I’m going to the bathroom now. Then I will take a bow. Just remember, if you go, don’t smirk. It’s not over ’til you’re done with the paperwork!” Always, at the top of their lungs. They wanted me to sit through that movie because the kid playing the Artful Dodger reminded them of me. Maybe his looks or, more likely, his questionable character.

As a kid, it was a big deal when a theatrical release finally made it to one of the three networks. Now, it seems like just a matter of moments before you can be watching the hits in your own home.

Speaking of watching hit movies at home, I remember a winter Saturday quite sometime ago, when then 11-year-old, Harrison, and I watched a great movie.  It was called The Public Enemy starring James Cagney. From about 1931 or so. It was terrific, although, now, we did have to break Harrison from rubbing grapefruit in his sister’s face and falling, like a mummy, in the front door and scaring his mother half to death.

That’s entertainment!

I have caught a cold.  I don’t know why we say “caught” as if it is something we all pursue with happy, reckless abandon.  I’m also not sure why we say “under the weather.”  My extensive research, meaning I Googled it, indicates that the phrase may be from sailors who got seasick and went below deck putting them “under the weather.” 

The Skipper…flirting with Bird Flu!

These are the types of things one thinks about when in a Robitussin stupor.

Truth be told, I don’t get sick very often.  As those of you who work odd, overnight kind of hours well know, the amazing thing is not that we get a cold now and then.  The amazing thing is that we don’t have a cold all the time.  Lack of sleep…and the right kind of deep sleep, in particular…is a major health crusher.  Speaking just for me, getting up in the middle of the night to head for work gets harder as I get older.  At some point, my six alarm clocks won’t be enough.  Some morning I just won’t be able to answer the bell…uh, bells.

Again, ramblings of a stuffed-up head and rattling chest.  Mixed in with all the “poor me” nonsense is a memory of one of the last times I was a mucous factory.

Well, I was asking for it that time around.

A few years back, our second oldest son, Taylor, came home from school complaining about how lousy he felt. His throat was scratchy. His head was stuffed up. He sounded pretty rough. Instead of expressing parental empathy, I got cocky. “Oh, quit your (pronounced ‘kwitcher’) whining (pronounced ‘whinin’)! I am over twice your age and I haven’t gotten sick in years! Ha Ha Ha!” I sneeringly replied. Within minutes, I could feel the “bleeeaaachh” settle in on me.

When the kids were little, I picked up any germ they brought home. They were like Petri dishes carrying Power Ranger back-packs. Whatever the bacteria or is that bacterium…or is the bacterium where the bacteria go for lunch? Anyhow, every little bug eventually attacked my throat. I firmly believe this has been a sign from above that, just maybe, broadcasting is not the true career path for me. In the early days of FirstNews, I’d have to croak my way through the show a couple of times a year. This was before e-mail and voice-mail but I’d always get a phone call from the same, kindly, worried woman telling me that my laryngitis was due to some very serious…probably terminal… disease. She told me this for five years.

I am sincerely thankful for her concern and for all the remedies that get sent my way when things get froggy. Really, when my voice goes it is not just a frog…it is the whole pond. People have said try tea with honey and lemon…warm, not-yet-firm jello…whiskey (can you imagine how completely unintelligible my forecasts would be if I did that? Okay, not that different.)…Airborne plus Red Hots! That last idea came from some ladies at a Price Chopper in Grandview. The Airborne is good stuff but the Red Hots scare me!

The only real way to get one’s voice back, according to medical types I’ve heard from, is plenty of water plus sleep. Oh, and keep your big yapper closed, for a change! Of course, the producers and co-anchors of FirstNews, as well as the management here at KMBC, are very supportive and encourage me to stay home…even when I’m feeling and sounding okay.

Feeling under the weather really tends to cramp my style. For example, a major part of my parenting technique has to do with raising my voice to a noticeable volume. Known by some children in my house as “yelling.” They all love it when my voice is shot because crinkling my brow and furiously snapping my fingers is much easier to ignore.

The upshot of all this is that Taylor, the original “host body” of this particular head-filling sludge, bounced back quickly,  while I sounded like the poor possessed kid in The Exorcist for many days.

At least my head was just stuffed up and not spinning like a top.  Yet.

********************************************************

Yes, I’m on The Betty White Bandwagon!  However, I’ve never been off.  Well, I’ve been off.  In fact, I’m still a little off.  But, that’s in general–not Betty-wise.  What I mean to say is that, while it’s hip to love Betty now, I’ve always been in the fan club.

Of course, she was terrific on Saturday Night Live last weekend.  That was the first SNL my wife and I watched, all the way through, in many years.  It reminded me of how great Betty White always was as part of The Mighty Carson Art Players on The Tonight Show.  Johnny knew he could count on her.

The best Tarzan and Jane, ever!  Johnny and Betty!

I think my first exposure to Betty White–and, by exposure, I do not mean anything for which I could be arrested–was on game shows.  She was a  master of the genre.  (Should that be “mistress” of the genre?  Sounds too racy.) In fact, I feel like I met Betty White because of her husband Allen Ludden.

By the way, that’s the legendary Jack Paar to the right of Allen Ludden.

Not too long ago, I wrote a little something about Mr. Ludden.  The time seems right to, in TV talk, “rerun” it:

***************************************************************

THE PASSWORD IS….

When you think of the giants of broadcasting, certain names jump from out of the ether:  Edward R. Murrow.  Steve Allen.  Lucille Ball.  Johnny Carson.  I would immediately add another:  Allen Ludden.

In addition to being a Ludden-ite, as in an admirer of Allen Ludden,  I am also a bit of a Luddite, as in not an admirer of much modern technology.  But, there are a couple of things about the 21st century I do like: nostalgic cable TV channels and the Digital Video Recorder or DVR.  Those two things are not just modern-day conveniences.  They are modern-day conveyances which let me drift back to the 60s.  I know the 1960s were, historically speaking, a time of great turmoil.  But, on TV…especially during the daytime hours…it was rather serene and cerebral…thanks to Allen Ludden.

Each day I spend about 30 minutes with Allen Ludden.  Sounds like a standing appointment with a psychiatrist, doesn’t it?  Well, maybe it is.  The last couple weeks, the guests on Password, circa mid 60s, have been Carol Burnett, Ross Martin, Bob Crane and Irene Ryan.  All big stars.  All smart and funny folks.  But the true allure of Password was always the host.  

Everything about Password was civil and civilized.  The stars introduced their playing partners and, then, here came Allen.  He entered our living room like we wish everyone would:  a genuine smile of welcome to the guests, to the audience and to those of us watching from home.  Allen Ludden respected the game and made sure we did, too.  One little raised eyebrow to the camera told us more than any rant or rave. 

When we used to make the trek from Kansas City to Lake Wisconsin, on a more regular basis, we always drove through a wonderful little town called Mineral Point, Wisconsin.  There are a lot of great things in that scenic spot but I always thought of Allen Ludden.  It was his hometown.  

Many years ago, I had the privilege to meet and briefly interview the great Betty White.  (She would have to be on any Mount Rushmore of Broadcast Legends, too!)  It was a highpoint of my so-called professional life  that I had the chance to tell her just how special and important Allen Ludden had been to a kid in a small Wisconsin town.  As I get older, and feel more and more removed from what broadcasting used to be, I purposely recall Allen Ludden’s quiet dignity, good humor and courtesy every day as we start the morning news.  In this age when it seems everyone on TV is raising his or her voice, it’s refreshing to hear Allen Ludden’s pitch perfect dulcet tones.  Quiet but forceful.  Funny but not at anyone’s expense.  Smart but not smart-alecky.

As a kid, I always waited for the end of the program when Allen Ludden would lean toward the camera and say “The Password for today is….”  then he’d have something pithy or funny or meaningful to leave for us.  It was always sincere and always heartfelt.  So, let me end this like he might have:  The Password for today is CLASS.  Allen Ludden was and is the very best.  Allen Ludden means CLASS!

****************************************************************

For some reason, I felt compelled to send a copy of the above tribute to Betty White.  I did not expect to hear anything back but I wanted her to see it, if possible. 

A few weeks later, in the mail, I received a hand-written note thanking me for the kind words.  It was signed “Betty”–then, in parentheses (“White-Ludden”)–as if I wouldn’t know who “Betty” was!  It is a prized possession for the whole family.

We still play the original board-game version of Password and, truth be told, based only on one face-to-face meeting, a signed copy of one of her books and that treasured note, we  all think of Betty White as part of our family. 

In fact, our soon-to-be-a-senior daughter, Samantha, wants to invite Mrs. Ludden to her graduation party next year!  Who knows?  Maybe, Betty White would show up!

Time Capsule was a big step up for me. As a little kid, I would ask Miss Graf, the librarian, for permission to go down in the basement of our town’s library and look through the old magazines and newspapers. In college, I moved up to microfilm and felt a little bit like Flash Gordon as I scrolled through time.

Actually, putting a tape in a machine and seeing history was a big deal for me. It was easy to get lost in Time Capsule…which probably explains why I got so little work done at the old building.  My excuse for not getting work done at the new building is that I get lost trying to find the Weather Center.

I actually used those tapes to fill in the gaps on some of the feature stories I did for the evening news back in those days. But, there was one story that featured video exclusively from those dusty old cartridges. It was for Martin Luther King Junior Day. Taking clips from his life, I set them to music by James Taylor. I’m sure the combination had been done before and I know it has been done since.

Shed A Little Light by James Taylor

Let us turn our thoughts today
To Martin Luther King
And recognize that there are ties between us
All men and women
Living on the earth
Ties of hope and love
Sister and brotherhood
That we are bound together
In our desire to see the world become
A place in which our children
Can grow free and strong
We are bound together
By the task that stands before us
And the road that lies ahead
We are bound and we are bound

I’m cyber-scribbling this on Friday the 13th.  As I was researching this blog…and, by “researching” I mean Googling “Friday the 13th” and then “paying tribute to those who wrote before me”–a phrase that is so much more respectable than “plagiarizing”–I discovered it is also “Blame Someone Else Day.”  Not sure who’s to blame for that designation.

After that, because my attention span is really…oooh…look at that shiny trophy on Larry Moore’s desk…sorry.  Anyway, when I was looking at the list of special days in January, I did notice that January 3 was Festival of Sleep Day.

I like sleep.  On this shift, there is not a lot of good shut-eye to be found.  In fact, most studies indicate that people who work odd hours like these are at increased risk for weight gain (check!), high blood pressure (check!) and overall mental confuzzion…Confucian…condolezza….fondusion…CONFUSION!  (CHECK!!!)

This photo has nothing to do with this piece of digi-drivel.  This is a scene from the movie, The Invisible Man starring Claude Rains.  This morning, on FirstNews, I was in the wrong place and didn’t show up in the right camera shot.  I said,  “Oh, I look like Claude Rains.”  This is what that was all about.  Thanks for your attention to my digression.

When I saw the thing about Festival of Sleep, I realized I had a decision to make:  Write something brand new about Friday the 13th OR find something old I wrote related to sleep and, then, go take a nap. 

I chose the second one.  When I searched this bloggerania, I found I’d mentioned something about sleep hundreds of times.  Looks like I’m a bit sleep obsessed and deprived at the same time.  Well, I am now in mid-yawn, so here’s something I belched…I mean blogged…a while back:

DREAM STATE

I woke up around 10:30 last evening due to a dream.  Nightmare, really.  I don’t recall the details now but it was troubling enough to make me get out of bed and make sure the dog was okay.  Must have had something to do with him.  Experts say we all dream every night but I rarely remember mine.  Based on the following examples of ones I do recall,  perhaps that’s just as well:

*For about three days in a row last winter, I had dreams that had me driving down the country road I travel to work, everyday, around 2:00 a.m.  That’s it.  Nothing dramatic happened.  No flying.  No ogres.  No swimsuit models.  Just me, driving.  I’d wake up from the dream just before my alarm clocks started ringing and, within minutes, be in my car…driving that very country road.  Yes, I was living the dream.

*On a couple of occasions, I’ve heard a voice say to me “You stink” right before waking up.  I don’t remember what storyline preceded that declaration but, needless to say, it didn’t make me greet the day in a chipper frame of mind.  Sadly, the disembodied voice proved prescient.

*As a child, whenever I was home sick from school, I would have the same nightmare while stretched out on the living room davenport, slathered in Vicks Vap-o-rub.  I was trapped in a candy factory that was about to explode.  No matter  which way I turned, I saw chocolate but no exits.  Tootsie Rolls would fall from my pockets as I ran, panic-stricken, from window-less wall to window-less wall.  At least, I think they were Tootsie Rolls.  There was no resolution to this scary scenario.  I’d just wake up…feverish and craving Doritos.

*On two occasions I had dreams I really enjoyed.  Both involve old TV shows.  I once dreamed an entire original episode of The Andy Griffith Show.  I’ve seen every show dozens of times so I know what I envisioned was brand new.  Don’t ask me the plot but I do know that Floyd, Barney, Andy, Opie, Ernest T. Bass and The Darling Family were all involved.  Around the that time, I did the same snoozing screening of an original Bob Newhart Show.  Of course,  these events are clear evidence that I have watched, and continue to watch, too much TV.  On the other hand, I woke up laughing both times.

My wife, on the other hand or sleepy eye-lid, seems to have vivid, active, memorable dreams all the time.  When she says, “I have to tell you about this dream I had….”  I know I should settle in for a nocturnal version of  War and Peace.  I’m exhausted just hearing about these Slumberland Situations.  Her dreams often involve international intrigue and our kids.  I make very limited appearances.  However, it does not appear I am replaced in these overnight excursions by some movie star like George Clooney or Denzel Washington.  Although there was one of her dreams that featured Dan Rather running down a hallway in his boxer shorts.  Not sure what that meant.

Our youngest, Harrison, is busy after falling asleep.  He tends to babble.  One morning, as I checked on him before heading to work, he said “That kid’s gonna go all the way.”  Another time it was, “I’m gonna kick that thing…” Considering he spends a fair amount of time sitting on the sofa watching Password and eating M&Ms with his father, it’s good to know he’s getting some exercise overnight.

Of all the kids, Alex, the oldest, maybe the most restless in his sleep.  Once, while visiting Grandma and Grandpa at Lake Wisconsin, we found Alex, sound asleep, standing in the closet having a conversation with the water softener.  

For those of you still awake, remember I mentioned at the start of this cyber-Sominex, that last night’s sandman spat must have had something to do with the dog.  Speaking of Casey, he dreams, too. 

He runs in his sleep.  The great, aforementioned philosopher Ernest T. Bass once said that if you sleep on the same pillow as your dog, you’ll dream the same dream.  I tried that once.  Enjoyed a brand new episode of Firing Line with William F. Buckley.  That dog is so smart.

WOW!  WEIRD, WILD STUFF! 

We have a chance for some light snow and flurries around these parts on Wednesday evening and, then, blustery cold air will fall on us for Thursday.   BREAKING NEWS:  IT’S WINTER!

It has put me in mind of January 1982, when I was still a resident cheese-head.  A phrase like “put me in mind of” makes it sound like I should be sitting around a checker board down at Floyd’s Barbershop or reaching for a fresh gherkin at Granny’s Country Market.  Of course, in some states, possession of a fresh gherkin, without a permit, is a misdemeanor. 

On January 17, 1982 it was -31…yes, 31 degrees below zero…in Madison, Wisconsin.  Of course, that show-off, International Falls, Minnesota dipped to 45 below.   Frigid air enveloped the upper Midwest.  Because of this, January 17 is known as Cold Sunday.  Apparently, that’s about as linguistically adventurous as weather-types wanted to get 29 years ago.

The whole month of January in that year was cold, even for Wisconsin.  The weekend before, January 9 and 10, we had wind chills in the 20-40 below range up there.  That was called Chilly Weekend.  

I recall hearing that crime, in Madison, was nearly nonexistent for those couple of wicked weather weeks.  Weather does affect everyone, I guess.

Biting and bitter conditions such as those are dangerous.  To go out in such glacial surroundings is just plain ignorant.  So, what did I do on those benumbing days?  I did what Dairylanders do:  I went outside! (DISCLAIMER ALERT:  Don’t do unto yourself as I did unto me.)  On January 17, in particular, I remember walking the dog…without the dog…he was smarter than me.  I took about a 15 minute stroll around the block just so I could say I’d been outdoors on a 50 below wind-chill kind of day.  It is quite possible that some of my brain cells are still a little on the frosty side to this day. 

This is not the dog I was “not” walking.  But it sure looks like Jingles.

A couple of years later, while making a toboggan run for my nieces and nephews, I slid through a huge snow drift and hit a tree…head first.   It was just a like a cartoon.  I saw and heard birds as they flew around my newly-notched noggin.  I ended up about a quarter-inch shorter and, apparently, tore every muscle in my chest.  The biggest surprise there was the discovery that I actually had muscles in my chest.  In the case of that particular tree, his bark was worse than his bite.  The combination of the cold air of ’82 and this later belt to the belfry has left me with plenty of excuses for my current behavior.

Those couple of weekends, back in January of 1982 in wonderful Wisconsin, will probably always be my benchmark for “COLD!” As opposed to just “cold.”  My goosebumps had goosebumps.  Speaking of goosebumps, another thing about January 1982 that I remember well is that on January 10, 1982, the comic actor Paul Lynde died.  He was, among other things, Uncle Arthur on Bewitched and a semi-regular on The Dean Martin Show.  But, he is best remembered as the ultimate center square on Hollywood Squares.  So, here’s how a cold weekend, goosebumps and Paul Lynde all come together:

Peter Marshall:  Paul, when you pat a dog on the head, he will usually wag his tail.  What will a goose do?

Paul Lynde:  Make him bark!

Or, the famous dad version by Bing Crosby’s son, Gary:  Going My Own Way.

Around our place, the kids were, by and large, not too grumpy.  The same can not be said for their father.  In fact, I may write my own expose’ about myself.

Nobody grouchy in this bunch.

It’s nothing new.  I’ve long been a crab and a crank; a grouser, growler, grumbler.  In fact, I just got notice that I now officially qualify as a curmudgeon!

Even as a child, I looked perturbed.

The first time I showed signs of grumposity, I was about three years old.  I’d been dragged to a dress shop with my mom.  We spent a big chunk of the morning at Marie’s in Sauk City, Wisconsin.  It was really a house that had been converted into a store. 

It wasn’t like being at one of those new-fangled shopping centers  they had in the city.  For example, once my mom and grandma took me to Hilldale, one of the first multi-store shopping areas in Madison, Wisconsin.  I had plenty to do at that place including wandering off.  When a clerk asked me “Are you lost, little boy?”  I replied, “No, but my mom is.” 

This is Hilldale, today.  It wasn’t quiet so fancy-schmancy 50 years ago or so.

At Marie’s, however,  it didn’t take long for my three-year old patience to wear thin.  After crawling into the display cases and trying to swing on the hangars and startling other shoppers, my mom finally said we could go home.  Adding insult to injury, I’m pretty sure she didn’t even buy anything.

At home, I took my seat in front of the TV and turned the dial to Romper Room.  (This is back when turning the dial was still something a person did to a TV or radio.)  Just as the set warmed up, Miss Judy was saying, “Well, now that we’ve all had our lunch, let’s read a story…”  That’s about as far as she got before I said, just as my mother was entering the room, “I haven’t had MY lunch, $&&*%())#)_!”  Being a wise woman, my mom just ignored it, set my plate of fish sticks and glass of chocolate milk before me, then, walked back to the kitchen.

To this day, knowing that tale, my wife will occasionally say to me “Ah.  Romper Room Joel is back.”

My latest Channel 9 photo!  Let’s hear it for the Old Goat!