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.