A Town Named Jim...

It is, by golly, The Switzerland of America. And it's right down the road; under an hour's drive from our place.

I think Mauch Chunk should come from your lips as "Mawk" Chunk, with "Mawk" rhyming with hawk. It is said that Mauch Chunk means Bear Mountain. Ostensibly, it would be Lenni Lenape for Bear Mountain. We came to call the Lenni Lenape Tribe, The Delaware Tribe. We've lost the Delawares, they moved west, all the way to Oklahoma. We made them go. They signed ridiculous treaties and off they went to Oklahoma.

There was Mauch Chunk, there was East Mauch Chunk. Today they are one.

Since East Mauch Chunk and Mauch Chunk consolidated, brought together by a corpse, the world has known this pretty little borough as Jim Thorpe. That in itself is a one-of-a-kind story. The original settlement along a series of riffles in the Lehigh River began life as Coalville, which is about as exciting as Dullsville, especially considering the nature of its business; coal. Not much imagination there. Mining, shipping, and getting wealthy.

Money, coal, canal boats, then railroads...and the hanging of a Molly Maguire by the name of Alexander Campbell. (Here's a thought; how about we get some consensus on the spelling Is it Maguire, or is it McGuire? Pick one, I'll stick to it).

As Campbell was led to the gallows, he slapped his hand upon his cell wall, proclaiming that its print would be there forever as a testament to his innocence. The hand print is still there. There are marvelous stories surrounding the hand print, and a lot of science backing up its existence, and the inability of generations who have tried unsuccessfully to make it go away. It has gone nowhere in over 135 years. I've never seen it. When we're in town, we never visit the old county jail where the hand print is. Oddly, I don't know why. I love ghostly legends, always clinging to the notion that at least one of them will someday be proven true.

Carol and I were in Jim Thorpe this past weekend. We love the town. It has a charm that continues to draw me back time and time again. Charm around every corner, as the saying goes...and there is indeed. We typically park near the old CNJ RR Station, where you can still board an excursion train in season. From there, we wander on up Broadway.

For roughly one long block on Broadway you'll find some really neat shops, a hotel, a couple bars, then the street gives way to old Victorians and small office buildings, most of which have been lovingly restored and are at present lovingly maintained. One of our favorite stops is The Emporium, alternately known as The Emporium of Curious Goods. It is that.

Emporium owner, Barrett Ravenhurst, PhD, is a most fascinating man, and a magician. He also has this really neat cat in his store. His cat, his store, and a great story. See, this cat is ghost. There is no cat in Barrett's store save for the apparition of what appears to be a gray cat, a sizable gray cat. It's been seen over the years by a lot of people, often spotted scurrying around the store.

People see this cat, ask about this cat, want to know this cat's name, often enough they'd like to pet this cat, so asking if it exists seems silly; to more than a few mortals it has to exist, they've seen it. I haven't seen it yet, but hope to one of these days.

Jim Thorpe is a small and quiet town. Please don't let me misrepresent it to you. If a lot of neon, fast food, and big-box stores tickle you, pass this one by and find another town. Although the Sweeneys can spend several hours there without getting even a little bored, there is no guarantee it won't bore you silly within minutes. We really love Jim Thorpe.

(If you go, let me suggest your route of travel bring you down Route 209 via Lehighton. From that approach you can see Jim Thorpe open up before you in that deep mountain cleft worn over millions of years by the always moving waters of the Lehigh River.)

Jim Thorpe the man, of course, is a legend in himself. Long story short; the boroughs, one on each side of the river, bought Mr. Thorpe's body, entombed it, renamed the now united boroughs after the man, and here we are today. Oddly, while The Lenni Lenapes we shoved to Oklahoma gave us the name Mauch Chunk, Oklahoma gave us Jim Thorpe, both man and town.

His family made serious noise about wanting the body back not all that long ago. I have no idea if that was ever resolved with any satisfaction since Thorpers(Thorpsters?) weren't interested in giving anything back to anyone. They'd already given this great athlete(often called the world's greatest ever) a fitting burial and built him a fitting monument complete with numerous plaques. They now keep the lawn around it neatly trimmed, treat his body's resting place with respect, and live their lives in a town named after the man they've surely come to consider their own.

It was a marketing gimmick. A little odd, but odd isn't always bad. It made no one wealthy. I don't think many people come to Jim Thorpe to see the mausoleum. It's widely accepted that Thorpe himself never made footfall in the town that carries his name. He probably never so much as passed through Carbon County. They come because it's simply a great little town.

There are lots of ghost stories drifting around the town, and ample sightings to accompany them, but there seems to be a complete lack of any ghost stories about the man himself, about Jim Thorpe.

If you're a ghost tale lover, you already know that would be a solid indication that Jim's spirit is long gone from this breathtaking gorge of the Lehigh River. It would seem to mean the man is at peace somewhere else, that if his conciousness was ever there, and it may never have been, it's long gone. Somehow, I can believe that.

Now, moving right along with the strangely spiritual, what about reincarnation?

To me, reincarnation is a viable possibility. I am most assuredly not sold in total on the idea, but there is something within the idea that appeals to me, that makes sense to me on an inner level that goes beyond the reasonable and logical. It strikes a chord within my guts, it works on my viscera which so many people trust completely.

I think it entirely possible I lived in Mauch Chunk(and not East Mauch Chunk) in some other life. I think it possible that's what keeps me coming back, that's what makes me so comfortable and peaceful whenever I am there. It might explain why, when I look up a tight alley, or down a small walk between buildings, I think, "Yeah, I know this place."

While I certainly cannot prove reincarnation is real, I doubt anyone can prove it is not. Please, don't quote Old or New Testament; there are several passages in both that would strongly suggest reincarnation is very real to go along with passages treating it as an absurdity.

So, if I did live there, if there was an earlier life, who was I?

Not to be flip, but I haven't the faintest idea, none, not one clue. I don't think I was Asa Packer, or Josiah White, or any other millionaire industrialist who took and never gave in and around Mauch Chunk. Actually, I sure as hell hope I wasn't one of those guys.

So we'll keep going back to Jim Thorpe. Not expecting any answers to past lives, mind you. Just going back because we like it and really enjoy the time spent there. I like an uncomplicated life. Besides, I'd like to see Dr. Ravenhurst's cat.

This Is Big...

Diocesan teachers want what they feel is their right.

The bishop says no.

The teachers don't submit and go away.

The bishop gets arrogant.

The teachers dig in their heels.

So does the bishop.

Then the headline this week announces that the Signatura, the RC version of the supreme court, will hear the case. The Signatura, in Rome, in Vatican City.

Someone is in trouble.

This is big, big, big.

I think Americans want their church back, at least the temporal component of their church.

I think they're going to get what they want.

Much more to say. I will oblige soon.

Until then, bravo! Justice lives...

Blogger's Blahs...

Blogging each and every day sure seems like a great idea. Most all of us should have at least one thing worth mentioning that happens within a twenty-four time frame. Yeah, well, OK, maybe.

I figure that if I bore myself, it's pretty much a given that I'll bore you, so I take a pass. Some times, it turns into a leave of absence, a furlough lasting a week or beyond.

Maybe it's lack of inspiration; writer's block or whatever. If that be it, that horse over there has nothing to do with the situation at hand. It's just one of my photos from The Land at Hillside Farms. Neat place, you should make some time to visit. http://www.thelandsathillsidefarms.org/

Could also be plain good old-fashioned laziness, which I've been afflicted with since childhood. Despite that, I have worked hard all my life but every bit as much enjoy those times when work isn't necessary. That would be a day like today. Today is a day off and at home.

Yesterday being Easter, I got to thinking of how the day was once so important, not only in my life, but I think important to the general populace of NE PA, if you were of the Christian faith. It is indeed the day celebrating the occurrence upon which all of Christianity is founded, the Risen Christ. Sorry, it's not Christmas, it's Easter. The nuns taught us that, and so, so much more.

On the subject of the good sisters, I am saddened to read that the IHM order's membership is in troubling decline. The Sisters, Servants of The Immaculate Heart of Mary, were responsible for much of whatever goodness there lies within me, and I am happy to say so. They were and still are wonderful women.

Easter finery was big. Boys got new suits, girls got new "outfits." Do we do that anymore? Somehow, I don't think so.




Been watching HBO's John Adams. The portrait of John Adams gives you a reference in deciding whether or not Paul Giamatti looks like the 2nd president of the United States or not. To me, Giamatti doesn't look unlike him, there is a resemblance. I'd say that John Adams makes for great TV, but it really isn't TV, it's a long theatrical movie presented on a premium channel. If one of the networks did a version of John Adams, I'd skip it, for you could pretty much count on it being inaccurate historically. By all accounts the HBO version is solid and sound in its accuracy. The cast is sensational; Tom Wilkinson, David Morse, Laura Linney, and I'm just hitting the highlights there.

Also on HBO, a new George Carlin Special. This is his 14th HBO Special.

Carlin will turn 71 years of age in May. George Carlin was a hero to my generation. Being a child of the 60s/70s, George Carlin's biting and irreverent observations of the absurdity of the the human condition used to make tears roll down my cheeks. Amazingly, he still does. I think this special is great. His last one, not so much so. He had a not-so-hot special, but sure as hell looks like he's bounced back to me. His first HBO Special was filmed(yes, filmed, not taped) in 1977. Carlin was also the very first host of SNL in 1975.

His full name is George Denis Patrick Carlin. Irish completely. All of his grandparents born in Ireland. What I'd love to see is Carlin come to Scranton for the parade, then do an hour on what he saw, felt, liked, disliked. My guess is what he'd have to say wouldn't make a lot of people happy.


Smells of Spring are in the air. Mainly the scent of skunks on the move. This is the time of year for propagation. So, if you smell skunk, you smell Spring. That can't be bad. Also noticed buds yesterday on our Forsythia - and it's not For-cynthia has some are bound and determined to call it - which is likewise a sure sign of Spring. There is and was no Cynthia involved with this woody perennial. Forsythia is a member of the olive family, and takes its name from a gentlemen named Forsyth.
Hey, I know these things, I was once a PSU Certified Master Gardener.

Admittedly, I let the "certified" part lapse by not keeping up with ongoing education. It was my choice, my decision, I simply didn't have the time. However, I suppose I am still considered a PSU Master Gardener, maybe an uncertified PSU Master Gardener. It wouldn't be a decertified PSU Master Gardener, because you'd need some sort of ceremony for the decertification. There wasn't one. If there was, I missed it. All the more reason to consider my certification lapsed.

A door gets closed, a window opens, I guess. While through my own fault I am no longer certified as a PSU MG, I am now a member of The Pennsylvania Public Television Network Commission. I am actually Commissioner Sweeney, and it says so right there on the commission I received from the governor. It's an honor and privilege to serve my commonwealth, and very much the same to be appointed to this position by the governor, following which the state senate confirmed my nomination unanimously. I was notified of the confirmation by Senator Lisa Baker, and subsequently congratulated by Senator Robert J. Mellow. Thank you both. How 'bout that?

That's it for this time around. Remember, see you next Fall at The Bloomsburg Fair!

Permission To Speak Freely...

That would have made one hell of a billboard, don't you think?

The look is serious, deliberate, almost like I'm about to make some profound statement on the origins of the universe, or reveal the recipe for Coney Island Texas Wiener sauce. (I don't have it, don't ask.)

But, hey, and faith and begorrah, the big parade is tomorrow, and those wieners will be in huge demand as folks carb up on marvelous National Bakery rolls filled with short Gutheinz weenies, mustard, onions, and sauce.

In that order, too - roll, dog(split of course), mustard, onions, sauce. Got that? Memorize it, OK?
Good.

I committed it to memory years ago, back when I worked right up the street on Adams Avenue. At least three days a week, I'd walk through the door, one that that had a very busy American railroad running damned near on top of the building, and order two for lunch. That's all you had to say, "Two, please."

One, two, three, seven, nine, it didn't matter. Just give the man the count and he'd make 'em, wrap 'em, and you were good to go. On the right is the original location; somewhat beneath it, the present location. Why there are two is still a mystery to me. I'd once heard a family feud was involved. That story could be bogus. I'm staying out of family politics, their Texas Wiener is all that matters. Frankly, the best in the land, the absolute best, there is The Coney Island Texas Wiener, then there is everyone else's. Gourmet Magazine once tried to bribe the Karampalis family into giving them the recipe for the sauce. These tough and independent Greek Orthodox people told Gourmet to go stick their knuckles in someone else's baklava.

Standing, waiting for my order, I once heard a dufus, clearly uninitiated, order a salad at The Coney Island Texas Lunch. The place fell silent. It was that silence that could have preceded loud laughter, but I guess the crowd at the counter, and back in the booths that were all but five feet away, were too embarrassed for the young man.

A salad indeed.

The pleasant and hard-working Greek gentleman behind the counter quietly and politely responded, "Uhh, we, uhhh, we don't have salads." Come to think of it, I might have turned a bit red in a show of sympathy for this fellow's blunder. And, sonofagun, that man is still around Scranton. I see his picture in the paper now and again. Nice guy, I assume. He shall remain nameless, for a transgression upon The Coney Island Texas Lunch is a transgression upon Scranton and her multitudinous traditions, magnificent idiosyncrasies, and fine peculiarities.

Parade weekend is no time for transgressions against Scranton.

I have no recollection of why, when, or where that picture way up top was taken...nor do I recall by whom.

It's got several years on it, which is obvious; my beard isn't completely gray. Now, it is, and has been for at least five years. The tie is still in use. A good guess would be that the picture was done for something my former employer was going to do in the way of a promotion but never actually got around to doing. There's a lot of that in the broadcasting business. You get used to it. Opportunities missed are opportunities lost.

The big thing is that I need some reason to pop in here with a post. It's been awhile. Some would say few are the thoughts which have passed my mind that have gone unspoken. Those some might be right.

Let's go back to that word, begorrah.

Seems the word is like so many others such as jeepers, gosh, golly, jiminy, cripes, crikey, etc. Those are all words that we humans made up so that we could use the deity's name without actually saying it.

Begorrah essentially means "By God."

Do we actually know God's name? Some of this planet's larger religions and other organizations claim that they do, but that God's name is unspeakable, also unprintable. On different levels, I can understand that. Whatever your position on it is, we don't much think or talk about it; we simply call God God, not much wondering if the Supreme Architect of The Universe has an actual name.

I was once chastised for saying God on the air. I can tell you without equivocation that my use of it was in the proper context, and it was not used in vain. Still, someone who must have a better relationship than me with God knew I'd been a bad boy, so he called to scold me. I don't suffer scolding easily. Equally so, my capacity to suffer fools is tiny. To state the obvious, that conversation didn't go well. I so dislike those who know God better than the rest of us.

With St. Patrick's Day approaching(and do remember it is on March 17th every single year, not on parade day), I'll ask forgiveness for breaking one of my own rules. That rule would be, "Never annoy friends and family with pointless forwards, or worse yet, forwarded forwards, of any kind." Sticking to that rule is important to me. This time around, though, a rare exception. I honestly believe you'll like this.

Should you have a Guinness, Harp, or Murphy's at hand, maybe a Paddy's or a Jameson's, bottoms up, take a sip, love life. I wish you nothing but abundant good luck, and of course, God's great blessings.

It may take a minute to load, depending on your pipe speed, but I think it's worth it. Don't look for a laugh. A tear, maybe, just maybe.

http://www.e-water.net/viewflash.php?flash=irishblessing_en