Small In The Saddle...

I should have been a cowboy.

Riding the range all day, mending fences, tellin' doggies to get along, lazing around a campfire with the boys and eatin' hubcap-sized plates full of beans, passing copious amounts of gas, sleeping under desert skies.

Ahhhh, now there's the life. Dirty, smelly, not a care in the world.

Instead, I got into broadcasting; first radio, then television. Some would say that dirty and smelly fits the broadcasting nicely at times. You'll get no argument here, pardner.

Next stop along the dusty trail of life was animal sheltering, which itself can be malodorous at times - I don't mind an ounce. Then this cowboy was tempted to mosey on a bit and darned near saddled back up, riding off into those mysterious canyons where the political life hides, places where the sun never quite manages to shine.

For any number of reasons spelled out in the previous post on this blog, I did not.

I have no regrets whatsoever. My promise right from the very beginning was to never make any promise I could not keep. No one can make an accusation of my breaking that promise.

Then there's my fellow political-weenie pal, David Yonki, who posted on his blog, "...And folks, let’s face facts, being a Congressman isn’t what it used to be. Even though I love politics, there are so many of my fellow Americans if you will who have nothing but disdain for the political process."

Pop over and visit David's blog http://lulacpoliticaletter.blogspot.com/ I'm betting you'll enjoy it greatly.

So how do I feel about things?

Pretty darned good, to answer my own question. That being said, I do have a few concerns. Let's say there are a few burrs under my saddle.

The biggest burr of all comes from those who seem to think my interest in politics is a recent development. Wrong. Those who believe that should go and have a few laughs with that handful who believe I know very little about politics. Again, wrong.

Neither assumption could be further from the truth. Anyone who has known me for more than seven minutes knows the passion that can sizzle within me when it comes to politics.

Not too many years after my obligatory pony picture was taken at Rocky Glen Park, I stood within a damp throng in the hot, steamy, and cavernous Watres Armory along Adams Avenue in Scranton. We waited, and waited, and waited.

We waited for the man we all just knew would be the next president of The United States. It was worth the wait. Elecricity crackled in the air as the crowd screamed when John Fitzgerald Kennedy's motorcade finally pulled to a stop at the Myrtle Street entrance to the Armory and word spread like a tsunami's surge that "he" was here.

JFK's striding to the stage coaxed forth a roar that had to have been audible at every saloon in Minooka, all of which were surely empty that night. It was magic. I got it. And I loved politics from that night forward, and have never taken a time out.

If only by default, if only by being a political-weenie most of my life, I happen to know a great deal about the process. There are many times I believe I know more than is good for me. Much of what I know makes me sad, it shakes my faith in the system that is supposed to be the very foundation of who we are as a nation.

"We the people..." may in theory still control this great country with its states, counties, cities, townships and boroughs, but every time we elect or re-elect candidates, we temporarily turn the keys over to them. Some of "them" are not worthy keepers of the keys.

For now, my political ambitions, while not tucked away down in the basement for good, have been put on hold while I get back to the business at hand here The SPCA of Luzerne County.

It Didn't Cost A Million Dollars...

The roller coaster in that picture, it's that roller coaster that immediately forces my eyes to go right to it. That was Ben Sterling's Million Dollar Coaster, the one that never did cost a million dollars.

Mr. Sterling was one of the handful of people who at one time or another owned Rocky Glen Park. It's my understanding that Sterling was the man most singurlarly responsible for Rocky Glen hitting its greatest strides, mostly in the 40s and 50s. In 1957 that Million Dollar Coaster burned down. What was left was then torn down. From there, most all historical accounts paint a slow, steady, and sad demise of Rock Glen Park, right up until its complete closing in 1998. Why in the name of all that is fun this area cannot support an amusement park baffles me. I mean, politics can be one hell of a spectator sport hereabouts, but we need rides, big rides, scary rides.

Giddy-up...

I can't stop staring at that picture, which was among many my sisters and a brother-in-law have rounded up, scanned, and sent to me.

It's a fine looking pony, and it sure seems like a humid, hazy, gooey summer day at "the glen" as most called it back then. What I'm trying to remember is if I remember sitting there like a dolt and having my picture taken. If you look at the left side of the photo, you'll see an adult forearm steadying the pony, which would tell you that I wasn't exactly galloping around hell-bent for leather, stopping only for a quick snap of me saying, "Howdy, ma'm..." before yeee-haaa-ing my way off again in a cloud of dust.

And my feet don't reach the stirrups, my legs had a long way to go before being ready to ride 'em hard and put 'em away wet. But I did see Gene Autry once...at The CYC in Scranton. He was actually on a stage with his horse Champion. It was kind of lost on me. I was more of a Roy Rogers and Gabby Hayes guy myself.

And I was once considered a distinct and serious possibility as a candidate for The U.S. House of Representatives. Of that, I am both humbled and proud.

Maybe my feet do indeed now reach the stirrups.

A Tough but Proper Decision...

I suppose what follows will surprise a few, not at all surprise some, disappoint a couple people, and likewise make at least a handful of others happy.

I'll risk a little here and be immodest in saying that my decision will also cause a sigh of relief under some roofs.

My decision leaves one less dog to bark at the caravan as it moves on. (Sorry, but the "dog" reference just had to happen.)

To say that the matter has caused me serious mental calisthenics is about right; to say that I wrestled hard and long over a decision would not be inaccurate.

As I wrote way back in July, being encouraged to run for congress is heady stuff, it really is one hell of a notion, a powerful jolt to one's ego. But that's all on paper.

Like so many other things in life, running for congress "looks good on paper."

The reality is quite different.

For all those who encouraged me to do this, thanks a million.

To all who vowed their support should I decide to do this, thanks a million.

To those who wished I wouldn't do this, you got your wish. You're welcome.

The why behind the decision is really pretty simple. At this moment in time, here in 2008, I am thrilled to be doing what I am doing.

I love my job. That's it. Plain. Simple. Unadorned. I love my job and presently have no interest in walking away from it.

It's been a long, long time since that statement could be made. It's true - I love my job, and I love my life right now. I don't want to turn my lifestyle upside down, and I especially don't want to fail in my commitment to The SPCA of Luzerne County.

Should you care to call me an altruistic fool, please help yourself. If it's the worst you can say about me, wonderful.

That's it. I love my job. I don't want to leave my job. I don't want to be a member of congress...at least not right now. My coming of age was in a generation which was constantly reminded and encouraged to "...be true to yourself." So, why not? Forgive me for being just that, true to myself.

My conscience is clear on the matter; had I gotten in, it would not have been with heart, body, soul, psyche, and every cell within me. I never misled anyone on that.

Getting in and running anything less than a bona fide and honest-to-God 100% earnest campaign would have been unfair to those who supported and encouraged me. It would have been an insult to their generosity and caring. It would have been disloyal, and I have always placed a very high value on loyalty; knowing that to get loyalty, you have to give it. The same applies to respect.

Personal thoughts and feelings...

What has stunned me every time I heard it was, "I hope you're not going to get into politics."

And I heard it a lot, probably daily. It was generally followed by a rant about how dirty and slimy politics is, and how getting into the mess would somehow soil me. People seemed very concerned about me getting dirtied by the process.

It makes me sad. Public service should be a noble and honorable calling. To me, it still is. That others don't see it as such should be of great concern to us all.

It's a clarion call, perhaps more of a shrill and screaming voice, telling us that politicians, whether recently-elected, forever-incumbent, attempting to become incumbent, are not held in high regard by Americans in the main. Now is not a good time to be an elected official. We need to change that.

Easy To Assemble?

Apparently some person, or persons, has managed to discover that I have indeed requested the official and genuine Nomination Petition Form Packet authorizing me, or my agents, to run around and ask registered voters to sign on the dotted line.

Someone has already suggested that there is no need to request the forms, that by golly, you can just download 'em. Ahh, no, not so fast there.

The following is from the PA State Department's Bureau of Commissions, Elections and Legislation.

• BECAUSE THESE FORMS MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY ADDITIONAL DOCUMENTS AT THE TIME OF FILING, YOU MUST REQUEST AN OFFICIAL PACKET OF FORMS AND INSTRUCTIONS, IF YOU HAVE NOT ALREADY DONE SO.

They made me do it. I had no choice. An official request was required, so officially I requested. My Official Packet is on its way via UPS. Wouldn't you think the state would use the USPS? No, they use UPS.

And don't you just wonder a little why it is that the PA Department of State handles the details of those running for federal office? The Federal Election Commission doesn't get their hands on much of anything until, and if, you start raising, accumulating, and spending money. Here come some details...

• First day you or someone representing you can begin asking for signatures is January 22nd. If you sign, you're then a signatory. There is no obligation, no sales representative will call.


• The last day you can scrounge for signatures is February 12th. So, if you're hoping to round up a 1,000 or more friends, you need to shake your tail and get along with things.


• February 12th also is the day you actually file those petitions. But you're not anywhere near home yet.

More dates to consider...

• On February 13th you circulate and file nomination papers.


• By February 27th, if all is well and you've made it this far, now is when you face the last day you can change your mind and withdraw.


• If you miss this deadline, you're on the ballot, whether you like it or not, whether your opponents like it or not. Hello, candidate! You can sit home and stare out the window waiting for the crocuses to poke through the rich and marvelous Spring soil, but you're still on that ballot. If you somehow capture the nomination, I suppose you'll have to leave the window and go somewhere to do something.

Boy, do I have all the answers or what? Hardly. I have so few. Questions, I got.

For example: You need 1,000 signatures and $150.00 to file. From where do those signatures need come? They do have to be from registered voters of the same party as you, and they are subject to examination and elimination should it be discovered that they are flawed in some way.

But...where do the signatories need to be domiciled? Must they be residents of the district which you hope to represent? Given that you need not live in a congressional district to represent that district, shouldn't it follow that the signatories need not reside there either? Shouldn't it only matter that they are residents of Pennsylvania since it is Pennsylvania's Department of State that oversees all of this?

I'm getting a headache. Maybe when my official packet arrives, all will be crystal clear. Oh, and if you're thinking about a run for president, this coming Monday is the deadline to file here in Pennsylvania.

P.S. Above to the left is an official seal of Pennsylvania circa 1902. Since it's no longer in use, using it should be just fine. If it's not good enough for the state, it can't be too good for me.

Confusing Signs...

We all look for signs. Reading tea leaves is a big part of political savvy, the thing that can make or unmake a potential candidates.

I hear things. Some people are reading signs. So, let me tell you what I'm hearing about me and congress, and me and politics over all.

There are several things. For now, though, let me pass along just one.

Which is that some assume I couldn't possibly be serious about running for office because I haven't yet declared myself a candidate. The thinking there is that it's just too late.

Is it too late?

Well, yes, I suppose it might be too late...for some.

Those "some" would be aspiring candidates who need considerable lead-time to build momentum, which is another way of saying they need to bust their backsides gaining name and face recognition. They have to spend a warehouse full of money on advertising in all mediums; newspaper, radio, television, billboards. And you can't forget the internet. Do so at your own peril.

Given conventional and prevailing wisdom, the battle for the 10th Congressional District of Pennsylvania, primary and general election alike, will be fought electronically, mostly via television. There are, however, variables that could change that strategy.

So, is too late to get in? For me, no.

It's really not a matter of me being too late, but rather a matter of other candidates getting in way too early. Which, perhaps, was necessary. It's not much off the mark to say that the incumbent had barely returned to his seat after taking his first oath of office when the test baloons were released by a few as to their viability as candidates.

I'm blessed inasmuch as I didn't, and don't, need all that lead-time to build and build and build name and face recognition. I have it. Like it or not, being on television for over 20 years(and on the radio for 14)gave me a precious commodity, one envied by many.

It's a commodity never to be abused. Indeed, it is a commodity to be respected and used only for good. It is, in many ways, a blessing. I've known that for a long, long time.

And it's a privilege. As with all privileges, it comes with responsibility. I've also known that for a long, long time.

So, despite any number of confusing signs and what they might mean, I can tell you one thing with complete certainty this last day of 2007 ; I would never abuse the blessings I have for any reason whatsoever. Happy New Year!

Chestnuts Roasting...

I never saw a chestnut roasting on an open fire until I was probably in my 20s. It made for a great lyric in a marvelous song, but chestnuts roasting was never part of my reality. The only chestnuts I ever knew were horse chestnuts. We had an American Horse Chestnut tree in front of our house. Horse chestnuts are god-awful bitter, you just don't eat them. Maybe horses do.

Here we are once again a few days before Christmas. Outside the wind is howling. The howling, though, is not that of winter, but rather warm winds blowing out of the south, bringing temps in the 50s.

Trust me, I don't spend much time thinking about the weather these days, after 20 years of doing it for a living, I am weathered-out, weather-weary.

Our chances for a white Christmas look to be pretty slim. Could be a bit of snow tonight into tomorrow, but that should be about it.

It's been a lot of years since Christmas held any charm and fascination for me. Sadly, what the song says might be true, "Christmas Is For Children." I think that was a Glen Campbell song. Smarmy, drippy, dopey as it was, it's message is indeed true.

Some random thoughts of Christmases past. No particular order, no particular significance attached to any one more than any other, just memories that say Christmas to me. One thing though, it seems most of the memories involve my Dad. Why? I'm really not sure.

• My father spending the Sunday after Thanksgiving decorating the outside of our house. He did a solo act with it, never asking for help. Truth be told, though fine human that he was, Dad didn't want anyone, which would include me, getting in his way while he worked his magic. And magic it was, at least to my remembrance. This man was blue-collar all the way, a member of the Greatest Generation, earning his dues card after three years in the South Pacific. But come Christmas, he was as soft inside as a baby's behind. He loved to create with strings of lights, spotlights, enormous bows and ribbons, a boughs of pine. His handiwork was some of the best in the neighborhood. He knew it. We knew it. Revolutionizing his decorating was the purchase of a staple-gun somewhere in the early '60s. By my parents financial standards, there is no doubt that this was a major purchase.
  
• Bing Crosby on the stereo. You know the Crosby album, the LP with Bing on the cover wearing a Santa hat and a bow tie made of holly. It was never really Christmas until Bing went for his first spin of the season on our hi-fi. Then you knew it was OK to be of the spirit. Dad also ran that show; it was his call when the stylus dropped on "Jingle Bells," usually Thanksgiving Day, maybe a day or two before if he was in the mood. Although a good Catholic family, we played the "secular" side of that album until it near turned to vinyl particulate. The "religious" side saw little action. Growing older, it occurred to me that Mr. Crosby likely recorded that album on a hot Hollywood afternoon in July, never giving much thought to the impact it would have on so many for so many generations.
  
• Going for the tree. I have to guess that this practice was discontinued in our family before I made it to high school. My folks were early advocates of the artificial Christmas tree, probably buying one in, oh, 1963/64 or so. Despite a "real" tree's absence in our home, the memories are vivid of shopping for such a tree on several occasions. What I remember most was my parents whining about how "dear" the tree was, meaning it was expensive. (You don't hear that term used much these days, people don't say "dear"when they mean expensive.) Once back home, the tree went into a bucket of water and into the garage, where it sat and dried out and did the needle drop until being dragged into the front room Christmas Eve afternoon. Never an hour before, never an hour after, always just minutes past noon on Christmas Eve.
  
• Waiting patiently for my father to come home after his half-day on Christmas Eve. It was always a half-day, and Dad almost always walked to and from work...uphill, both ways. It was maybe three blocks. Dad brought in the tree, Dad put up the tree, Dad strung the lights, usually accompanied by a quiet choir of muttered and mumbled obscenities over knots in cords that weren't there when put away, and those bulbs that should light but wouldn't. We couldn't go near the tree until Dad was done. We sat and watched from a half room away. Once up, my mother, sisters, brother, and me could then have at decorating the tree. All of the tree decorations were kept in a big old cardboard box of unknown origin, but I'll speculate it could have once held a television. That box didn't leave the basement until the tree was up. It went back into the basement New Year's Day. That was the tradition kept in my family. And, by God, you never went near that box any other time of the year. You wouldn't think of poking through it in July.
  
• Where did they hide the presents? We never figured that out. From the time I was willing to embrace the notion that Santa was no more than a charming myth, the annual search began. To say that I looked everywhere in that house is accurate. If anything, it might be understatement. There was no inch of four floors that went unexamined. At least every two to three days from Thanksgiving right up until Christmas Eve, I'd manage to steal away and look. Under beds, behind clothes in closets, every dark corner of attic and basement, no spot was missed. Yet no toy was ever found. Years and years later, my siblings and I finally closed the case by grudgingly accepting the fact that the big Christmas Morning Toyland was stashed a few miles away at our grandparents' house, and that my Dad made the pick-up after we were tucked in our beds on Christmas Eve. I still don't want to believe that. Somehow there's a certain magic to thinking that the toys were indeed somewhere that we failed to look. Could there have been a hidden room in the house, a trap door to another hiding place? That couldn't be. There really was no place left to look.
• Christmas Morning Mass. As parochial school kids, we were required to attend The Children's Mass, not only on Christmas, but pretty much every Sunday. It was the 9:00 AM Mass at Saint Paul's Church on Penn Avenue in Scranton. The choir was always in fine voice, and always singing as we half ran and half stumbled into church then pew, all wanting to be home with all the stuff we'd found a few hours before. Our church had a really terrific creche with Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, at least two shepherds and the obligatory donkey. The wise men would appear later, probably on some sort of liturgically sanctioned schedule. But they were pretty cool, too. Seems to me they had at least one camel between them. One hump or two? That I don't remember. Evergreens everywhere near and around the creche; trees, boughs, twigs, sprigs, lush and green. A coniferous forest moved indoors. I never knew where it came from, but often had the sense that a nearby stand of ancient pines had been sadly depleted.
• The Year of The Transistor. My best guess would be 1962. That was the year that every kid I knew got a transistor radio for Christmas. The transistor had now put radio in the palm of your hand, where before it had been on a counter or bookshelf, and even before that, radio's size kept it sitting on the floor. Every kid got one, every kid brought theirs to Christmas Mass, every kid had to keep it turned off until after Mass. We then all milled about outside of church comparing brands, looks, and features. Some had more transistors than others, and it said so on the radio itself. A few had carrying cases, most did not. Size was all over the place, too. Some were pretty darned small, which was far more desirable. While I was envious of others, some were envious of mine. The name upon mine was "Symphonic." Why, there was even some maestro conducting a "symphony" cast right into the plastic case...a case which was pink and green. Not sure what Mom and Dad were thinking giving anything pink and green to a twelve year-old boy. Didn't much matter, my "Symphonic" fell silent by Christmas night. It just stopped working. Boink, it was gone. My prized transistor radio gave it up within maybe twelve hours. It went into the shop, where it collected dust for what had to have been close to year. See, we had this guy in our neighborhood who fixed radios and televisions. His name was Jack Gilroy. By all accounts, Jack was a very nice man, and a boyhood friend of Dad's, which meant the radio had to go to Jack for repair. Jack did nice work. Jack did it slowly. It didn't matter much, because by the time old "pink and green" came home, we had several other transistor radios around the house. Now, as I sit here a hundred years later, a thought that has never floated through my head before nags at me. Seeing how old "pink and green" worked but less than a day, why wasn't it returned to point of sale for replacement? Where'd they get that radio?
  

I just happened to visit another blog where the blogger has somehow attempted to make a connection between my lack of experience with chestnuts roasting and a possible run for a seat in The U.S. House of Representatives. My inference was that growing up in a lower middle-class neighborhood meant limited opportunities to sit and watch chestnuts pop in a fireplace. Fireplaces were few in my part of Scranton. Listen, thanks a million for the mention. You might also want to consider that Keith Martin never ran for or held elected office. I like your blog, I check it often.

And A Few More Favorite Things...

No sooner do I have a ball with Daniels&Webster(and Ruth and Dave)on the radio, than another pair of my favorite radio people are gracious enough to have me on with them.

Same thing as with D&W; both a huge part of the community which they serve, both established professionals of longstanding, both admired, trusted, respected, and well-liked by their audiences, which are big, really big. The important difference is that these folks are to the Williamsport Area what D&W are to Scranton/Wilkes-Barre. Over on the right are two of Lycoming County's most beloved citizens; Ken Sawyer and Gary Chrisman.

( Yeah, I know, Gary's not alone. That's the delightful Gail Baer, Gary's partner on The Chrisman Show. Not to diminish Gail's importance, surely she too is beloved, but Ken and Gary have each been on the air in Williamsport radio for over, OVER, 30 years. That's what sets them apart from all the rest. That in itself is an accomplishment.)

I met Ken and Gary way on back in the mid-70s, a time when I was being about as nomadic as I'd ever get in the radio business.

Ken had come to Willliamsport and WWPA in 1970.

Gary had grown up in Williamsport, gone off to Florida for college, and come back for a brief time.

"Brief" turned into 30 years seemingly overnight, we all know how that goes.

They're good guys. They're good friends.

Even though the short geographic distance between us has kept us from seeing one another face-to-face for roughly, oh, 7-8 years now, we're still friends.

Even though we all last worked together in 1978, we're still friends.

Gabbing with them last week was like picking up where we'd left off 29 years ago. Heck, not even. It was more like we'd seen each other the day before. It's that comfort level which, at least to me, is one of the defining components of friendship. Endurance can't be bought, faked, or forced. It's there or it's not. With Ken and Gary, I believe it's there.

So, there we were back in the '70s. All three of us loving life, loving radio. We were loving Williamsport, and very excited that the station we were working at was in the middle of reinventing itself.

The old, staid, and stodgy WWPA was morphing into Twin W Radio, more commonly known The Twin. If you need proof of me in the 70s, get an eyeball full of the get-ups on Chrisman and me in, I believe, 1977. We were all keyed up and ready to judge, what else, a disco contest. We probably thought we were a couple of hot guys...hell, we probably were.

(Sorry, Ken, I don't have any embarrassing pictures of you from that era, but you're welcome to share some of my discomfort.) You should be dancin' yeh, dancin' yeh.

What I like best are the rented shoes on both of us. Nice touch. Did either of us own a pair of respectable dress shoes then? Hard to say, mostly because what passed as respectable in 1977 (while standing in front of the newly renovated Rialto Theater on Pine Street) would pass as spectacle now. See how cool we were? No ties, no bow ties for us, baby. Just open up that 7 inch collar and let your chest hair sway in the warm June breeze.

I didn't dance much then, even less now. With dancing, it's like this; the only time I dance is when I run out of excuses not to. Gary? Funny thing, he was the monster DJ at Williamsport's hottest disco, yet I don't recall ever seeing him dance.

I have no idea who won the competition the evening that photo was taken, nor am I sure where the photo itself originated. All I do remember is having it e-mailed to me anonymously from Williamsport maybe 4-5 years ago. Apparently, it had appeared in a Williamsport newspaper. Apparently, someone had saved it. Thanks, whoever you are.

As with most stand-alone AM stations that once ruled radio, WWPA/The Twin fell from grace and success over the years, but Ken and Gary did not. Hardly.

If anything, they have thrived beyond expectation. They just moved across town to other stations. To even mention Williamsport radio is to mention Ken Sawyer and Gary Chrisman. If ever there is a Williamsport Broadcasting Hall of Fame, they'll be the first two inductees.

You can visit their sites...

www.wksb.com/

http://www.wrak.com/

Or, if you're out their way, listen. You'll like what you hear. You'll hear why these guys are as much a part of Williamsport life as Little League Baseball, and they've been a part of LLB for 30 years, too.


(On the matter of politics, a few things worthy of a mention before too long.)

A Few of My Favorite Things!

One of my all time ever favorite things is being on the radio with some of my all time favorite people. If you need an ID of the cast, they are, l. to r.; Dave DiRienzo, John Webster, Jay Daniels, and Ruth Miller. (Say, is that Chip The Beer Guy lurking behind them?)

We're talking D&W.

We're talking Daniels and Webster.

We're talking the highest rated morning show in NE PA.

When you get right down to it, we're talking radio legends, people of iconic stature upon the broadcasting landscape across our part of the world. http://www.rock107.com/

If the big fish in the little pond theory is valid, D&W are the biggest fish in a not so small pond.

Although Jay and John are the "Daniels" and the "Webster," the two of them are brilliant and generous enough to know that making those around them look equally as good is one of the undeniable keys to success. And so it is that Ruth and Dave have evolved into major players on the show - both deserve to be just that. It's often said that Johnny Carson was as huge as he was because he made all of his guests look good, even guests he didn't like. If he didn't like you, he made you look good anyway...but you never got invited back.

Proud to say that D&W have made me look good over and over again for what now has to be four years or so. Our relationship had its beginnings on television, but my favorite part of D&W was always, ALWAYS, the ten minutes or so we spent on the radio every weekday morning on Rock107.

God, I do miss that.

Best of all, they keep inviting me back.

So back I will be tomorrow morning from 7-10, live with John, Jay, Ruth, and Dave.

What will we talk about?

Hell if I know, really. I never knew what we'd talk about, neither did they, we'd just say hello and go. Sometimes we'd skip the hello, and just go. It was always spontaneous, completely spontaneous. There was no comparing notes the night before, no heads-up via e-mail on a topic they wanted to explore, we just went where we went. If you really want the truth, I never much thought about what we'd talk about, it wasn't a worry. I knew it would be there when the mics opened, there was no doubting it, not for a second.

It was simply great conversation among people who liked one another and enjoyed each other's company. It was honest, not an ounce of pretense to be found. It was no more than us being who we are.

Maybe that's why it worked, and I hope still does, it was honest and simple. It was just a conversation...with their sizable audience listening. And it was good.

There were times when it was better than good, it was great. Good, great, never bad. But that's just my opinion. My favorite mornings were when we'd get laughing so hard all of us briefly lost the capacity to speak.

No sense going for false modesty here, we all loved the compliments. One of my favorites heard often was, "You make me late for work. I stay in the car until you guys are done, I don't want to miss anything."

While I loved the "...late for work compliment," my all time favorite came from a young woman who once stopped me at The Dallas Harvest Festival

So help me God, she looked me right in the eye and said, "I just have to tell you, you guys made me wet my pants the other morning."

She was serious. So was I in thanking her, which I couldn't do enough.

Then, just this afternoon, I'm slapping together a cup of coffee at The Turkey Hill in Plains. The young man next to me says, "Sorry to bother you, but I want you to know how much I miss you with Daniels and Webster." Yep, he said it. If timing is everything, this was perfection. I bought him his coffee. He resisted. I insisted. Nice guy. His name? Joe. His wife sat at the pump waiting for Joe to pay up on some gas. As we left, we all waved. Thank you, Joe.

This is indeed the season for favorite things, which for me has to include "Whiskers on Kittens." A genuine thank you to all who have been so generous with their time, resources, and donations, all of which have helped us here at The SPCA of Luzerne County carry on seven days a week. Because of you, we've accomplished a lot this year. We're optimistic that the year ahead will allow us to get even more done on behalf of animal welfare, and that's likewise because of you.

And I'll see you on the radio tomorrow morning, Wednesday, December 12th!