We Survived YTK and Its Infant Decade To Date...

I wrote the following on the last day of 2009, before the Haiti earthquake. Does it change my mind? No, not at all. Please forgive the wagging finger, but although I firmly believe we should help the Haitian cause, for the love of all humanity, make sure who you're giving your money to in this tragic time.

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New Year's Eve 1999. The world waited, watched, and held its breath, expecting all computer systems around the planet to crash, and take civilization along with them into some black silicon hole from which there was no escape.

Never happened.

The only survival kit I needed January 1st, 2000, was a long winter's nap to sleep off the beer of our partying at home with neighbors the night before. We can't ignore the fact that the new century really didn't get underway until a year later. Yeah, alarmists tended to overlook that.

Even my GW2K G2 did nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing. I sat nearby while the ball dropped. Nothing. The 1999 technology, then sitting in a corner of our kitchen, is about what you can now slip on your belt, as most of us do. The machine is still in the basement waiting to be reborn as a big doorstop or a small anchor.

Ten years later and some are looking to 2012 as a pivotal year. Nostradamus alleges to have singled out 2012 in one of his quatrains as the year that the world now known will end. It's unclear, in my view, whether or not a new world will emerge, only that the one we're now calling home is finished in 2012.

Why, even the Mayans, that mysterious and brilliant tribe that once ruled the Yucatan and Meso-American culture, are said to have nailed 2012 as doomsday, or is that doomsyear?

Mathematical and astronomical systems, art and architecture, were all in full and practiced use by the Mayans. A bit beyond twenty years ago, I had the great good fortune to see Tulum and stand on the very sand of that breathtaking beach you see right here.

Somewhere, there's a photo of my then fiancee and me, arm in arm in the brilliant Caribbean sunshine of a January day. All smiles for the camera, I couldn't take my eyes off of her, yet the ruins and the "it-can't-be real-but-is" blue of the water, and the significance of where we stood was not lost on me.

We had a tour guide that day, a gentleman of Mayan descent, who walked us through the ruins. The one thing that forever stuck in my mind is his saying the Mayans, despite their advanced state, had yet to discover and/or invent the wheel. Even today, that sounds suspicious to me.

Sitting here on New Year's day 2010, it seems to me he never mentioned that our world was in its final decades, either.

Despite many swearing that the Mayans predicted 2012 as at least the beginning of the end, factual information argues strongly to the contrary. Put another way, they never said any such thing.

The Mayan calendar apparently ends with 2012, does that mean it's over? For good measure, it's now also said that the Mayans set the date, that would be December 21st, 2012, which means we'll miss Thanksgiving by one day, while many will have finished up Christmas shopping before Earth goes spinning out of its orbit and tumbles off into the cosmos. December 21st is also the Winter Solstice, so will winter have begun, not begun, or be just beginning at the very second the world comes to an end?

See, I love a good conspiracy theory, so much so that my belief is that one day, some theory will turn out to be true. What then will happen is that no one will believe it's true, because there are so many conspiracy theories to choose from that the very one that proves true will be dismissed as just another crock.

Will the world end in 2012? Given the ignored fact that the Mayans observed several different calendars, all of which appear to reset and recycle upon expiration, and that what they observed changed frequently, odds favor a big disappointment for all local chapters of The End-Is-Near Club.

Also ignored is that pesky little fact that no Mayan calendar matches up with the calendar we use, the Gregorian Calendar.

Had enough? One more bothersome fact. There is ample proof suggesting that the Mayan 2012 matches up with the Gregorian 2007, meaning that it already happened, we're still here, and not to worry.

Will it all end in 2012? Betting huge money against it would be pretty safe. If our world is still here in 2013, you could win, win big. If it's not here, you can't collect, you can't pay. A genuine win-win.

Happy New Year!

The Center of The Universe and the GPS...

Did you ever hear the one that Scranton is the center of our universe?

The sense in the nonsense on this claim is grounded in the allegation that most everyone in at least the USA has some connection to Scranton. Many would take it beyond our borders.

Personally, I've found it to hold some water, plenty of leaks, mind you, but some water. For example, try the following on for size:

My first adventure far west took me to Idaho. It was a long day.

My memory's a little fuzzy on the details. What I do know is that it began at AVP, took three airlines, four flights, nearly nine hours before landing in Idaho. If you don't know Idaho, first get comfortable with the fact that Iowa and Idaho are not the same place. Then let me say that Idaho is one of the most beautiful states in our union, maybe not so much as Utah, but really close. Gorgeous, lightly populated, and simply spectacular. Wide open spaces? A four-hour round trip just to have dinner is not uncommon among Idahoans.

Within an hour of landing in Idaho, at Pocatello Airport, I'd met a guy who was born and raised in Edwardsville, which would be the Edwardsville right next to Larksville. I mean Kingston, Edwardsville, Larksville. True story.

Several years ago, the "Scranton" bubble burst.

It was Announced that Olyphant, Pennsylvania, very close to Scranton for those unfamiliar, was really the center of the universe. Start here and join the enlightened.

If that doesn't shove your oars in the water nice and deep, do this one.

There's more, but that's an ample start. Once you get good, then we can talk the Carbondale UFO controversy.

Let's not achieve overload here.

For now, the matter at hand is a recent drive to Olyphant.

An easy trip for most in these parts, especially for those who've been through Olyphant uncountable times, like me.

I've known Olyphant since family trips to Eynon Drug/Sugarman's in dad's '54 Packard.

When 12 or 13, I used to ride my bicycle up the Boulevard, take a right at Dickson City Corners, and pedal on out to Olyphant and come on back home in under an hour.

Then there were high school events at "d'urn," alternately known as The Urn.

The Urn was right down Olyphant's Lackawanna Avenue from "d'anker," which also has an alternate name, that being The Anchor, a vets and war monument from WWII that sits at Blakely Corners. Got any or all of that?

Olyphant is home to Bosak's, Blakely is the same to Kutsop's, both said to have wonderful kielbasi, smoked of course. I will attest to such.

There was positively no need for me to use my GPS to get to Olyphant and Bosak's. But, really, why have a toy if you can't play with it? I punched in Bosak's address before pulling out of the driveway at home, then ignored the voice - I use the female - until forty minutes or so later when I pulled into Olyphant, whereupon things got strange in a hurry.

Any GPS can be wrong, as indicated in a previous post. Given the enormity of what that little box stuck to your windshield can do, it's not surprising that mistakes happen.

What I had here, though, was mistake after mistake after mistake. Once in Olyphant, my GPS couldn't get a street right. Just for squats and chuckles, I kept turning the opposite of where it told me to turn. It would then recalculate quickly.

Each time, it was wrong.

Each time, I kept hearing to "Turn right at..." Invariably, there was no such street.

Knowing full well where Bosak's is, on the Burke By-Pass, my earth to satellite communications were severely confused. Should I be circling Mars looking for a landing, I'd be screwed.

Streets that were nowhere to be seen, 500 feet to a non-existent intersection, turn left where there is no left, and several times the directions took me away from my destination, not towards it. I loved every second of it.

And I loved the kielbasi, both Kutsop's and Bosak's. The delightful young lady at Kutsop's was right about the horseradish and red beets (known by serious old country adherents as "hreen." You'll need to roll the h and the r to pronounce properly.). It was hotter than the hinges of Hades. I loved every spoonful.

Away from kielbasi and back to Olyphant, is this a town with some mystical powers? Is this a borough placed upon the planet by beings beyond ourselves?

Heck if I know.

My GPS seems not to know, either.

Go for the kielbasi, anything else is a bonus.

The Litter Box - 2010's First Stinkies...

I Like the Lawrence Welk Show...Working up the nerve to make that admission takes time. Visiting my grandparents as a kid, they'd sit and watch and smile as the show wound its way through one piece of corn after another, with a couple of Geritol commercials thrown in by Mr. Welk himself. All the while I squirmed and itched on their couch. Going out in the yard and running face first into an iron hinge on their garage door would have been more fun for me. Today, the show reminds me of simpler and uncomplicated times, times when a couple of smiling dufuses dancing across a sound stage floor could excite the imagination. I've been thinking about how old my grandparents were when I sat there on their couch...I don't want to talk about it right now.

Are you ready for Christmas?...You hear that a lot each year. Each year, I'm not ready. Each year, Christmas happens anyway.

Are you ready for New Year's?...Why, is there some approved list I should be checking?

Any New Year's Resolutions?...No, I'm quite fine the way I am, except for that one time I made a negligible mistake, which was driven solely by my desire to relate better to, to Joe Sixpack, or Frank Frontporch, or Mr. and Mrs. Anytown, USA. American futility at it's best; the New Year's Resolution. Make 'em to break 'em. Honestly? I want a great year for our SPCA.

Tiger Woods...Can we all leave this one alone? To say that I couldn't care less is the very definition of understatement. If his "stock" falls, it means that the leeches who were sucking his financial blood are thirsty, maybe drying up. Tough tees. Mr. Woods, I am certain, is fine. Go forth, sir, and do what you do like no other; golf.

Luzerne County's Newest Commissioner...I don't know Mr. Cooney. My assumption would be that he is a man of honesty, integrity, decency, and that he has no intention of trying to run for the seat next time around. That being true and said, could not this court en banc have selected someone, anyone, who has absolutely, positively, undeniably no connection whatsoever to Luzerne County and its recent administrations? Apparently not. For the record, no, I had no interest in the job under any conceivable circumstance.

Jumping Into Ice Cold Water on New Year's Day...Oh, that I had the nerve. I do not. Good cause or not, has anyone ever died doing this? The shock to some human systems has to be deadly. They call him "Crazy" Chris Concert. Chris, you've now earned the title.

Kathy Griffin Drops the F-Bomb Again...That's what she does, get it? Stop paying attention, she'll stop doing it. While we're practicing an ounce of common sense, something show biz isn't real good at, how about CNN and others deny her the venue to let it fly? Oh, some have called it a "curse" word, even wire services and major news outlets have called it a curse word. It's not. A curse word involves asking a deity to hurt someone. The F-Bomb is about as human as it gets. Remember, we made up the word. No one ever came down from any mountain with chiseled stone telling us not to arrange those four letters in that order. Griffin is an obnoxious clod. She does make me laugh a times. At others, I really wonder how she can do that routine non-stop. If I were her, I'd get on my own nerves.

Everyone Wanted 2009 Done and Gone...Just why is the question. Most all folks I've bumped into over the last couple weeks were looking forward to getting this first decade of the new century behind them. Splitting hairs about the new decade not really starting until 2011 notwithstanding, it seems that the last nine years have been unkind to many. A free admission; my lows since 2000 have been the lowest. I don't blame an arbitrary calendar. The only villain is life itself. It's one hell of a journey.

First Night Celebrations are "Dry" Events...Yes they are, and no they are not. Any First Night sponsored event, indoors or out, is dry. At the very same time, every saloon and restaurant in town is open for business, just waiting for you to pop in for a couple pops. This might be filed under clever packaging.

"...side effects may include strange dreams."...Have you ever had a dream that wasn't strange? Aren't dreams by their very nature strange? I keep hearing more and more prescription pharmaceuticals listing longer and longer disclaimers, often being lengthier than the part of the commercial pitching the drug.

Stranded By A GPS...Over the holidays, a Nevada family found itself stranded for three days because their GPS sent them down a remote forest road. A short cut, obviously, a quicker way to grandma's - literally over the river and through the woods instead of using the interstate. About a week before these people got in this jam, my GPS tried sending me up a steep dirt road, one covered with snow, while I was out just poking around over in Wayne County. One glance and I thought, "Kathy Griffin that!" and dismissed making the turn immediately. Brillliant? No. Again, it's that thing called common sense? Try it, it works.

Diocesan School Super Takes Leave...A personal or personnel matter? I suppose both, but since no one's talking as to why the man is gone, I'll speculate. The diocese is clearing the way for a new bishop, who could be announced as early as this weekend. In an effort to make clear the path of that new bishop, many will fall. It's all about that new broom sweeping clean. Bigger by far is the need to get all of the former bishop's allies and accomplices off of the new guy's landscape, that's to further dissociate then from now.

Judge Muroski...A little patience would have prevented a lot of grief.

And so I end for now.

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.