So, Who's It Gonna Be?

There's plenty of talk out there about just who the next bishop of the Diocese of Scranton will be.

Yes, I am opinionated, long a believer that an unexamined life is not worth the living, so I've been thinking, and all thoughts and speculation, at least for my money, lead strongly to one conclusion.

I know who it's going to be.

If you have any connection to the Diocese of Scranton or any of its parishes, you've probably heard the name recently, meaning you, too, know who it will be.

Out of my obvious respect for all parties involved, mentioning a name would be indelicate and irresponsible. Even the photo is generic, I didn't want to take any chances.

That said, his name could be posted right here, right now, and with little doubt...that's the little doubt in my head, not necessarily in the head of he who'll ultimately make the decision.

So, who makes the decision? Well, officially and by Canon Law, Rome, the Pope himself, decides.

Surely Rome will stamp its hearty approval, maybe even seal in wax, the choice of the next ordinary of this Roman Catholic See, but Pope Benedict XVI runs a big outfit, and doesn't have time to micromanage. Recent estimates say a billion worldwide are Catholic. A staggering number.

Time for the usual disclaimer, the short version; born and raised Roman Catholic, I have not practiced as such in many, many years. That doesn't mean my Catholic strings are all cut, gone, and forgotten. Not at all.

I'm an avid and consistent observer of the Church and its many twists, turns, and missteps. The recently resigned bishop would be among the missteps, with now being the time to correct it with an appropriate choice for the episcopacy of NE PA.

So, if not Rome, the Pope himself, or even the curia, just who does make the decision? It's not exactly a secret that the metropolitan of the archdiocese in which any diocese is situated gets to make the call. That doesn't for a second mean it's an uneducated decision. Hardly.

It's easy to believe that a lot of thought, prayer, input, homework, reflection and introspection goes into choosing a bishop. With plenty of damage here to be repaired, it's an extremely important decision, likely the most important one Cardinal Justin Rigali will make during his tenure.

Scranton, being a suffragan see of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, Cardinal Rigali alone will decide, if he hasn't already, who'll lead and heal this diocese for a good many years to come. His decision, subject to Rome's almost guaranteed agreement, will be respected without question.

I've been convinced which priest would be the choice since the very second I heard of Bishop Martino's resignation. I think the same today. A handful of friends I have within the diocese confirm that my long-held guess is indeed the most solid rumor out there. Rumors, while possessing the potential to be nasty, are often based in truth. So it is that we shall see.

It might be worth noting that I also guessed that Cardinal Rigali would bring the new bishop-designate home with him as he celebrated Mass on Christmas Day at St. Peter's Cathedral. He did not, disappointing, from what I've been told, more than a few people. Do great minds think alike? Perhaps it's more accurate to say that idle minds think alike.

Somewhere in the near future St. Peter's will be the site of an episcopal ordination, the making of a new bishop. What a great day that will be. I wonder what the chances are that a "lapsee" like myself could somehow wrangle an invitation?

If my guess is wrong, and right now I doubt that will be the case, look for an immediate admission of my inaccuracy right here. And do remember, you can expect full disclosure from a former altar boy and Boy Scout.

1/03/10 - P.S. I did fail to mention that there is an age-old process that must be followed for the selection of a bishop, one involving a number of people and formalities before a decision is announced. That being true, my statement about Cardinal Rigali appointing his choice still stands.

A Failed Mission - Kielbasi Unfindable...

Someday we'll have solidarity. Someday we'll come to the same table and agree just how we spell, and of weightier import, how we pronounce that particular Polish sausage, smoked or fresh, commonly called kielbasi. It'll be tough getting all parties to any such table. It'll be sort of like the Paris Peace Talks.

One matter for very serious dialogue will be the actual national origin of this sausage. While we think of it as being Polish, it would appear that all Eastern European cultures and tribes have, as a staple, a ground and stuffed casing meat product that sure looks like kielbasi. And, yes, kil-BAH-see is indeed my favored pronunciation, so going with kielbasi as a favored spelling only makes sense. I know no one, and remember the bride is Ukrainian, who calls it kil-BAH-suh, yet many insist on the spelling of kielbasa. It's America, a free country...so far.

Even The Plymouth "Kielbasa" Festival, three days of devoted celebration of the sausage, spells it with an "a" and not an "i." Yet I'd wager a half dozen rings of Bosak's finest smoked that, if you could find three people at the festival who call it anything other than kil-BAH-see , that's pushing things.

And while we're at it, how about a Lackawanna County kielbasi maker winning this competition again? Bosak's is in Olyphant.

Luzerne Countians, mostly Wyoming Valley-ites, are pretty confident about having the best when it comes to ethnic dishes, and rightly so, yet a northerner takes home the prize again. Born and raised in Lackawanna County, now making my home in Luzerne County, I am not about to take a side here.

There is likewise the bologna versus baloney controversy, a discussion for another time. For now, though, do remember that bologna, or baloney, is also a smoked sausage, as is the beloved hot dog.

It wasn't baloney or hot dog I was after, it was kielbasi. I needed smoked kielbasi. The yearning was kielbasi, and the palate wants what it wants. Smoked kielbasi, nothing else could fill the void.

Two times a year, the taste for kielbasi is irresistible. My guess is that you can figure when those two times might be. One of them just passed, and with it, the urge diminished some but not altogether. Come Christmas, come Easter, I just want some good smoked kielbasi. See those dangling beauties over there? That's what it should look like, needs to look like.

There is nothing fancy about kielbasi, it couldn't be more peasant if it were made of barn sweepings mixed with moat water. Kielbasi is the essence of peasant, using cuts of meat those privileged in ages past wouldn't touch. What's in the sausage? Right. Don't ask. With genuine kielbasi, it has to be pork. Those serfs who somehow created this thing we love, created it with pork. Again, don't ask what's in that sausage.

Contest winners aside, it was too far a drive to Olyphant. My timing was bad. Should timing have a face, it would now be giving me the stink-eye. If timing is indeed everything, I was again with nothing. Mid-afternoon, on a Sunday nonetheless, is not the time make a kielbasi run in any direction.

Just so we'll all be in the same culinary pew, the kielbasi of which I speak is not what often passes for the same in large chain supermarkets, vacuum-packed and mass-produced and all. Although that "Smoked Polish Sausage" ain't half bad, it's not kielbasi to me. While not necessarily homemade, real kielbasi is undeniably handmade, then smoked with real wood in a real smokehouse. It's not born of extrusion from a machine, then soaked in some smoke-flavored brine and pronounced the real deal.

Without time to go north, I turned south.

Nanticoke sounds like a reasonable place to start, and with any luck, find what I need. The Park Market's kielbasi is a legend unto itself. Whether award-winning or not, it has a solid and vociferously defended reputation. Sounds good to me.

Closed.

I missed Park's early shut-down on Sundays at 1:00 PM by little more than an hour. If it were by five minutes, could be I would have tried the door, knocked on the window, been the kind of annoying clod I myself so dislike. Kielbasi deprivation is nasty. The store was dark. Me, too.

I remembered another family-owned Nanticoke store famous for kielbasi. That would be Swantko's. Great! Where is it? I didn't know.

It was there this past weekend, right on the north side of Patriot Park in Nanticoke, that old world Europe met late 2009 technology. I wanted that kielbasi. Googling Swantko's on my BB was easy, so was punching its address into my GPS. Swantko's was but a five or six minute ride.

Closed.

Sadly, closed for good. A sign in the window of Swantko's narrow white wood frame building, sitting in a residential neighborhood in the Hanover Section of Nanticoke, thanked loyal customers for their years of patronage. Good-bye. Swantko's is no more, apparently having turned out the lights for the last time not long ago. Did they survive through Christmas?

What's a kielbasi-loving Celt to do? Duryea! Komensky's on Main! Turn north, make the run.

Closed.

My own fault, again timing is the key, a couple hours earlier and it could have been kielbasi for dinner.

What I won't mention by name are the family-owned markets I did check that didn't have anything that even looked like a ring of kielbasi. One market almost always has it, Thomas' Family Market on Rt. 309, it's their own and very good, but they were sold out by the time I came manically panting in the door. My problem, certainly not theirs. If you can't sell out kielbasi at Christmas, just when can you?

Maybe this coming weekend.

Smoked kielbasi - not exactly the Breakfast of Champions, but worth whatever drive it takes.

Incident on A Christmas Eve Day...

The phone rang.

Well, it didn't ring, it bleeped or chibbled or deedled or whatever my general ringtone is. Not being crazy about any of the seven thousand that came with my "device," I picked one that was the least annoying. Oh, I could have chosen the "old rotary phone" ringtone, but hasn't everyone recently?

Not exactly startling to hear the phone, just unexpected. Christmas Eve morning had been quiet, at home and quiet. Me, fresh ground coffee beans, an Italian blend, surrendered their intense flavors to my basic drip maker, and there we were. We being me, the cats, the dogs, and the morning paper.

I hadn't even checked email yet, it was that early in the beginning of my day.

On the other end of the chibbling phone, our shelter manager. She's called, bringing news of a what could be a problem.

I hear, "Seems we have a potential incident in Swoyersville."

Great. Christmas Eve day, in my sweats, one eye half-open, the other half-closed, and we've got an "incident." Being the executive director of the SPCA of Luzerne County carries with it, among other duties, that of being notified of incidents, or any incident that falls outside the boundaries of normal everyday incidents. Of the latter, we have our share.

One of our humane police officers was about to roll to Swoyersville, our shelter manager rolled along with her. I was out the door in five minutes myself.

You'll have to look very closely at the photo above. To the far right of the photo is an ordinary utility pole of the variety still standing across our neighborhoods. This particular pole carries an energized 13,000 volt electric line. This particular pole also has a cat sitting plop on top of it, and I mean cozied up right there upon the circular upper end of the pole.

No need to strain too hard, below is a tight shot of that kitty. It's a Tom tabby. To his right and left, a scant few feet away, lines carrying enough power to mean end of the line for Tom if he makes the wrong move.

To me, he looked annoyed at the crowd gathered hoping to see him come on down alive and well. At one point, he started taking a bath, all the while never moving from his seat roughly thirty or so feet above Kossack St. I imagine he was fine with where he was, maybe enjoying the view.

Neighbors told me a squirrel had chased him half way up the pole.

Then, when well-meaning neighbors tried to coax him down with food, and a big old pile of "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty...", our pole sitting cat shot right to the top and hadn't budged in what was claimed a day or more.

We did what we could, which was to call the utility and see if they could push a bucket and a man up to the cat and get him down, all without anyone getting hurt. That's the key here - without anyone getting hurt. High power lines and good intentions are a very bad mix.

Yeah, of course, everyone wanted a happy ending, but could that happen given the circumstances?

At one point, an onlooker, a man, approached me in what could best be described as a state of moderate agitation.

"Why doesn't someone do something?" He wasn't quite yet to the snarly level, but working his way there steadily.

With the best assurances I had within me at the time, I said, "We're working on it, sir, we're doing all we can."

(Isn't that how we got where we got here in Luzerne County, by waiting for someone to do something? Now, someone is, that would be the FBI.)

Most important, we we're doing something, we were in contact with UGI, the power utility serving Swoyersville, trying to get them on scene. In short order, and with great effort on their part, they did indeed arrange for a bucket truck.

To a round of applause, the gentleman brings bucket to cat. At the right, you can already see Tom, as with most cats, really didn't want to bothered, never once considering anyone was saving him. Were we saving him? I don't suppose any of us really has an answer to that, other than to say all we wanted to do was get him away from those 13,000 volts.

He did that on his own, thank you.

Here he is beginning to move down the pole at the sight of the approaching bucketed good Samaritan, which he probably would have done in time without any help.

In the nanosecond I took my eye from the viewfinder, Tom flew into the pine on the right like he was hiding wings beneath his fur. He could have done that all on his own, but only when he felt like it, not on our schedule. Is that not a cat's prerogative?

And that was that.

Cat saved? I'd like to think so. If he's your cat, keep him in the house, please. Even at that, all of us at the SPCA were happy to be of whatever help we were. We thank UGI for coming to our assistance.

Hey, Nice Set...

In the parlance of the rail-weenie, often in derision called a "foamer," you actually have two sets here. Nice "quad" doesn't quite cut it, so set it is.

The theme of trains and Christmas continues and it does so with a bit of shame and ignorance on my part.

Snow on the windshields indicates they are not running. When they last did run, I'm not sure.

To your left at left, the somewhat famous, at least among the weenie crowd, the tangerine and blue Central Railroad of New Jersey (more commonly and alternately known as the Jersey Central or CNJ) A-A set of GM EMD F3s.

You're right, it's a lot of tekkie mumbo-jumbo for two old and tired diesels that likely 95% of Americans don't give a damn about, and understandably so. What may lend importance to these locomotives is that the Jersey Central was once a major player in NE PA railroading. Its presence in the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre area, while not as enormous as other railroads, was sizable.

The CNJ had a roundhouse, turntable, and yard within a short walk from where Steamtown now sits.

These CNJ units are not real, not in the sense that they are CNJ in origin. They actually began life on the Bangor and Aroostook railroad in Maine and presently have twin owners, one rail historical group owns one, one owns the other. If you've been to Jim Thorpe, you may recall these deisel-electrics sitting right there in the middle of town alongside the CNJ station, which is restored and in daily use.

The green units are real. They are, in fact, the first passenger diesels ever purchased by the once mighty Reading Lines, which is the same Reading you find on your Monopoly board. In a way too foamer of a move, let me say that the Reading locomotives are FP7 diesel-electrics, as opposed to the CNJ's being designated as F3 locomotives. Again, very historic and worthy of a visit to Steamtown.

Being a huge Steamtown booster, I just thought you might like a reason to go for a visit, maybe have a look around, see things you like, and truly appreciate what a gem this place is.

Scoop and Toss...The Litterbox

It's time.

Does David Letterman golf? I have no idea and don't much care. If he does, maybe Tiger Woods could give him a lesson or two. Letterman could then give Woods some guidance on how to handle a major life misstep. Letterman's control of his situation was on a level with the best public relations firms on the planet. Woods' chose the amateur route. Before this, how many even knew Woods' was married? Few, I'd say.

Sarah Palin is extremely likable. Yep, she is, really. If Palin had pursued a career in front of a television camera, my money says she would have been a hit. She lights up a screen. If she's on my TV, I watch. She's a grandmother at 45. I can't get my mind around that. I suggest most Americans cannot either. She wants something. President? Could be. I won't vote for her. She governed fewer people than live in NE PA. And she walked away from even that relatively minor task short of her avowed term. Sarah may be grandma, but she needs some growing up.

Empty seats mean no one cares. Here's how it works; if no one directly affected cares enough to show up at a "news" event, then it's not a "news" event, except for mentioning that no one cared enough to be there. Covering news is just that, covering it, not creating it. If no one cares enough to be there, THAT'S the story. Better yet, if no one is there, turn on your heels and go elsewhere.

The embarrassment of corruption in NE PA. To be honest, I'm not at all embarrassed. Yanking corruption out by its ugly roots continues, and I find that to be a good thing, a really good thing. NE PA has needed an enema for generations. It now looks like its time to let it flow. Great. Bring it on. I hope the feds work at this for twenty years. Any county could be next, and if there is justice in life, many will be. NE PA's need for cleansing extends to the whole of this commonwealth.

Facebook has value, right? Although I kind of get FB, what I don't get are "old friends" who seek you out, make a big fuss over reconnecting, promise to write lots more, then seemingly leave the planet. The mothership must be making more frequent stops these days. Remember, you reached out to me, not me to you. If you don't want to catch up, fine, keep to yourself. I'm like opportunity, I knock but once.

Facebook Causes. Not everything in life needs a cause, nor is it worthy of being a cause. Some of the "...join my cause" requests I get on Facebook are stupendously worthless. How about a Facebook Cause to Put An Immediate and Permanent End to Facebook Causes? I'm in.

Rewriting history should be a high crime. Recently, I read where some wannabe political candidate's solemn goal was to return this country to the conservative principles set forth in our Constitution. Our country's creation, the documents that laid its foundation, and the men and women who made it happen, were far from conservative. Set against the backdrop of time and place, these United States of America were founded on screamingly liberal principles. You don't have to like that idea, you just can't change it to suit your agenda, whatever it might be.

"Judge" Cosgrove. This means nothing, my support or confidence is of little consequence or value to the man. Admitting that, I will also say that Joe Cosgrove is one hell of a great choice for "interim" judge.

The first snow of the season. It was encouraging to notice that life didn't come to a full stop because of some plow-able snow. Looking out at my deck, I see three inches. Could it be that us citizens of NE PA are finally getting over snow fever, that delirium which causes great fret and sweat over the mere mention of snow? Hey, another idea for a FB Cause - Put An Immediate and Permanent End to the use of the term "white stuff?"

Time to go play in the snow.

It's Not A Lionel...

Trains and Christmas.

Inseparable.

Inextricably intertwined, like mistletoe and holly, like Macy's and Gimbles. Whether running in circles 'neath your tree, or the real deal holding you up at a grade crossing when you're in a hurry, trains say Christmas and Christmas says trains.

I suppose we have Lionel to thank for that. We might also owe some gratitude to A.C. Gilbert Co., maker of American Flyer.

Toy trains are pretty darned cool. Me, I love the real thing, the prototype upon which those miniatures are modeled.

Keeping the relationship alive means a thank you to Steamtown and the Canadian Pacific Railway Company.

This Saturday past, Steamtown was the starting point for the CP's Holiday Train, a train that begins in Scranton, and get this, ends its trip in Port Moody, British Columbia. That's one heck of a trans-continental run, all by rail, rail existing right here in NE PA. The possibilities for rail travel are amazing. The realities are pathetic.

It's a bit sad that the railroad that brings us the Holiday Train is a Canadian corporation, not American, even though America all but invented railroading as it was practiced at its peak. Even at that, thanks are due Candadian Pacific.

The peak of the American railroad was no more evident than it was in NE PA, and more particularly, in the City of Scranton, where the Delaware Lackawanna and Western Railroad, one of the nation's finest, was begun and headquartered in Scranton for beyond 100 years.

Just wanted to toss some photos of this great event out there. If you think you see any ghostly figures, sorry, they ain't. These three photos were the result of long exposures with my camera on tripod, during which time people moved in, out, and through the shot, while the locomotive was static.

The locomotive is CP 9824, a General Electric AC4400CW. A diesel-electric built by General Electric in, I do believe, Erie. That's foamer stuff.

How Black Was It?

With all the palaver about Black Friday, I find comfort in knowing that the madness has nothing to do with me, for I do not, will not, shop on Black Friday.

I doubt much I'll ever see that movie over there either, never heard of it. However, a man-made monster on the loose does sort of sound like Black Friday, no?

Give me some plain old Monday or Tuesday afternoon, about 2:00 or so, and I can glide like a misplaced Santa Ana wind on a cold Mid-Atlantic day through whatever Christmas shopping needs to be done.

Indeed. There have been years when all of mine was done under one roof. And I don't mean an array of stores under a mall's roof, I mean in one store with several floors, one roof, one credit card bill. If there was a stack of receipts for returns, they were all from the same retailer. Real easy, it's fine way to do business.

There was a year before we were married when my wife was somewhat dazzled when I took her along to the aforementioned Globe Store, where I wheeled through departments and floors in under ninety minutes, doing every bit of my Christmas shopping save for hers. The very next day I did come back, alone, and did literally finish the shopping by grabbing what I'd eyeballed for her the day previous. If I'd had the good sense, and been a bit devious, I could have sent her in search of some bogus item on another floor, that way I could have knocked off Christmas with one trip.

Happily, those days are not all gone, we still have Boscov's right here where we call home. I suppose other parts of our country have their department store here or there. Really big cities do have them. Small to medium cities may not.

About the only concession I make to the day itself is in wondering just why so many assume the persona of someone, some thing else the day after Thanksgiving.

We know them. We're related to some of them. Others of them are good friends, maybe neighbors, maybe even people we don't much care for, and maybe we don't because their shopping gene ran off its tracks long, long ago. One such derailed sort couldn't give a respectable answer when I years back asked as to why he busted his hump all day Thanksgiving entertaining a houseful of family and friends, then got out of bed long before the sun rose to stand salivating while waiting for a door to open at some store or another. He had no answer. Fact is, he seemed shocked anyone would ask.

If you like it, do it.

I don't, so I won't.

The term Black Firday allegedly is east coast in origin, dating back to the mid-60s or so. Consider this newspaper clipping:

JANUARY 1966 -- "Black Friday" is the name which the Philadelphia Police Department has given to the Friday following Thanksgiving Day. It is not a term of endearment to them. "Black Friday" officially opens the Christmas shopping season in center city, and it usually brings massive traffic jams and over-crowded sidewalks as the downtown stores are mobbed from opening to closing.

How true? Haven't a clue. A short twenty or fewer years ago, the epicenter of Black Friday madness was Sugerman's, where it is said certain cars were seen to drive in, never to drive out until somewhere in early Spring. It was also once observed that whatever happened to you on Black Friday, should you enter Sugerman's property, you had it coming, it was your own fault, that if you went anywhere near there on Black Friday, you deserved what you got.

So, what did I do this fine Black Friday?

Well, I'll tell you this, my first thought was to stay home. Giving it a second and third think, a tour seemed like a fair idea. No shopping, mind you, not even a consideration, mind you, just a look at what should be "prime" locations for Black Friday overload. An inspection tour, if you will.

A couple of disclaimers here; 1) There was little thought given where to start or where to end, 2) The tour commenced mid-afternoon, by which time most pre-sunrise Black Friday adherents were likely snug in their beds, or on their couches, or wish the hell they were.

Starting in downtown Wilkes-Barre, there were no crowds. The Square was empty, no traffic tied-up, backed up, no hustle, no bustle. All was calm, all was bright, since the city's tree and lights on Public Square looked pretty darned good.

Swinging on down South Main and then on up Blackman Street, I came at the arena hub and mall area from the south. No traffic jams, no long waits at lights. Strange and unexpected.

Highland Boulevard, Mundy Street, then actually into the mall's parking lot, no problems. Sure, there were plenty of people out and moving around, but not in the abundance I'd anticipated. Not a delay to be had. They just don't make Black Fridays like they used to. I took a second to grab a shot at the west end of the mall, where there was plenty of parking. Not exactly my finest moment in photography, unless storm drains and parking lot painting were a specialty. You do, though, get the point.

Does plenty of parking on Black Friday mean anything? I really don't know. Possibilities might include that shoppers are rolling the dice, figuring better deals lie ahead if they hold out, maybe next week, the week after. Could be that the dizziness of Christmas spending is perhaps beginning to slow a little after countless runaway years.

For me, it was an OK way to spend a couple hours. And I didn't come home with a headache.

It's An Annual Affair...

Ever year it happens, and it happens right about this time.

Thoughts of Christmases past don't wake me deep in darkness, they don't haunt my dreams, they don't rise from the mist of a bowl of late night gruel. I haven't heard any chains rattling.

These are warm and fuzzy thoughts, ones that clearly and routinely march right on through my consciousness every single season.

The Globe Store, seen at left in 1991, was the center of our universe way back when, at least at Christmastime. In acknowledgment of my Boy Scout Oath, let me level with you in saying that I poached the photo, having no idea whose it is.

As with so many other damned shames in my life, it's a damned shame I have no photos of my own of The Globe, even though I had to have passed the store on a regular basis for well in excess of twenty years with camera gear in my car or truck. Heck, I grew up no more than a twenty minute walk from the store. As a kid old enough to go "downtown" on my own, three different cranky old Scranton Transit Company buses passed near home hourly, each one could have dropped me at The Globe's front doors, and there were many front doors, revolving and standard, one of which was a direct connection to store's basement and the world that awaited there.

You'd have to suppose that most of us never bothered to take a picture or two because, well, because of one simply stupid notion - The Globe would always be there, right?

In 1994, all holders of the same notion were disabused of that foolishness when The Globe shut down, cutting loose 400 employees, its assets seized by a bank that for generations had literally been the store's neighbor.

Although it might be a bit hard to believe, here and now after fifteen years of being Globe-less, The Globe was initially an anchor tenant of the newly built Mall at Steamtown, connected to the mall itself by the walkway that still spans Lackawanna Avenue.

In an act that now looks like no more than appeasement, the mall's builders, or maybe backers, or maybe city leaders, insisted The Globe be included in the deal and become an easily accessible extension of the mall. Or, when you really take an honest look at things, it might have been little more than a gesture of fondness, of sentimentality for an institution that had played such a major role in the lives of Scrantonians for nearly one hundred years.

So, why no Globe? That's not all that tough a question to answer.

We could pick over the bones of The Globe's failure to stay current with merchandise, to stock that which people were demanding by the late '80s and early '90s. To make that statement would be no lie. So much in our society is bound tightly to relevance. Once those bindings come undone, relevance slips away. The Globe was yet one more victim of slipping relevance.

A movement that had begun over twenty years previous finally caught up with and consumed The Globe, and hundreds of others like it across the country. The shock is not so much that they failed, but rather that Scranton's Globe Store sustained as long as it did.

We've all heard about "...no stopping an idea whose time has come." That sentence needs a second phrase, which should be, "...and there's no saving an idea whose time is up, over, and done."

The great American downtown department store is largely gone, save for our very own Boscov's in Wilkes-Barre. Here's wishing all there a prosperous and very busy holiday shopping season.

I still want to walk up to The Globe's Toyland and see Santa sitting with a pile of kids all goggle-eyed waiting to sit on his lap. No doubt about it, I'd tell a grand jury this under oath; The Globe always had the best Santa Claus in town.

With no shame, I miss The Globe, and miss it very much.

Merry Globe Store memories to all...

I've Tried...I Can't...I Give Up

Anything homemade beats anything out of a jar, or a box, or a can, or a package of any kind.

That's an immutable, a given, a fact of life as we've been told over and over again by cooks, chefs, gourmets, gourmands, and moms and grandmas since our ancestors found fire.

Before fire, everything tasted like dirt and twigs.

After fire, maybe everything tasted like chicken.


"How's that gator, Dave?"


"It tastes like chicken, Ed."


"Why we eatin' gator, Dave?"

Is your gator lacking that certain something you've come to expect in a reptile? If so, what won't help is my not-at-all-famous and not-very-good homemade barbecue sauce. And, yes, gator tastes like chicken.

God Lord, I have tried and tried; then tried again and again. I can't do it. It's beyond my reach. I simply cannot make barbecue sauce that's any better than what comes in a bottle or jar.

Sometimes, it's not nearly as good as what comes in that jar or bottle. Sometimes, that cheap house-brand sludge that's mostly molasses tastes better than the stuff I slow cook right there with loving affection in my home.

You go with what you got, right? And what I got is that I am pretty darned good in the kitchen. No false display of modesty for me, it's true, it's an acquired skill. I worked at it, I learned basics over the years. I can cook better than most, although many cook better than me.

I heard it once said that, if you can read, you can cook. True? Nearly but not entirely. Reading, patience, caring, and attentiveness are also necessary to cook. You got all that, you got it made.

Since the '70s, I have studied, I have read. I have watched, I have listened. I have learned. Among the secrets is balance. Balancing flavors, complimenting flavors, knowing what works together, what does not. You must be smart and humble enough not to force together those that do not work. You build a dish. You build it layer by layer, layers of flavor. I know this, accept this, practice this.

To be clear, there is no formal training involved, and I surely could never run/manage a kitchen or a restaurant. But there is not a dish made in any restaurant, fine or otherwise, that I cannot make as well or better at home...then I hit that barbecue sauce wall.

Not all that long ago I gathered up the ingredients, while conjuring up the balance of flavors that would make for a genuinely good barbecue sauce. Layer by layer, I built the sauce element by element. Gently tinkering with apricot preserves which would play off the sharp edge of the crushed tomatoes, wedding the balance with sweet onion and next the tomato paste.

Then, just enough fresh garlic so that the palate would notice should it be missing. Fresh ground pepper, kosher salt, trace amounts of cumin and Worcestershire, a dash of turmeric to linger and nip at the tongue, and all then readied for a slow simmering. A few splats of a Louisiana hot sauce, a pinch, no make it two, of cayenne, the symphony was about to begin.

Wielding the baton to make beautiful the melody of barbecue sauce is that standard of standards when it comes to condiments. We're talking good old fashioned tomato ketchup, or catsup should you prefer. Good, finest quality, American ketchup. Heinz, what else? Many barbecue sauce makers don't want you to know the dirty little secret, but it's the ketchup that can put the magic in that gently bubbling dark red velvet.

Deep crimson, dark and smooth. Appealing to the eye, a very important ingredient itself, for the Chinese say you eat first with the eye.

Hours later...

"I wasn't crazy about the barbecue sauce." That's my wife. She's quick to praise my cooking, slow to criticize.

"Yeah, me neither." That's me. She was right. No need to feel at all deflated.

End of conversation on the barbecue sauce. End of me making barbecue sauce.

The next night it was Gruyere stuffed pork medallions with a balsamic port reduction sauce, sitting alongside a rutabaga carrot soufflé with a saute of shittake mushrooms? Tremendous, worthy of compliment, maybe could even win me a prize of some sort.

Barbecue sauce? Never made one worth a damn, but I have made my last, and that's a promise. Oh, my spaghetti sauce needs work, too.

Autumn's Finale...

I suppose last weekend was it. We drove. We looked. We searched. We made due with what was to be found.

The foliage just never got here this year, as has been the case for quite some time, which I did grumble about before.

Finding apples and pumpkins was a plus, it helped to fill in the gaps left by the lack of that precise mix of water, temperature, warmth and chilliness, that can force the stunning show it sometimes does.

For good measure, and with really no thought given to the approach of Halloween, we stopped and walked a small graveyard, lingering in imagination at the lives long ago begun and ended by some of the original settlers in this particular piece of Luzerne County, very near the Wyoming County line. Some of the dead here have been such since before the Civil War.

The surname upon most markers is Dymond, a familiar name to many of us. Dymond's strawberries, blueberries, and hayrides bring an annual trip to the country for a lot of folks in the Wyoming Valley. Right down the road from Dymond's farm is Brace's Orchards. Brace is likewise a name to be found on some markers in this small family cemetery. Those are baskets of Brace's apples up there. Spectacular.

This place, before I forget, is Dymond Hollow. If you're ever of a mind to make the trip, it's not far from Fitch's Corners, on Creamery Road. You'll know you're there when you spot the Dymond Hollow United Methodist Church, a pretty little place with a very active congregation, I'm told.

Personally, I'd like to offer thanks to the deity that places like these still exist and that folks still live nearby and gather for chicken and biscuit suppers in small country churches.

I had to have said this before, but America isn't New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. America is everything else in-between.

I like living in-between.

The Cliches of Autumn...

It's really hard to avoid the photographic cliche when the days again grow short.

Earth-tones, water, sky, late afternoon light, they all say the same thing - it's Fall.

Looking for newness in Fall subject matter takes work, work I'm willing to do, and willing to travel to find. The net result, though, seems pretty much the same.

You drive to where the apples are, search out a blanket of pumpkins, find that looking glass lake. It's pretty much the same.

Getting the right mix of clouds and deep blue skies is a big boost and the only thing you can do to achieve that effect is be patient. You wait, you watch, you'll get what you want. Or you can Photoshop. Nothing here has been "shopped."

Photographic or otherwise, the cliche is a cliche, I think, because there is some truth to it.

Not all that long ago I was listening to "The Girl from Ipanema," the original hit version done by Stan Getz with vocals by Astrud Gilberto.

If ever a song became cliche, that was it. Grammy Award or not, cliche it is, still to this day, the song is cliche.

It became such because so many people loved the song which, in turn, forced countless entertainers to cover the song. Good, bad, somewhere in the middle, hundreds, thousands, did "...Ipanema" at one time or another, making it cliche. You don't play or listen to a song over, and over, and over again because you hate it. If you do, try adjusting the aluminum foil hat a hair to the left and back.

Challenging "...Ipanema" might be McCartney's "Yesterday." It's been reported that "Yesterday" has been commercially recorded over 3,000 times. Cliche? Sure. Great? Absolutely.

My point? Cliche doesn't mean bad. Quite the opposite, really, cliche more means well-liked, maybe even loved. You might be tired of hearing something, looking at something, or listening to it, but that's because it was once popular enough to be elevated to the level of cliche.

Know this, there is nothing in the world of the cliche that didn't earn its position. It takes years of repetition for the patina of cliche to slowly accumulate on any given object, phrase, tune, or even a way of life.

People can be cliche. I was a TV weatherman for over twenty years. Does it get any more cliche than that?

Sad to say, cliche or otherwise, this year's foliage was simply unspectacular. By the looks of it, roughly a week before November, we'll get no breathtaking show this year again. By my reckoning, it might be as many as ten years since Autumn's wow-factor turned heads. Nice, to be sure, but not up there at knockout level.

It's the last weekend in October. From here at home, the day is slowly turning from drippy and overcast to low clouds breaking for some sun. There are way more leaves on the ground than in the trees. Pieced together, it's a somewhat forlorn sight.

The location of each photo, top to bottom, is:

• Brace's Orchards, Franklin Township.
• Darling Farms, Dallas Township.
• Frances Slocum State Park, Kingston Township.
• Ford's Pond, RD Clarks Summit.
• Brace's Cider Mill, Franklin Township.
  

It's 2009's last weekend to capture even more Cliches of Autumn. I'll give it a good try.

A Path Once Wandered...

The Sunday drive is as much a part of my tradition as the dread of Christmas shopping, which of course, is really not much more than weeks away for many. For this laggard, you must be kidding, there's a lifetime to be lived between now and any shopping.

I carry the platinum Federated Laggards of America Membership Card.

So it was that this Sunday past I tossed camera gear in the truck, tossed myself in along with it, then headed for...well, I really didn't know where.

The weekend previous it was south to Hickory Run in Carbon County, so this week I went north into Wyoming County. There was a destination in mind, but my guts were nagging me toward somewhere else.

Going with my guts, I let the journey take me.

In a broad sense, that somewhere else is a location known by many as Sugar Hollow. Others call it The Stretch, or you'll hear the the term the Barn Pool used for this area. Barn Pool no longer applies, since nature (weren't we just talking about nature?) did some reclamation work in recent years and erased the Barn Pool.

Once the road goes from hard to soft, you're there, at least by my own accepted coordinates. The rutted swath you see is not for those still among us with rear wheel drive. It's either front or four-wheel drive, with the only alternative being, get out and walk.

I'd come home. More accurately, I'd returned to my "home water." Most everyone who's ever fly fished has a stream they consider home, their home water. For me, it's here in Sugar Hollow.

For far too many years, I'd been away, busy with things other than those which make me content, happy, at peace. This is a place that once chased errant thoughts away, slowed and calmed a busy and racing mind. A place that offered tangible meditation. Roll your eyes at me saying so, if you will, but this place holds a Zen like quality for me. That may be the first time I ever used the word Zen in any situation. It'll likely be the last.

There may or may not be great enlightenment here, but there is an undeniable peace and tranquility. Each path you see is a means to an end, both lead somewhere, and that somewhere is a little piece of Bowmans Creek that I love, as do so many others.

Fly fishing, be assured, is not a better way to fish, merely a different way to fish. Fly fishing is also a solitary pursuit, in itself rewarding.

To catch a fish is seldom the point. If for you it always is, you've missed said point. Fly fishing, therefore, may not be fishing at all, it could be something else. I see that as a very real possibility.

It's now almost twenty-five years since first discovering a personal immutable: Fly fishing empties my mind of all else. Once I step into a stream, my consciousness becomes as clean and clear as the stream itself, and remains so for as along as I wade its waters.

The gentleman to the left arrived on Bowmans Creek just about the same time as me that day, only he'd come to fish. I'd come alone to reminisce. He was fully outfitted in stream gear, all functional, while my gear was a camera and a lot of great memories.

We had a good chat. On one page we both solidly landed; working a stream is good for the soul, it has magical soothing not to be found elsewhere. Stream etiquette has always been important in fly fishing, so with his happy consent, I stood, watched, and photographed.

Some say there is nothing so good for the inside of a man as the outside of a horse. Having spent but a scant couple hours of my entire life on the back of a horse, there's no challenging that claim.

Instead, I'd offer that, for many, nothing is so good for the mind as the ever moving and never changing waters of a trout stream.

Waving the wand we call a fly rod is little more than giving your hands something rhythmic to do while the sounds of chilly rippling mountain water wash away useless thoughts and distractions.

That day, while I watched, my new acquaintance caught and released two beautiful brown trout. When not looking at him, or following his fly upon the water, I looked skyward.

Within no more than fifteen minutes, an osprey and a great blue heron passed closely enough that we might have looked each other in the eye. And while I can't raise my right hand to it, I'm near positive of glimpsing the brief flash of a bald eagle riding a thermal into view no more than fifty feet away.

Last Sunday was a fine day.

Hickory Run...

Overlooked is one word to describe Hickory Run State Park. Another word might be under-appreciated. In all honesty, I wish that more of Pennsylvania would get overlooked, ignored, and generally left alone.

This is one gorgeous state. Its natural beauty may very well be unparalleled. Each time a little bit of it gets gobbled up in the name of "progress" my stomach turns, my heart breaks. Hyperbole? Sadly, no, no, not at all.

Even what I've captured here has been tinkered with by man. Interfering with the natural order of things is an All-American past time. Baseball? Nah. The All-American pastime is not leaving well enough alone. In this particular case it was building dams. Yes, I would imagine you'll find some charm in this photo, charm coming from the fact that both of these dams are built of roughly hand-hewn and presumably native stone.

The charm wasn't lost on me. I stopped, set up my camera on tripod, and took dozens of long exposure shots of this scene and others within the park. There is considerable charm in the pretty pools and cascading waters created by those rocks placed one upon another.

Waterfalls need not be of our making, we've got plenty right here in NE PA left behind from the glacial scraping of the last Ice Age. Have you ever visited Rickett's Glen? Breathtaking.

Each time we build something for our pleasure or convenience, we interfere with how nature developed over millions of years. That incomprehensible time-line should alone be a pretty clear indicator that nature, however you define it, is a force not to be trifled with, not to be teased over and over again until there's a breaking point.

Nature will never break. We will. The planet may suffer countless indignities but will, in the end, prevail.

No matter the thousands of lessons hard learned down through the centuries, humans continue to believe we are masters and mistresses of all we survey.

Some say, "We plan, God laughs."

We plan, nature laughs. It's really one and the same.

Scooping Out The Litterbox...

Before gagging, yewwwwwwing, and getting all dyspeptic on me, that's a cake over there. You want the real thing, I can hook you up, but that's a cake. There are dozens of recipes out there for Litter Box Cake, it's apparently big around Halloween. Boo. I'm a little queasy myself.

Got that annual flu shot a few weeks ago. Painless enough. Last week, early on in the morning, the chills woke me, followed by an ache from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. A flash of fever followed. Reaction to the flu shot? I really don't know. Some "experts" say any reaction you might experience would not be that reaction.

The Swine Flu. Didn't we go through this thirty years ago? Seems I remember lining up at a firehouse in Taylor to take that thump from a pneumatic inoculation gun so I didn't get Swine Flu. And, I didn't get it. Who did? Some joked it was no big whoop. I think that mass inoculations, free at that, prevented an outbreak that was feared by many as the coming of a great plague, literally.

We have something for everyone. Why do businesses insist on telling me that there's nothing they don't have? No one has everything. The closest I've ever come to seeing a place that had something for everyone was Sugerman's. Even their bulging inventory didn't halt them from skidding into the big book of history.

Marcellus Shale is one hell of a seductress. If some gas company came around and started writing me astounding checks to poke holes in my property, it would be really tough to say no. Many will get wealthy beyond imagining, going from near poverty level to millionaires overnight, really overnight. We need to slam the brakes on this thing until legislation is in place to strictly regulate the process. Last week a string of Halliburton drilling rigs blew past me on I-81 north. Does anyone believe these corporate monsters will leave us better than they found us? Please, someone, anyone, do what needs to be done; place a moratorium on all drilling until we can feel safe in knowing that we aren't getting drilled along with the Marcellus Shale.

Jay Leno would do himself a favor in knowing when it's time to leave. It sure can't be the money or the benefits, so it has to be either an enormous ego in need of feeding or an equally insatiable appetite to keep working and working and working. I've mentioned elsewhere that I really loved Leno as a stand-up, then really disliked him as a late night host. Both he and NBC are trying too hard, and it shows. NBC has brought us some of the best, while bringing us some of the worst. Would someone please tell Amy Pohler that she's not funny? Her pal Tina Fey can be very funny. I don't think "funny by association" works.

SNL's Turnaround on President Obama. Their flip from pro to anti was more about pumping life back into that sad shell of a show than biting commentary on the president. The president is not above criticism. SNL is no longer funny, and far worse yet, its relevance is trace at best. My qualifications to critique the show may be a little thin. I don't watch it much these days, it's that bad.

President Obama's Nobel Prize. Shortly after news came from Stockholm that our president had been awarded a Nobel Peace Prize, his detractors began dissing not only him, but the Nobel Prize itself, some going so far to say, "...a Nobel Prize isn't what it used to be." You do realize of course, that most making all the noise have no "prizes" of their own, they haven't even a little teeny tiny plastic loving cup around the house marking even the smallest of achievements. Again, the president isn't above criticism. However, bitterness and resentment over the accomplishment of others is pretty damned small-minded.

The Letterman Affair. Affair, fling, dalliance, casual sex, whatever it was, it sure sounds like little more than a physical tangle between two consenting adults. Now, of course, the "talkers" are all out there trying to make a ton more of this thing than it deserves. Letterman cheated on his wife. To state the ridiculously obvious, that is unacceptable, wrong, despicable. Now all the vultures and parasites are circling and slithering in hopes that this situation "has legs," meaning that there is enough bubbling beneath the surface here to keep it going for months, years. My prediction? No legs. Vultures and parasites go elsewhere. Most Americans are very fond of David Letterman, that's an opinion that will not change.

I love newspapers and read at least three a day. That, I guess, is the good news. The even better news is that I actually hold all three in my hands and read them...but only Monday - Friday. Weekends, I read two of the three on-line. On-line is where I have a problem, and not with any news stories themselves, but rather with the ability offered by these papers to leave comments regarding any particular story. Read the story, then read the comments. The line gets very blurry as to where fact ends and opinion begins.

A chance of showers doesn't mean "Run for your lives!" Weather people really need to work on that. It would be the responsible thing to do. I spent twenty years yammering about the weather, and daily, hourly, fought to bring correct and precise information to the public in whose service I was. A shower is just that, a shower. It's not an all day soaking rain. I've understood the implications from both sides of the camera. While I'm making a speech here, rain is not evil. Rain is a bringer of life.

A Brief Trip on The Misinformation Superhighway. This past week we had ourselves a situation. Seems a dog got itself stranded on Scovell Island in the Susquehanna River. Scovell is one huge land mass in the shadow of Campbell's Ledge, an environment unto itself no more than a stone's throw from a busy neighborhood. By the time the dog was back with its owner, the stories circulating ranged from the silly to the absurd. Fingers of blame predictably started to look for a target at which to point, and there was no such thing. The dog got away from someone who was dog-sitting. The dog ran. The dog is skittish, a little nervous. Some dogs are, some dogs aren't. When a passer-by spotted the dog and tried be a Good Samaritan and grab it, the dog jumped in the river and swam over to the island. Most dogs swim quite well. There was no neglect, abandonment, or animal cruelty involved. I know. We had a Humane Police Officer on scene. There is far more to be gained in animal welfare with a level head, rather than with raw emotion.

We didn't get the Olympics. What shall we make of Chicago's failed bid to bring the games here? I can tell you what I make of it; America isn't the only country in the world. We may be the biggest and the best (at least we think so) but we are neither the center of the universe nor the capital of the planet. America, and Americans, can't have everything they want. When we don't get what we want, we whimper and, just as with the doggie-deal, we start looking for targets of blame.

I Like Fall...

Harveys Lake. Last Sunday.

Late afternoon.

A grab shot from the small stone dam near the "Lakeside Skillet."

Sometimes you get lucky.

It won't win any awards, but not bad.

The Free Lunch...

It was a long time ago. JFK was in the White House. I was in fifth grade, maybe sixth.

Uncle Jack, my dad's younger brother, one of two, would often ask me to help him out with certain chores and projects, typically weekend things at the family cottage out on Lake Ariel. The cottage was just that, a cottage, meaning it wasn't built for year round use.

Windows had to be shuttered with plywood panels, plumbing had to be drained to avoid freezing and bursting. The lone toilet would get one last flush, then be filled with a gallon of anti-freeze. The boat and canoe had to be dragged from the water and stored beneath the cottage's porch, itself then boarded shut.

It was a day's work. It was fun. It was also an education.

Jack wasn't preachy. Quite the contrary. He was, however, a great storyteller, like his father.

Jack had his own kids, then two sons, but at that point they weren't really old enough to be climbing ladders and such, or doing any genuine heavy lifting. Besides, Jack was my godfather and I tend to think he felt some obligation to spend a little time with me on occasion. It was fine by me.

Jack was a cool guy.

Not that my father wasn't cool. He was my father, and I loved him dearly, but father's can't play the cool role and function effectively as the male lead in the family drama, or comedy, or farce, as can be the case.

Jack was also teacher. During those autumn cottage close-downs, I learned things, two of which never left me, and when I really look at those two ideas, they were both huge factors in the path my life has wandered.

We can all them the Two Rules of Uncle Jack:

1) - Never stay in a job you don't like. No matter how much you think you might want any particular job, if you get it and find you really don't like it, move on. Jack had done this countless times and it served him very well; he made a good living and amply provided for his family, and he loved going to work each day. He died owning several of his own businesses, all small, but all concerns he thoroughly loved operating.

2) - There's no such thing as a free lunch. The origins of the "Free Lunch" can be found in politics. Back in the "olden days," the "Free Lunch" was typically provided at a saloon, wherein those sliding that plate of food before you were, in truth, persuading you to vote for their candidate. Free lunch + free beer = your vote. Jack cautioned to always remember that there is no such thing as a free lunch.

And there isn't.

Cynical? I suppose. Negative? Perhaps. True? Very much so.

Little in life is without a price tag, regardless of what guise that price tag may take, or even when it might appear. It's really no more than physics insisting that for every action there is a reaction.

I read today of a gathering tempest in a teapot over a bagel. A bagel whose retail value is placed at a $1.30. I guess you could say it's a gathering tempest in a coffee cup, since it revolves around a doughnut shop, free coffee, and a police officer.

A lousy cup of free coffee and a lightly buttered bagel could lead, and let's be honest here, to who knows where. Given the climate within this county's politics and government at present, Uncle Jack's admonition on the free lunch seems to have the potential to cast a very long shadow.

The free lunch will cost you somewhere somehow.

The coffee may have been free, the bagel's true cost has yet to be determined.

The Hot Dog and Us...

"a hot dog makes her lose control..."
Patty Duke Show Theme 1963-66

News that Scrantonians eat lots of hot dogs wasn't exactly a shocker to me. News that Terre Hautians probably love hot dogs isn't much of a headline either.

Americans love hot dogs.

While most all of the world's cultures have some sort of ground meat and spice stuffed into casings or otherwise shaped and formed, the hot dog is pretty much ours. You can call it the German-sounding frankfurter until you're chili sauce red in the face, but the hot dog as we know and love it is as American as corporate greed. Without bun, it's simply a type of sausage.

Once on or in a bun, it's a hot dog. I'd guess that what we now know as a hot dog became such because you could stuff it into some sort of bread, then cover all its inadequacies with mustard, onions, relishes, and even ketchup. Many consider ketchup on a hot dog a misstep demanding some sort of bloodletting punishment. Not me. I love ketchup on a hot dog. Ketchup up one side, mustard down the other.

I'm American. I love a hot dog.

Before we work on that dog, grill, fry, or boil it, then dress it, let's explain what happened right before Labor Day: Ball Park brand franks released its Top Ten Hot Dog Eating-est cities in the country and Scranton came up #8, a slot it was forced to share with Harrisburg. What's that all about?

NYC was #1, LA #2, and you can fill in the blanks by clicking on Top Ten above.

Here's a big problem; we deep-fry our hot dogs. Yep, Ball Park says we do. Again, what is that all about?

We don't deep-fry, of course. Now, now, wait, hold it a second. A deep-fried hot dog might be right fine, but it's a stranger to us. Flat-top fried is likely the method we all know best, because those Coney Island and Abe's dogs are done on the griddle. In the world of short order cookery, insiders call it a flat-top.

We can now go back to the best hot dog.

I've long had this theory, one with which I am not alone. Other hot dog lovers agree that, while some hot dogs may be better than others in terms of what's inside, and you really never do want to know what's inside, the proper combination of ingredients makes most any hot dog taste good.

Should a decent bun and basic condiments be the delivery system for that dog, heck, cheaper is better. That's the theory.

Kidding? Not a chance, buy the cheapest hot dogs you can find. I have a pack or two of cheap dogs in the fridge right now. Both cost roughly a buck per pack - one dollar American - a single chlorophyll George. Eight in a pack, we're talking a little beyond a dime apiece, a bargain at twice the price.

Sitting alongside those cheap doggies is a pack of rather expensive German-style franks complete with natural casing. When going bun-less, and we often do, those pricey franks are delightful. Then again, no bun, no hot dog, right? It's having a hot dog that really isn't a hot dog. Now the situation is getting complicated, and the hot dog is the very definition of simplicity, which is where we shall keep it.

While being thrifty about it, buy buns on sale, which they usually are, they kind of add to the cheap charm of the hot dog. It's a ton of taste for so very little.

I bet you now want a hot dog, right? Yeah, me too. Just don't rat me out to your doctor.

Go cheap.

Merciful Mother of Us All, It's Labor Day Already...

Labor Day. Summer is over. Many schools are back in session. Halloween's traces are beginning to show.

Thanksgiving Dinner times and places are being discussed.

Could the dread over being behind in making Christmas cookies be just around the corner, can placing those precious Christmas kielbasi orders be far behind?

While we're at it, how about a Lackawanna County kielbasi maker winning the Plymouth Keilbasa Festival again? Adjudged "best" one more time was Bosak's of Olyphant. Luzerne Countians, mostly Wyoming Valley-ites really, are pretty smug about having the best when it comes to ethnic dishes, and they are largely correct, yet a northerner takes home the prize repeatedly. Born and raised in Lackawanna County, now making my home in Luzerne County, I am not about to take a side here, except to say that I spell it kielbasi and pronounce it the same way.

La Festa Italiana also rings a bell this weekend, telling us all that a season has ended. Huge crowds on Courthouse Square, the aromas of countless great Italian dishes in the air, so many aromas that I could likely gain a few pounds just by breathing heavily at the corner of Linden and Adams for a half hour. Once again the ever-popular and never-stopping Poets will be a key draw. These guys are good. These guys have been around since I was in high school. Just how old are they?

The telethon of all telethons is this weekend, another signal that summer came, was, and went. The Jerry Lewis telethon really is the telethon of record in the USA. Sure, there are others, all worthy, but Lewis and MDA essentially created, defined, and continues to define, what a telethon is.

The dogs got a bath today. Out on the deck, in the still warm sun, they got a rub, scrub, a rinse, then dried with a nice fluffy towel. Carol did the work. I watched. There, that was easy.

I had a chat with a local fruit grower just a few days ago. Summer fruits are still abundant, he tells me, but the apples are starting to come on strong. Apple fans, this could be a year to remember. Apples love water. This summer's rain will bring big and very juicy apples. Apples, pumpkins, both signs of the turning seasons. Dried cornstalks are another. For whatever reason, you need to stand a few by the front door, that way, I guess, everyone will know that you know that these are autumnal days.

Finally, Steamtown's Rail Fest was held again this Labor Day Weekend. Swinging by for a half hour or so, the big shocker was the crowd. The place was jammed. Good to see, it's very good to see. Again in town for Rail Fest was Amtrak. An Amtrak train-set in Scranton sends my imagination spinning some, if only for a few seconds. We should have Amtrak service here, rail options to NYC, Buffalo, Syracuse. This time around, a scrap of news that might prove apocryphal - some day. Amtrak's president and CEO, Joseph Boardman, spoke to a small crowd while standing before his employer's locomotive and handful of passenger equipment. Mr. Boardman made the claim that Scranton deserves Amtrak "connectivity" and that Amtrak is studying that possibility and is ready to make it happen, that all it takes is money. Come to think of it, that's really not much in the way of news, now is it?