Tag: life

Childhood Memories

The McDonaldland Crime Syndicate

Back in the day, if Mom and Dad drove anywhere passed a Mickey D’s you knew darn well a whiny blonde-haired boy in the back seat was going to beg them to make a pit stop.

As a child, I loved going to the Golden Arches. It was like visiting Mr. Rogers or The Fonz only this excursion also included burgers, fries and shakes! I just loved eating there as a wee lad. Much more so then now, as eating that stuff today tends to put weight on me for some unknown reason.

But I have to admit, the thing I loved most about going to McDonald’s in the 1970′s had nothing to do with burger or fry. No, the best thing about going to the place where billions and billions were served was that it was another chance for me to see what my boy Ronald McDonald and his homies were up to.

Ronald sure had the coolest bunch of friends ever – a posse that all lived in their own little McDonaldland. A world filled with talking nuggets, trash cans and trees. A place I only got to visit when my parents grew tired of listening to their bratty kid on the way home from the store.

I still fondly recall trying to collect all of the promotional, lead-laced glasses and plates they’d have. Not because I’d ever utilize such items for eating or drinking mind you. My goal was strictly to have something with the McDonaldland characters on it. The coolest bunch of dudes ever. You know who they are: Ronald McDonald, Grimace, The Professor, Mayor McCheese, Big Mac and Birdie the Early Bird (for all you breakfast lovers out there).

It’s actually been years since we all really hung out together, so on a whim I decided to read up on my old pals to see what they were up to. What I discovered about their past was shocking… and sadly, I don’t think we can be friends anymore.

Has anyone else noticed the evil crime syndicate that was being run out of McDonaldland?

Take a look at these biographies of the characters and you tell me. Fatty fast food is the last thing our children need to be worried about. The truth is, larceny has been running amok in McDonaldland:

Hamburglar – The Hamburglar was a pint-sized burglar who first appeared in March 1971 and was one of the first villains on the commercials. He is dressed in a black-and-white hooped shirt and pants, a red cape, a wide-brimmed hat and red gloves. His primary object of theft was hamburgers.

 

 
Captain Crook – Captain Crook was a pirate who first appeared in July 1970 and is similar in appearance to the famed Captain Hook from Disney’s 1953 movie Peter Pan. Unlike the Hamburglar, this villain spent his time trying to steal Filet-O-Fish sandwiches from citizens of McDonaldland while avoiding being caught.

 

 

 

Fry Guys -They are characters used to promote McDonald’s french fries. When they first appeared in 1972, they were called Gobblins and liked to steal and gobble up the other characters’ french fries.

 

 

Griddler – A short-lived McDonaldland character. He was featured in 2 commercials in 2003 to promote the McGriddles by stealing them from Ronald and his friends.

Even my boy Grimace started out on the wrong side of the tracks:

Grimace – a large, purple character who was first introduced in November 1971 as the “Evil Grimace”. In Grimace’s first two appearances, he was depicted with two pairs of arms with which to steal milkshakes and sodas. “Evil” was soon dropped from Grimace’s moniker, and Grimace was reintroduced in 1972 as one of the good guys.

It seems like almost everyone at McDonalds has taken to a life of crime. And to make matters worse, the only two real “good guys” around: Mayor McCheese and Big Mac (an actual police officer) both disappeared from McDonaldland years ago and haven’t been heard from since. Coincidence?

I don’t know about you, but I’m beginning to question which side Ronald himself is on.

Which makes me wonder how it all began….

1980's, Childhood Memories, Life

Dear Diary: May 13, 1987

I am so grateful to have kept my journal from high school. It gives me the opportunity to look back now thirty years later and see just how far I’ve come.

I’ll be the first to admit, a lot of it is rambling on and on about music, girls and homework but sometimes I said some of the most profound things. Not bad for a seventeen year old.

Case in point: This entry from 30 years ago. I was a member of the Concert Choir in high school during my senior year and quite honestly it’s the best memory I have. I loved it so much that when the director of the choir retired from the school district a few years ago and became the director of an adult choir I immediately brushed up on my Bass II vocals and joined without question.

But back to the story: On May 13th, 1987 my high school choir performed its annual Spring Concert. It was a night of firsts and lasts. It would be the first time I ever performed on stage as a guitarist. It would also be the last time I’d be singing with the amazing people I spent nearly thirteen years of my life with.

I still remember standing in the hallway behind the auditorium when it was all over just letting everything sink in. Receiving high-fives and handshakes from kids, excuse me… “Seniors”… many of whom I only knew from yearbook photos and who wanted nothing to do with me during my entire school career. Sadly, the feeling was mutual.

And yet suddenly, a truly amazing thing happened. The ignorance of  high-school “clicks” was gone and everybody (yes, everybody) suddenly became “cool”. I guess it was because we all knew that in less than a month we’d be saying goodbye for the last time.

It was one of the last true moments of greatness in high school and my youth. This is what I wrote the next day:

5/14/87

Dear Diary: Last night was my first time EVER playing to an audience on stage. I was really scared as the moment approached but they, friends comforted me (in more ways than one).

I tried like hell to psyche myself up but it didn’t work until the curtain opened. Then I WANTED it and I really let loose!

Afterwards, the G- string on my guitar broke (3rd string). I was so grateful it didn’t happen during the concert.

I threw picks into the audience and don’t know what became of them. Maybe somebody’s home with it – happy. That’s what I hope. I hope I made people happy.

That’s what music is all about. It’s not money, sex, drugs, long nights – although all of that somehow seems to go with it. Music has one purpose: To make people emotional.

We did that last night.

I laugh when I think about my rock-star mentality that night. I mean, who in their right mind would ever play a menacing black guitar on stage for “Flashdance” and then jump back in to the choir to sing Aus Justi?

I remember there was one thing I was especially excited about as I put pen to paper the next day. I couldn’t wait to write the line “in more ways than one”.

You see, that night was also the first time a boy five months shy of becoming eligible for Selective Service actually received a kiss on the cheek by a female that was not his Mom or Grandmother. Keeping my journal over the course of the year, I would NEVER have gone so far as to write anything about my interaction with girls. Mainly due to my fear of the journal winding up in the wrong hands. But on that day I didn’t care. And as I read this awesome entry again the words on the now tattered yellow pages began to sink in.

Not only did we make great music that night but I think I became more confident in myself as a person.

Childhood Memories, Life

Teacher Teacher

Most of us wanted our school years to just fly by. Every day of school was just another day closer to the weekend and doing whatever we wanted to do. At the time, most of us never really thought about the real impact school and teachers would have on our lives.

Bring out the way back machine Sherman and set it to the years 1984-1987……

I’m in high school again. You know, those crazy years we all went through. Like walking down the halls in Jordache jeans while Spandau Ballet blared over the loud speakers, carrying books covered by paper grocery bags (a requirement back then and before plastic bags became ALL the rage). Ok, its “True”, I made up the part about Spandau Ballet.

In all of my schooling I can’t remember much about what was learned or very much about my teachers. Although my friend Michele has the uncanny ability to recall exactly WHERE I was sitting in history class in proportion to her location. We’ll have to talk about this at the next reunion. I have a lot of questions that need answering.

Anyway, although I can’t recall much I do remember three teachers during my tenure there that really impacted me the most: Mr. Siddons, Mr. Fox and Mr. Milisits. I won’t even bother to give their first names because to me, respectively, that’s who they will forever be known as.

Mr. Siddons was my tenth grade history teacher. His father was one of the last of the old school door to door sales people who had sold insurance to my grandparents. He was also my brother’s history teacher two years earlier. So there’s sort of a familial relationship there too.

Mr. Siddons was probably the most benign person you’d ever meet. He had a soft tone and rarely yelled. But the one trait he had that I’ll never forget was the ability to tell the lamest jokes. You know the ones I mean, something like: “Why did the chicken cross the road? Because He had to go the bathroom”. And he’d always give out a “Mr. Siddons” laugh. Nothing outrageous or anything. He would just kind of chuckle to himself. You could tell he must have been up all night thinking about it. How he’d deliver it and the kids would go crazy.

At first his shtick didn’t go over too well with me. But by the end of the first month of class I actually looked forward to the little gems he’d throw out. Even though most all were met with crickets (and he must have felt like the size of an ant in a room full of elephants) he never let it get to him. He’d always chuckle, wipe his mouth and seque with “Ok, let’s take a look at the Gulf of Tonkin”….

Strangely enough, every day after having learned about Tonkin, the Volstead Act or some war to end all wars I remember giggling to myself reciting a joke over and over in my head as I walked out of the room. Surely, a joke I would never utter to anyone else. Maybe that was really his shtick. To get me to try to remember them.

During my junior and senior years I rarely got down to the part of the school where Mr. Siddons and others of his “ilk” resided. But on the occasion that I did or saw him in the hall he would always say “Hi” to me and call me by name. He always remembered me. And I’d never forget him.

Let’s transfer over to Mr. Fox in the Art department. A short, grey bearded man with a limp. Mr. Fox had suffered from polio as a child and as a result he walked a bit strangely. Sadly, I’m sure he was the butt of many jokes from cruel students but I think by this point in his life he was immune to all.

Art class was a means of escape for me. I loved to draw and became an affection ado for Bob Ross. I could watch that dude for hours paint a happy little tree. And while we never painted those trees in Mr. Fox’s class it was still a way for me to forget about all the problems of the day.

We all knew Mr. Fox must have been an artist himself. And one day we found out what he loved to do. We came into class to see these miniature models of a circus that he had constructed himself. Everything he painstakingly made from scratch with his own two hands. You could see the pride in his eyes. This guy was GOOD.

But the one day that really stands out for me was when we were drawing the human figure. We’d have students go up and just stand there while the rest of us drew. I could always draw the body (even cool detail on their Converse sneakers with rainbow shoe laces) but never the face. It never came out right. I spent a long time on it and it just wasn’t happening. He must have seen my frustration because at one point he came over and sat across from me. It was just me and him…face to face.

He looked at my piece and was impressed. Then he asked me why I was so frustrated. I told him it was because as hard as I tried I could never get the face to be anywhere close to being right. So he took a piece of paper and started doodling…all the while looking at me and just saying things like “You know, if you really want something and try hard enough, you can make it happen”.

For those thirty seconds or so I was more doubtful than ever…”Yeah, right” I thought to myself. Then he stood up and told me “Keep up the good work Jim”, and passed me the paper he was doodling on.

As he walked away I picked up the paper and looked at it. The old guy with the limp had just drawn a picture of my face. One where even the subject (in this case, yours truly)  would say “That looks just like ME”….he did that in thirty seconds of just scribble.

Finally, we move on to the music department, my personal favorite. I could write a novel on my exploits here (including the day I officially became a ROCK STAR opening for Clay Aiken) but we’ll save that for another time. Suffice to say, I credit most of my music “success” to the days of high school music theory and choir.

Mr. Milisits (or “M” as he is known) would conduct the huge high school choir. One that won many awards over the years. I’m sure for many; choir was like art class was for me. Just a way to get out of taking another boring subject. But that soon changed. Somehow, he would take a group of kids and make them WANT to sing.

He would always tell us inspirational things to keep pushing us. Quotes like “You can do this”, “A new mistake shows progress” and “Talk to me” resonated with everyone. He just had “something” that made you want to work hard.

During my senior year, it was his teaching that made me want to play guitar in jazz band and the school play. Now, to get a metal head that wanted nothing to do with ANY after school activity and would spend most of his free time jamming to Bon Jovi and Def Leppard to perform “Leader of the Pack” is really saying something.  That M’s got some strong kung-fu.

When it came time to perform, be it at school or somewhere in Canada, it was really like “rock star” night for the choir. And well, I even got to play that black heavy metal guitar during our spring concert. One that hangs on the wall in my office right to this day that I still play.

I could bore you for hours on how M’s classes changed me but let me just end by saying those classes are the best memories I have from high school.

A few years ago I had the opportunity to rejoin “M” and a few other alumni as he is now the director of the Lehigh Saengerbund Chorus.We’re preparing to perform at Allentown Symphony Hall in early June, twenty-five years after I last sat with him in high school concert choir.

As I sit in rehearsals now there’s no wayback back machine required. It’s like re-living a part of all the best days of being in school again. That old feeling of “you can do it” and “new mistakes show progress” are back.

And it’s all good.

Life

Dear Jim Letter

It was a rainy Saturday morning and very apropos if you ask me. I awoke very early to the sound of thunder and could sleep no longer.

As I stumbled down the stairs listening to the rain pound on the rooftop the grumpiness I once had for the Sandman’s lack of personal attention slowly began to subside.

You see, the routine I have every Saturday morning is simple and never changes. I like to sit on my nice comfy couch, drink coffee and read the morning newspaper. My wife and daughter would still be asleep and there’d be no television or phone calls. Just peace and quiet. Caffeine and news print. This was definitely “ME” time.

And the idea that I was awake even earlier than usual only reinforced my joy. I knew that now I’d have even more quiet time alone then usual. So all I could think about was getting the old Keurig fired up, grabbing the newspaper and curling up on the couch. The fact that I could also listen to an early summer rainstorm in the background was a bonus.

The kitchen seemed darker than usual this morning. Natural light had just begun to fill the room and I could see the rain pounding the outside window above the sink. The sound of the refrigerator turning itself on was comforting. But that’s when I noticed something was missing from the nearby family room.

The big comfy couch.

The one that I spend my Saturday mornings reading newspapers and drinking coffee upon was gone. Surprisingly, all of the end tables and lamps were still in their places. Even my beloved 50″ flat screen television that was my portal to Hollywood and grid iron games was still mounted on the wall untouched. Only the couch was gone.

My heart sank as I thought immediately that my home had been robbed overnight. I thought of all the things that would be missing and all of the horrible things that might have been done to my family while we slept.

I reached for the phone to dial the police but noticed a simple white letter lying on the kitchen table. The hand writing on it was one that I didn’t recognize. Too neat to be my daughter and not in the style of my wife.

Something told me to pick it up and read it. The paper was white and crisp and the ink on the page barely dry. I’ll read it to you now verbatim:

Dearest Jim,

I know this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be done. Writing like this. But it’s the only option I have left. I’ve put up with a lot these past few years and I am left with nothing but tears.

Being with you has been wonderful at times. You’ve taught me so much and for that I will always be grateful.

But the time has come to say goodbye. We’re simply not meant to be together.

I’ll always cherish the way you’d leave crumbs from your sandwiches and popcorn lying in my cushions. The long naps we’d take together. The laughs we’d share when you’d “accidentally” break wind on me. But most of all, I’ll remember our Saturdays together.

Sadly though, you have your ways and I have mine. Nothing in the middle seems to make sense.

I do still love you. But the pain that lies beneath the happiness has become more than I can take. We are too good to settle for something that will just never be.

I wish you everything good life has to offer and a happiness that will endure.

Goodbye,

Couch

A tear came to my eye and there was a feeling of emptiness in my heart. I won’t sugar coat it.  I’m the first to admit that I’m not perfect. And I’ve had plenty of relationships end badly before. I can’t remember if I’ve ever received a “Dear Jim” letter before but there is one thing I do know. I’ve never been dumped by a couch. Ever.

As the Keurig finished brewing I took in a deep breath and blew it out. Rain continued to pound on the roof and for a moment I felt like dashing out and finding my beloved. In the end though I realized I had to just let it go and move on.

I dragged a chair from the kitchen table to where the couch used to be and sat down. The coffee didn’t taste as good as it normally does. I only hope this isn’t a sign of the way Saturday mornings were now going to be.

1980's, Survivor

Survivor: The Next Generation

It’s been 27 years, 2 months and 15 days. But who’s counting?

Nearly 10,000 days. That’s the duration of time between when I first saw the band Survivor perform at Stabler Arena in Bethlehem, PA and the day I took my daughter Jillian to see them for the very first time this past Sunday at Penns Peak.

Oh sure, we went to Hershey Park a few summers ago when the band was there but let’s be honest: when you put an 8-year-old girl in an amusement park surrounded by chocolate it’s damn near impossible to get her to sit still for an audio assault of classic rock.

So, while Mom and child made their way around the park Dad took one for the team. I know, it’s a tough job.

But Sunday night was the ideal night. It had been almost seven years since Jimi Jamison fronted the band and it would be Jillian’s first time to see and hear the band her Dad’s been clamoring about since she first wondered what that “Vital Signs” album was doing hanging on the wall in his office.

If you are a classic rock, hair-metal or country music lover Penns Peak is the absolute best place to see a show. It reminds me so much of the intimacy that Stabler Arena had. A venue that when you first walk in you can literally read the band’s name on the drum header without the need of binoculars. As far as I’m concerned a concert isn’t just a band playing for you. You need to be part of the experience. A concert is when the band is playing WITH you.

As Jillian and I stood in the second row the band ran through a gambit of hits and even a few surprises as well. Truth be told, it’s been a long time since I’ve heard them sound this good. And this was only their fourth show together with this new line-up. A sign of good things to come!

We were extremely fortunate to get back stage passes for a quick meet and greet with the band after the show.

Jillian, an aspiring singer herself, asked Jimi (one of the greatest male rock vocalists of all time) if he had any advice for her. This is what he said:

Persistence. Just keep singing. The more you do it, the better you get. That’s the best advice I can give you!

My mind is a bit faded since that Survivor concert two dozen years ago and for the longest time it was hard for me to try to put into words how I felt the night I saw them for the very first time.

That was until a friend showed me a picture she had taken of Jillian and me after the show was over. Then I figured it out.

After the band said goodbye and got into the van to take them back to the hotel Jillian and i stood there for a minute basking in the glow. It was at this point that a simple song lyric came to mind:

We will remember this first night together. After all the songs fade away and the stage fades to gray.

As we were making our way out a stage hand from the band came over and asked Jillian if she had gotten an “official” Survivor Frankie Sullivan guitar pick.

After she told him that she didn’t he took one that he had gotten from the stage and handed it to her as if it might mean something.

Truthfully, it did.

Thought and Opinion

The Five Senses Of Motorcycle

It’s a beautiful spring day in mid April. The kind where the temperature is unusually perfect. By that I mean not overbearingly cold or windy which is typically the norm for this time of year.

I think I’m going to take my motorcycle for a ride. In fact, a day like this pretty much requires it. Riding a bike on a day like this is spiritual catharsis.

I’m not one of those people who has to ride the bike everywhere I go. To me, motorcycle riding is sacred. I’ll never ride my bike on the highway on long trips. Not just because of the danger factor but also because it’s pointless.

I’ve come to the conclusion that any thing that requires using a “from here to there” means of transportation is what a car is for.

In fact, other than two wheels, there is another huge difference between cars and bikes. Cars are meant for “driving” while bikes are meant for “riding”.

People often ask me what makes riding one so special. It’s easy to explain.

Have you ever driven in a convertible? Do you remember that feeling you had of the top being down? The wind in your hair? Well, imagine that times ten. That’s what it’s like on a bike.

Also, when you ride you immediately become a member of an exclusive club with full benefits. For you see, there’s a special camaraderie among motorcyclists too.

It’s the only means of transportation where, no matter what kind of bike you have, when you pass someone coming in the opposite direction of you also riding a motorcycle expect a head nod or to be waved to. It took me a few times to figure out what that salute was all about.

It’s actually a means of communication between two motorcyclists. A language only we can understand. We’re both members in a special club. Essentially, it’s saying we are one in the same.

Motorcycling to me is all about the experience. It fuels the senses. Every last one of them. Even if it’s a simple trip through the back roads to clear your head. There is nothing in the world that can compare to the feeling of being in control of a motorcycle.

Let me explain what I mean by fueling the senses:

Seeing: When you’re out on the road you have a better visual of the world. From the green pastures to the asphalt. The beautiful sky, the animals of the forest and the old structures you pass near farm lands is simply breathtaking. You can take in as little or as much as you want. There are no limits.

Riding without the constraints of a car surrounding you puts you more in tune with nature.

Hearing: The sound of the bike as you shift gears is exhilarating. Listening to the water fall as you drive past the creek or the birds chirping makes you one with it.

Smelling: I still remember the first time I smelled honeysuckle while riding my bike past a field. It was a smell I hadn’t sensed since I was a child. It’s always there but, like many other things, I was always too busy to immerse myself in it.

Then there’s the smell of fresh bread as you drive past Maiers bakery. Can there be anything better? Only perhaps the smell of someone cooking out on the grill. It gives you the feeling that there’s a picnic somewhere you need to get to.

Touching: One hand on the gas and the other one on the clutch. The feeling of power and control. Sounds corny I know, but it’s true.

There’s also the temperature change element. You really feel the coolness on your skin as you wind your way into “cool spots” along your journey.

Finally, the touch of a beautiful woman holding on to your waist as you drive her through the back roads is a feeling that words just can not express.

In summation, riding a motorcycle is freedom. Do it safely and it’s almost like flying. There’s no need to be in a hurry. You can clear your head, relive your childhood, stop and smell the roses, be with someone special. In a nutshell, it’s the best of everything. So, yeah, I think I’m going to indulge.

Oops, I almost forgot the most important sense when riding a motorcycle.

Easily summed up: When you ride a motorcycle, you taste life.

So, who wants to ride with me?

Life

Today Was A Good Day

I took a drive over to the South Side of Easton today. A place where I had spent the first twenty years of my life. An area that no matter where life takes me will always be “home” to me.

It was a beautiful Spring day. The sun was shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Nothing but a deep shade of blue as far as the eye could see. I got off the highway exit and onto South Side proper a man on a mission.

With windows rolled down and the 80’s on 8 station blaring “I Can’t Hold Back” from Survivor it may have seemed a bit apropos but all things considered I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. I pulled into the parking lot of the local pizza shop named Pino’s. One of the last true remaining food joints in South Side.

Growing up in the late 70’s and early 80’s we had places like Barney’s and Hucks for cheese steaks, Lucy’s for penny candy and Brother Brights Soul Food Store for the more acquired taste. Sadly, the proprietors of those establishments have long since gone on to their great reward. The only one that still remains a fixture of South Easton is Pino’s Pizza.

The shop has been called “Pino’s” for as long as I can remember and is still the only place in the area where you can get a real pizza that isn’t from one of those faux pizza places like Dominos or Papa Johns.

Pino’s sits as part of strip mall next to a grocery store. A place where as a child you would grab a slice while waiting for your parents to finish grocery shopping, which I did on numerous occasions.

Over the course of my lifetime its gone through several owners and at least three remodels but as far as I’m concerned, as long as it keeps the Pino’s name and location it will forever be associated with me.

As I got out of my car and made my way to the door I could hear off in the distance the sound of lawn mowers humming along at the housing development nearby. The sound of which reminded me of all the spring days I spent as a teenager covered in grass and gasoline mowing lawns while accumulating money to grab a slice and a Coke at Pino’s.

I walked inside and saw two people who, like me are synonymous with South Side. We’ve been friends since elementary school and try to get together every so often just to catch up. And of course, our rendezvous point is Pino’s. Oh sure, we chat regularly via email and the social networks but there’s just something about being face to face in a familiar place that’s nostalgic. Especially a place where you spent your own childhood.

It amazes me just thinking about how the three of us have all grown up and now lead lives of our own and how, as we discuss the current events in each of our busy lives the conversation always turns to how much we love Pino’s. We all have the same common bond with the place that each of us ate lunch and had late night pizza binges at dozens of years ago.

After we had said our goodbyes and made a promise to get together again soon I decided to drive past the old laundromat that stands not too far from Pino’s. It too is a place that I spent plenty of hours in growing up playing video games while waiting for my Mom and Grandmother to finish drying our clothes.

I peered inside and could smell the familiar fragrance of detergent and fabric softener as the clothes were drying. I thought to myself that one day I’m going to have to go in there again just for old times sake.

I suppose it would have to be at a time when it wasn’t so crowded though. I don’t think it would look right if someone were to see a forty-year old man tearing up inside of a laundromat.

Needless to say, a smile came across my face as I turned up the radio and headed for home. “Our House” by Madness blared through the speakers and my smile turned into a laugh. I love the 80’s.

Every day I am constantly reminded how blessed I am to just be alive and still be able to spend days with good friends at Pinos.

1980's, Life

Sick Days

Ever have one of those days where you get up in the morning and just feel like calling in sick? Today is one of those days.

Unfortunately, I don’t get “sick days” at my job. Any time off used must be taken in vacation days so a spur of the moment “I don’t feel like going in” day just isn’t worth it.

Why can’t sick days be like they were when I was in school?

When I got “sick” on a school day (which, strangely seemed to always happen the day of a big test) my grandmother (Nan) was always there to nurse me back to “health”.

The kitchen would be filled with the smell of chicken soup (her cure for what ails ya) and I would always plead with her to give me a dose of St. Joseph’s Cough Medicine. My  “illnesses” almost always came with a cough and luckily the medicine had a grape flavor.

But of the dozen or so sick days I took over the course of my school career there are two things I remember most from spending those days with her.

1. The Cash Line: A local AM radio station that played oldies music ran this promotion for years in the early 1980’s. They would start with $100 and at the top of every hour during the work day would randomly look up someone in the phone book from the local area and call them.

When someone answered the phone they would ask that person if they knew the amount of money in the “Cash Line”. If the person got the amount correctly he or she would win that amount. If they didn’t know the answer, the station would add increments to it and continue the contest until someone won. Then they’d start it all over again.

Nan religiously followed this contest for several years. She kept a little notepad near the radio and methodically keep track of every dollar amount. She was SURE they were going to call her one day and she’d win $150 or some other small amount of money.

So, while I got to listen to Dean Martin and old Motown hits all day long I’d watch Nan come running over every time she heard the little promo that they were about to call someone. “Get off the phone!” she’d yell to anyone who dared make a phone call at the top of the hour. “The Cash Line is on!”

The other thing that was always big in my house on sick days for me was watching “The Price is Right” with her from 11 am – noon. There’s something to be said for lying on the couch under a blanket while Bob Barker had people “Come On Down!” And if by some chance they had a $20,000 sports car and a double showcase winner it was the greatest thing ever.

I almost had Nan give me a high-five the one time someone won them both but thought better of it. Surely the jig would be up and she’d send me back to the confines of Easton Area High School.

Eventually though, usually by the end of the school day, I’d recover from the mysterious malady that had afflicted me and be well enough to go back to school. And while I sat in the classroom the next day I’d often wonder if Nan had won the Cash Line (she never did) and if she’d tell me someone had won both showcases when I got home.

You know the old saying, “You don’t know what you’ve got until its gone?” This is one of those moments. I miss them.

Sure I could stay home and still watch the Price is Right (albeit without Bob Barker). And I could make myself some chicken soup. But there’s no Cash Line anymore and sadly, my Grandmother has also gone on to better things.

<Sigh!> Looking up at the clock and it’s time to hit the road. Another day of work lies ahead.

Thought and Opinion

Why I Love Mornings

The break of dawn arrives in the tiny town of Easton, Pennsylvania just as it does every morning. You can hear the sound of birds singing from deep within the pine trees welcoming the sun back from its slumber.

The glistening shine of dew covers lawns in every neighborhood and somewhere in Palmer Township a new day has begun.

I’m an early riser. A morning person. I know my numbers are diminishing and it seems as though I may be the last of a dying breed. Most people can’t believe that if it’s 7 am (even on weekends) and I am still in bed I feel like I am missing out on something.

But ironically, like clockwork I am usually up before then. I have some kind of internal thing going on inside that alerts me when it is time to rise.  It’s not strong enough kung-fu to where I can say in my head “5:15 am”, close my eyes and the next time I open them it is that exact time. But the fact of the matter is that on days that I work the alarm will rarely ever have a need to rouse me. I’m THAT good.

You see mornings are something I long for. A time most others take for granted and would like to skip altogether if possible in favor of slumber. But not me. Nothing can compare to that quiet time in the early hours of the day. It awakens the senses. Seeing the morning light of a new day, listening to the birds singing outside an open window, feeling the air as it passes through,  the smell of fresh coffee brewing, the taste of bacon. From my point of view, it’s hard to imagine someone NOT wanting this same thing.

Critics will claim that you can have all of these things when ever you wake up but I beg to differ. It’s not just the act of drinking the coffee or hearing the birds as much as it is the “experience”. To know that through some divine miracle you’ve been given a new morning and you have the entire day ahead of you. What will you do with it?

It’s a time when you can relax and reflect on the events of the day (whether they be school, work or even nothing at all) without rush or worry. Plenty of time to read the newspaper or Internet blogs for those 21st Century types.

Here’s another reason to like mornings: It’s the only me time you may get before your children (who, ironically as they age tend to become non-morning persons) come barreling down the stairs demanding breakfast.

Sadly though, there is one con to this malady my friends claim I am “suffering” from.  The trade-off for getting up early means obviously going to bed early also. Unless I am out somewhere already I rarely stay up past 10 pm.  I am more than tired by then.  But just one look at programming on television at that time of the night is enough to send anyone running for the sheets so it’s not like I am missing anything.

Unfortunately, this is where family and friends usually find reason to ridicule me because of my “school night” sleep pattern.

Call me an old man if you must but I’m not ashamed. I prefer to look at it this way: The sooner I fall asleep the closer I am to morning.

Good Morning!

1980's, Childhood Memories

Take A Walk

It was one of those afternoons where I had to make a quick run to the store for a few items. Nothing major at all and quite frankly it probably could’ve waited until a bigger shopping excursion was needed. But I was never one to go too long without my green tea so off I went.

I quickly grabbed the keys and proceeded to the garage to take the car on a trek of two miles to the local grocery. Driving everywhere has simply become routine for me, whether it be a bread and milk run or to a neighbor’s house several blocks away.

On the short drive there, and as is usually the case, my peripheral vision took over and my mind began to wander. Funny, I didn’t think about what else I may need at the store or if I should stop and get gas while I’m out. No, I actually started thinking about all the places I used to WALK to growing up.

You see, those were the days when my Mom and Dad almost always said “No” to taking me on short little runs to play video games at the Palmer Park Mall or obtain comic books at Mr. Monster’s Comic Crypt. It quickly got to the point to where I didn’t even bother asking them anymore. I’d just gather up my posse of friends and we’d put our boots on the ground (or Chuck Taylor’s with rainbow colored shoe-laces. After all we’re talking about the 1980′s here).

I remember how we used to walk downtown to go to Mr. Monster’s on Fridays in the summer when the new shipment of books arrived. We never even second guessed if we should be doing it. We just did it. The walk was insignificant compared to what awaited us. The new adventures of Spider-man or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles always came before the thought of possibly developing a charlie horse in the leg.

Perhaps it was also because we had nothing else to do but that didn’t really matter. We had no problem walking long distances through green pastures and city streets. Feeling the heat of the sun and the warm summer breezes. It was the camaraderie of teenage boys without responsibility taking a long walk. Talking about life, sports and music. Oh yeah, and girls too of course. They seemed to become less and less icky with each passing summer.

One of the longest walks we used to make was from South Side Easton, Pennsylvania to Phillipsburg, New Jersey to go to a hobby store. An interstate trek of about 4 1/2 miles. It was on this journey that we would take a “short-cut” and use the train trestle bridge that spanned 40 feet above the Lehigh River to cross over state lines.

We’d climb up huge hills and over rocks, scuffing up knees and twisting our ankles just to make it onto that railroad track. And while walking over the bridge our only concerns were one: to never look down and two: hope that we had timed it just right and there would be no train coming.

Far along the other side of the track, on the New Jersey side, stood an old rusty-metal train signal that always glowed a solid red light. And we, with our teenage engineering degrees, took that as meaning there was no train approaching.

On one occasion as we were about halfway across the bridge I noticed that the light had suddenly changed color from red to green and my heart skipped a beat. Even though we couldn’t see or hear any locomotive approaching I don’t think I was ever more afraid in my entire life.

The gaggle of us took off as fast as we could making it to the other side in seconds flat. I remember having to console one friend who was really having a hard time with the situation in mid sprint. “Wood?”, he said. “I’m scared”. I responded the way any caring friend would. “Shaddap! Don’t be scared… RUN!”.

As we sat on the side of the tracks, now well off of the bridge and gasping for air we all looked at each other and began laughing. No train ever came but looking back now and thinking about how we could have easily been taken out by one it certainly was one of the most stupidest things we ever did.

I was quickly transported back to present day as I realized that I had pulled into the parking lot at the grocery store. I could actually feel my heart racing a bit from thinking about that mad dash on the trestle 25 years ago. I quickly stocked up on my green tea and made a hasty return home.

Arriving back in my garage I thought again about those walks. Not so much about my near death experience but the idea of walking when possible. The thought of green pastures, city streets and summer breezes sounds very appealing so I’m hoping that for my next green tea run I’ll be able to lace up the Chuck Taylor’s and two-step it to the store.

After all, it’s not that far… and there’s no train trestle to cross.