Auld Lang Sigh

I don't have an actual bucket list. Yes, there are some cool things I have done that I am glad I was able to do and one is celebrating New Year's Eve in Times Square. This is something that I feel kinda proud to tell people I have experienced but I would never, not in a million years, ever do it again.

The day started out pretty well. It was a warmer December evening - coat, hat, gloves required but not so cold you needed layers. My college boyfriend had family in New Jersey so we were able to take the train into the city and would not need to park in Manhattan. We went early in the afternoon and were able to enjoy a tasty corned beef on rye sandwich at a deli in Times Square and then join the excitement outside.

New York City is a buzz on a normal day but it was electric on this holiday eve. As we sat in the deli with the sounds of Abba's Greatest Hits pumping through the establishment I did not believe I could be any happier. Looking around at all the people from all corners of the world joined together I felt like the main character in the off the wall 90's film Muriel's Wedding. When things were going right in her life she would say, "My life is as good as an Abba song."

After we left the deli and were walking around I noticed store owners were boarding up their windows. I wondered why this was necessary. Were these precautions for the festivities or were they expecting a hurricane, I thought to myself, but with the bars of Fernando still fresh in my mind, I did not give it a second thought. Besides I was about to see Dick Clark.

When we got to Times Square, there were barricades all along the perimeter. Once we passed through we were supposed to stay put. As the area continued to fill up with people you were not guaranteed a spot if you left and wanted to come back. There was a heavy police presence in 1995, but probably only a fraction of what is needed today. The officers were pretty strict and seemed to be focused on keeping order.

It was very cool to see the stage where Dick Clark was set up to broadcast. It would be hours before the show would begin, but by 9 p.m. we were in our place. Unfortunately, we were behind the stage and would not be able to see him or his guests. "Who cares," I thought, still in my own Waterloo. "We have the big Times Square screen and will be able to see and hear everything anyway."

About an hour into the standing, listening to the countdown of hits from 1995, I felt like an animal caged in the zoo. My boyfriend and I realized we would not be able to go to the bathroom for a long time. Others around us, who had probably been on a bar crawl prior to getting into the pen, did not let their surroundings stop them. Many young men were relieving themselves where they stood - in the street! This was the first time the melody to my Abba soundtrack started to hit some sour notes. I was disgusted and made sure their celebratory stream wasn't running my way.

As the clock got closer to 11 I kept waiting to hear Dick's voice. We were still watching videos for the year end music countdown and our conversation had died out. I am not sure where this countdown came from but there were not many songs I recognized. At the time I was a DJ at my college radio station and had my finger on the pulse of popular music. These songs weren't striking any chords with me and I was starting to get tired.

I was starting to think nostalgically of the years I spent ringing in the New Year with my family. I was longing to be by our fireplace breathing in smoke and getting ready to beat pots and pans. I tried to force those thoughts out of my head because spending New Year's Eve in New York was cool and I was cool, damn it. I wasn't a baby who needed her family.

It was almost 11:30 and still no audio from the big ABC show. I thought for sure it would be Dick's voice I would hear counting us down to the new year. Now the only thing getting me through was the big finish- the ball drop and the kiss in Times Square. I somehow expected Rhett Butler to deliver my lips the smooch of a lifetime - the most romantic experience of my young life.

The ball seems really close on TV with cameras zoomed in. In person it was far away, like another galaxy. And the kiss, as soon as our lips touched and the confetti fell we were on the move. I was surprised at how quickly people departed. I guess the people near the Dick Clark stage stay put for a while in the hopes of getting on TV but in the port a potty I was standing in, people were ready to vaminos.

Once on the sidewalk, my feet did not touch the ground. The crowd of people leaving was so jam packed we got caught up in it. I was barely able to hold onto my boyfriend's jacket but knew if I let go I would get trampled or lost. Getting lost would be quite the predicament since we did not yet have cell phones and I did not know his family's number in New Jersey. The movement of bodies almost took my breath away and I could not wait to reach the train station.  I finally understood the boarded up windows.

Even without Dick Clark, I continue to watch his countdown show each year. I know if I had not had this experience years ago I would wonder what it would be like to be in Times Square on New Year's Eve. I would think it must be a romantic experience, one that I would like to share with my husband for that magical midnight kiss.

Luckily, I checked that experience off my list at a time when I was young and naïve enough to endure it. These days I keep it local, with a smaller crowd, and a clean bathroom with easy access. With three kids who stay up past their bedtime, the 12:00 a.m. kiss lasts as long as the one in Times Square decades ago, but when it's over the longest walk I have is to my bedroom and there's only one other person fighting to get to the same spot.

Happy New Year!

Stuck In The Middle With You

It is weird how you become instant friends with people when you are in a crisis. Ok. It wasn't actually a crisis - it was me thinking I could get where I needed to go during a Parkway East closure by using the exits that were still open. You can stop laughing now.

I left the North Shore on Saturday at 12:10 p.m. I proceeded to the Parkway East in an attempt to take the Oakland Exit and arrive at Carnegie Mellon for my son's orchestra performance. My GPS said it would take 6 minutes. Much like the lyrics in the Gilligan's Island theme song - where a three hour tour became years, my six minute jaunt across town took one hour and forty minutes.

I am not familiar with the ins and outs of driving in Pittsburgh. Since I never worked in the city, it never became a place I was intimate with. When I first got my driver's license I was not allowed to drive into Pittsburgh. That was off limits. To get around that, my boyfriend and I would take the Parkway East, exit at Stanwix, turn around and come home - all because we just wanted to catch a glimpse of our picturesque skyline.

12:15 p.m. There was nothing picturesque about where I was stuck on Saturday. As soon as I merged onto the Parkway I knew I was in trouble. The Forbes Exit lane was backed up to Grant Street and that was my destination. I texted my son and told him I might be late. I had 50 minutes. But as I looked around all three lanes filled up quickly. There was no where to go. And nothing to look at. The city was behind me and the view of the river was - Pittsburgh winter. Brown and blah.

12:20 p.m. My first thought was food and my second was that I was pretty much on E, but food first. I had bought my youngest a value pack of raisins the night before. Within seconds I devoured that box and only wished there was a street vendor with coffee and chocolate walking through traffic like the t-shirt guy I saw when the Grateful Dead was in town in June of '95. Today no such luck.

12:30 p.m. It was interesting to watch people in cars near by straining their necks to see what was going on up ahead. We could only guess that an accident out of view had caused the major back up we were stranded in. People were rolling down their windows talking to each other like buddies who they had not seen in a while. When a police officer could not get through the bumper to bumper traffic, he left his car and departed on foot. Yes, this was going to take some time.

12:40 p.m. Because I am a person who is always doing something I was out of my element. Forced to sit somewhere and do nothing is not how I roll. I had Christmas cards to write out, lists to make, online shopping to do, but without the cards and my laptop - the North Pole grinded to a halt. There I was left to sit and observe.

12:50 p.m. In forty minutes, I had not moved. I texted my son and told him I would not be there for his performance. People in front of me started to do the unthinkable. Within this confined space, they were turning around to head in the opposite direction. This prospect seemed like my best bet, since I would soon run out of gas, but it would involve me backing up my van, possibly a 15 point turn, in order to escape the Parkway.

12:55 More and more cars were doing this - the lady next to me rolled down her window and asked if I would be attempting an exodus. (In order for her to leave, I had to leave.) I told her I didn't think so. I said, "I am not so good at going backward."

She was facing the good side of the van - the one with the side-view mirror in tact and without a huge dent in the front. Had she seen those she might not have asked but she said she would guide me through. And she did - letting me know how much room I had. "Keep going", "You're doing good",
"You got this."

At one point I was lined up next to another car waiting his turn to get out. Both our windows were down on this cold, cold day and I asked him if he saw what happened up ahead. He didn't see anything either but assured me it must be an accident.

1:10 p.m. I was in line to make an exit onto Grant Street. The traffic light at the top of the ramp allowed commuters to inch ever so slowly to freedom.  When I finally reached CMU it was 1:40. I missed the performance, but I was able to catch a glimpse of humanity. In a bad situation, the people around me were able to keep their cool and even assist others who they had never met. Times like these make me realize -we are all in this together and a little kindness from a stranger can be a positive keepsake during an inconvenient afternoon.

Saints Are Among Us...Really

Now that we have jumped head first into the Christmas season, there is a lot of talk about Santa Claus' alias - St. Nick. Growing up Byzantine Catholic, looking at ornate icons of the saints during liturgy each Sunday, I could never quite understand how the man we know as Santa originated from St. Nick but as long as there were presents involved, who was I to question it.

St. Nicholas Day (December 6) was celebrated each year when I was little by putting our shoes by the door the night before in hopes of receiving small treats and money. There was nothing extravagant about St. Nick Day but I remember fondly the chocolates, coins and sometimes dollar bills that would be waiting in the morning. (Tradition has it that St. Nicholas once secretly threw bags of dowry money into the window of a poor family to save the daughters from being sold into slavery which morphed into the shoe custom of today.)

As a young girl I attended a Catholic school in McKeesport which was named for St. Nicholas. December 6 was celebrated first by going to liturgy, then special lunch in the cafeteria with a visit by the saint himself. I am not sure who had the honor of dressing up in the bishop's vestments (appropriate for Nicholas who during his lifetime served as a bishop in a small Turkish town) but once he arrived we would stand and sing the Hymn to St. Nicholas in both English and Church Slavonic.

I was a painfully shy child and I did not like it very much when I was called to "perform" in front of people. Once I started taking piano lessons, I became the reluctant Liberace whenever someone came to visit. "Kris, play that new one you just learned. You know that one I like with the da-da-da and bab-bab-baaa." Yes, my parents were proud just to hear me play but I was so nervous I could hardly read the notes. I tried to get through a piece as quickly as possible so I could be done.

One day when I was six, we went to visit my grandpap Nick in the nursing home and I was once again called to perform. This time I was asked to sing the Church Slavonic version of the St. Nick hymn. Obviously, I did not want to do this. I could muster my way ok enough through the English but seriously, another language? Plus, my grandfather was suffering with Alzheimer's disease and did not recognize anyone in the room that day. Not my mom, not his wife and certainly not me. 'So why did I have to sing,' I thought?

I did not want to disappoint my mom even though I was troubled by selfish thoughts. It did not occur to me at the time how painful it must have been for her to be there with her father who was not present - or so I thought.

I began singing and within the first few words, I had accompaniment. My grandfather joined me without missing a beat. He did not remember his family but he remembered the words to a song he probably sang countless times on his name saint's feast day. As you can imagine the tears flowed freely from the eyes of my mother and her mother, once again catching a glimpse of the man they knew. At the tender age of six, I was not able to fully comprehend what was happening at that moment and could only wonder why these ladies, who had asked me to sing in the first place, were now obviously upset. Six-year-olds do not know how to recognize tears of joy.

Now decades after that beautiful memory, I have my own Nicholas, named after his great-grandfather. He has a special meal each year on his feast day and even though he is a teenager, he did get excited this week when I asked him what he would like me to prepare. And yes, he and his siblings will put out their shoes the night before.

At church on Sunday my dad will  play the part of St. Nicholas for our Sunday School students. Once again I will hear the words that gave my grandfather a voice in the silence of his disease. Centuries ago, St. Nicholas may have secretly brought gifts of money to the poor but in the 80's he gave my family the sweetest gift when two unlikely voices joined in his name, bringing joy to our world that Christmas season.

The Theory of Rela-tail-vity

Not many people know my dog's full name. Yes, he goes by Albert but his proper name is Albert Von Pupsley III. My husband and I came up with that gem shortly after we brought him home 15 years ago. He was just a little tan beagle, with sharp teeth and a lot of energy.


Albert was my 9/11 impulse. Right after that tragic day I started taking stock of my life. I was thinking of the things I wanted to do and just hadn't got to. I was a newlywed, two years into this thing called love, so at that time my thoughts included my husband's wants and desires too. He had talked about getting a dog, like the ones he had growing up. Since we were interested in starting a family, we wanted to see if first, we could take care of something of the canine variety.


I had the pleasure of meeting his final boyhood pet Dixie, a beagle mix. She was an old dog when we met and loved to bark. She was always trying to get food off of the table and did not pipe down when company came to call. I remember how annoying I thought she was but I also remember how cute she and my husband (boyfriend at the time) were together. They had a special relationship obvious by their endearing cuddle. It was sweet.


In October 2001, we were just days away from our second wedding anniversary when I suggested going to an animal shelter. We didn't make it past the first one before meeting Albert. He was one of three siblings: Madame, Albert and Einstein. (Clever, huh?) It dawned on me recently that the Madame was probably for Madame Curie, another well known physicist, but for us it wasn't about science. It was about the white patch of fur that only Albert had, the one thing that set him apart from the others. We fell hard. Ok, to be truthful, I fell hard.


I am not sure how things are today, but back then the shelter had to do a background check on Albert's prospective family. How was our apartment? Was there room for him to run? Would we provide a safe environment? We were worried that we would not make the cut because we lived on the 3th floor of an old Victorian house converted into apartments. There really was no yard but luckily we lived next door to a dog park.

The night of our anniversary we got the call - we could bring Albert home in three days! We rushed through our "romantic" dinner so we could hit the pet store. Nothing was too good for our puppy - decorative food and water bowls, squeaky toys and a long leash. We were ready.


I remember picking him up on a beautiful Virginia fall day. When we got to our apartment, he jumped out of my arms, ran and hid under the car. He was scared and shaking. My husband crawled under the car to get him out and from there our adventure began. Of course, as it would work out, within eight months we had another little one, the first of three kids that would spend their childhood with a beagle - the only pet they've known.


Fast forward ...Albert is now 15 and definitely in the autumn of his life. He has certainly slowed down and most recently has been suffering from the affects of arthritis. He is more like a cat in some ways because each time we think this is it, he bounces back. Although he may not have nine lives he has had quite a few.


A couple of weeks ago he would not get out of his crate in the morning. This is a dog that goes outside at least 10 times before everyone leaves for school/work in the morning. I believe Albert's number 1's and 2's are completely treat motivated which makes going outside a rewarding experience on many levels. But the day he wouldn't get out of his crate, we knew something was wrong.


A few days later he had a seizure. This was a bad experience and one that I was so thankful for divine intervention. On a normal day, at the time the event happened, my husband would have been at work. That day he was off - he handled Albert for hours until he was right again. All I could do was sit in the living room and cry.


For days afterward he could not get around without stumbling. He looked like cartoon Bambi when he slid across the ice. All fours stretched out. I wanted to know if this was it. Was he going to break a leg? Was he in pain?


We took Albert to the vet a few days later to calm our fears. Yes, the arthritis has gotten worse, but to find out what caused the seizure would take hundreds of dollars of tests. The vet could pick up on our pathetic vibe, wanting to do more, but limited financially. She gave us some medicine, assured us that we were still good pet owners, despite not going further with the testing. She said animals do not indicate pain the way humans do. Their pupils may dilate and that is it. She said from experience, beagle mixes are stoic in response to pain. After examining Albert he was as she predicted - a very stoic canine.


It has been a few weeks since that visit and Albert has been doing better. In fact, I caught him this week up on the kitchen table reaching for one of the kid's lunch containers to rescue the remains of a peanut butter sandwich. It warms my heart to see glimpses of that puppy from years ago. Because his legs still give out from time to time, I could not get mad about the table incident. I was actually
impressed and may have said, "Way to go, buddy."

But Ronald Reagan Looked Old

Turning 70 is a big deal and then again it isn't. It is sort of like how babies are born every minute of every day, but we often overlook the miraculous things that have to happen in order to hear that first cry. Turning 70 is like that but without the crying or maybe with the crying depending on the person.

The two presidential candidates we were stuck with this year are hovering around 70. Donald Trump is actually 70 and Hillary comes in close at 69. Maybe there were too many other important issues floating around this election like who was grabbing what and who was sent security secrets from a Hotmail account, but their ages took a back seat.

Regardless of who I voted for, I never personally thought, "Wow, Hills is too old to be taking the presidency seriously." (Although her grasp of the email thing might have been a tip off.) Or, "Wow, Donald's comb over is not working for his 70 year old head." (He still wears it as well as he did when he was 40.)

I read an editorial recently about the ballot question to extend Pennsylvania's judicial retirement age to 75. The author pointed out that Baby Boomers have  successfully redefined the word old. Ronald Reagan was the same age as Trump when he took office in January of  1981. Although at the time I was only 6, Reagan seemed old, like my grandpaps. Even looking at photos of him, he looks...well, old.

I run across many Baby Boomers because of my job and to me they don't seem old. (Although my point of reference has changed now that I am old-er and no longer a kid.) They have a vitality that inspires me. I know a hard working lady that put in an 8 hour shift at her job after her chemo treatments. These boomers are tough cookies.

This brings me to another Ronald, not as famous, but every bit admirable. This Ronald is my father. He turns 70 on Saturday. This is an amazing feat on many levels. He was drafted at the age of 17 and spent time as a corpsman in Vietnam. He overcame addiction and is 24 years sober. He has managed heart disease and diabetes to become the oldest living male in generations of his family. (His father died at age 64.)

But while 70 is the new 50 these days, just 100 years ago the life expectancy rate for males was only 49.6. So with that perspective 70 is a big deal and one to celebrate although I am sure advances in modern medicine and Chick-Fil-A's push to 'Eat More Chicken' have been contributing factors.

Although both my grandpaps were gone before I turned 12, I do not remember them being as active as my dad has been in his role of 'Pappy.' Even after calling it quits 4 or 5 times, the simple request from his grandson to throw just one more pitch to hopefully 'get that homer' will keep the game going.

Yes, there are days when my dad gets tired but that lasts only about an hour until his second wind kicks in. Even on days when he doesn't feel 100% he pushes himself even when family members encourage him to take a break today. My mom will say, "You know your Dad."

I do know my dad and I know a lot of what makes him tick makes me tick. I am happy to know that because of my DNA, I'll be more likely to keep fighting than to give up. I'll be more likely to act out a funny story instead of just telling it and I will go to ends of the earth if ever one of my kids needs me to. There is no limit to the love my father has for his children and there is no limit to the love I have for my father.

Don't Panic

I am a struggling Steelers fan. I have been for about the past five years. Don’t get me wrong. I love the Black and Gold and root for them each week, but the players' off-the-field antics over the years have made it hard to be the fan I know I could be. The fan I am when Landry Jones plays.

Growing up in the 70’s near Pittsburgh, I felt like I knew Terry, Lynn, Jack, and Franco. We referred to them using only first names in my parents’ home. Photos of the team were hung on the walls intermingled with family photos. Commemorative I.C. Light cans were the equivalent of anything ordered from a Home Interiors party.

My dad hosted Steelers parties, traveled to Super Bowls - truly enjoyed the excitement of those 70’s teams. The excitement spilled over to us kids and while I did not really understand the game, I was under 6, I did like the snacks, camaraderie and Steelers Polka. We played that 45 until the grooves wore out.

I took some time off from being a fan during college until my senior year when the Steelers went to the Super Bowl. The guys who lived next door were diehard fans. They painted the Steelers’ logo on their living room wall, stacked up their couches like bleachers on game days and made sure there was plenty of I.C. Light on hand.

I don’t remember much talk back then about the players’ off the field character or extracurricular activities. Even if there was, I wasn’t a parent trying to raise three children in a society where positive examples are often few and far between. I was a fun loving 20 something, voting for Perot, listening to Dave Matthews, living on a diet of Oodles of Noodles, Pop Tarts and Coca-Cola. (Talk about the good life!)

There were some shaky times with Big Ben but it appears he has turned his life around and now has a beautiful wife and family. No one can deny he is one of the most talented quarterbacks in the NFL and at times when he throws the football it is truly a thing of beauty – and this coming from a girl who would much rather spend an afternoon at the Carnegie Museum of Art wondering what an artist was thinking than at Heinz Field wondering what Tomlin is thinking.

But then there is Landry. Ok. Maybe I have a slight crush. His hipster look and attitude is nothing short of what my husband brings to the table. Landry’s ‘Don’t Panic’ speech is something I need to hear daily. I go from 1 to bonkers at the slightest hint of a diversion from the plan. I am working on this by repeating the mantra – “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough and doggone it, people like me.” Yeah, so what if I stole it from Stuart Smalley. It works.

Ok, back to Landry. We all know he does not have the precision of Ben Roethlisberger but he has talent. He made some pretty gutsy throws last week, which had me holding my breath. I love stories when people are up against the odds and go out there and do their best when they could easily crumble.

I am drawn to a good underdog story, probably because I have one of my own. I spent a few years of my childhood getting the business because of my speech impediment. I could not make a clear “s” sound to save my life. Braces and speech therapy would later correct this defect. I wish I could go back to that little girl and tell her one day, your voice will be broadcast over both television and radio airways when you become a reporter. Yes, there was a time when that seemed highly unlikely.

A win last Sunday was also highly unlikely but if a bad call, missed field goals and interception weren’t mixed in with those gutsy throws he would have gotten that W.

I want Big Ben to be strong enough and come back to the game as quickly as possible. The team needs him if there is any chance of making it to the playoffs, but I hope Landry gets one more chance to come out there and get that win.

He is not of the caliber of Mr. Roethlisberger but for this gal, rooting for Landry is like rooting for a friend – a friend who may not be the biggest, strongest or most adept for the job but one who has enough heart to inspire us to do our best and to never give up – no matter what the odds makers may say. 

My Edible Glass Slipper

The gorgeous night skies of late have reminded me of when I was a kid growing up in McKeesport. As much as I hated knowing summer was over, the orange-pink and purple sunsets were a pleasing consolation. Standing on our back deck looking at the trees, almost void of leaves silhouetted against the colorful canvas made me…happy.

I remember walking home from school, crunching leaves beneath my feet, daydreaming about – candy. Fall meant Halloween and Halloween meant candy but not just any candy. Delicious Swiss chocolate made with care and precision in a chocolate factory next door to my home.

Now don't get the wrong idea. My next door neighbor was not Willy Wonka and no Oompa Loompas were involved - only a white haired lady named Dorothy. She and her husband operated a candy store that was located on Versailles Avenue but they made their chocolate on Lafayette Street.

This was a dream come true for this little girl who loved and continues her love affair with chocolate. When you have had the best chocolate money can buy within the United States – of course my frame of reference does not go farther west than Ohio or farther south than Virginia – I assume that this chocolate could hold its own worldwide.

Being that Dorothy lived next door, on Halloween I could have just gone to one house and been done, but I was not stupid. When talking about chocolate I wasn't going to turn anything down. I enjoyed a good Hershey Bar as much as the next guy and we're talking about bar size treats not these bite size rip offs from today. But going to Dorothy's was saved until last because we knew, being her neighbors, we were going to get something special.

Bags of foil wrapped chocolate, molded chocolate on a stick, samplers - yeah, we got it all. Sometimes we would need a separate bag for the goodies that Dorothy would be handing out. She was a very generous lady not just on Halloween but on all holidays.

On the days leading up to Christmas I anxiously waited for her to walk up the sidewalk, which for her was no easy task. She needed two canes to get where she wanted to go. Dorothy would have a white paper bag with handles, balanced carefully on one of the canes, weighed down with what she called ‘mistakes', but that just meant they did not meet her high standard of excellence. We could never understand why they didn't make the cut because they looked and tasted ok by us. In fact we would sample a few at time to see if we could detect the imperfections.

At Easter she would bring over her fruit and nut filled eggs, which in honesty were not my favorite, but were a delight to my mother. The Easter Bunny could not compete with Dorothy, which was probably frustrating to my mom who had to think outside the box to fill our baskets. Having anything that resembled the yummy goodness from next door would blow the bunny's cover.

My Grandma Dorothy would walk to the candy shop a few blocks away from her home each Easter to buy our gifts. Mine was a chocolate glass slipper, like that of Cinderella, filled with caramels, melt-a-ways and nut clusters. The slipper was always eaten last, once everything else was gone and I would break it off in sections. I savored the heel – the final and thickest chunk of chocolate.

Although Dorothy and her husband have been gone for decades, her chocolate lives on in a spacious store and factory in White Oak. It is refreshing to be able to walk in, smell the smell that used to envelope my swing set and buy candy that tastes the way it did when I was little.

I was disappointed this past Easter when I filled my kids' baskets with Dorothy's candies and some remained days after the holiday - wrapped and seeming unappreciated. I channeled my frustration into opening each piece and I ate $40 worth of chocolate myself. Sometimes being a grown up needs a grown up dose of sweetness and that day couldn't have tasted any better.

Run Forest Run

We have all heard the phrase you’re not getting older you’re getting better. Someone in my family (I think it is my sister) writes that in my birthday card each year. Yeah, it is nice to read, but with the negative stereotypes that revolve around aging in our youth obsessed society, I’m not sure many people believe it.

Before I turned 40 I was in a panic. I could not say the number, look at the number or write the number. I was frantically searching for people who did monumental things who were around that age to show myself I could still be relevant even though I was going to be “old”.

For my 39^th birthday, my father got me a framed photo of Pittsburgh Pirate Willie Stargell. Willie won the MVP Award, League Championship MVP Award and World Series MVP award back in 1979 when he was 39. He was the only player ever to win all those awards in the same season.  So his nickname was “Pops” – he was still at the top of his game, literally. This was an inspiration for me.

Once the madness wore off and I comfortably sunk into my 40’s, I realized I had temporarily gone crazy and was ready to commit myself to greatness. Before I could commit myself to greatness I had to be physically fit. I was very proud of my husband who had been running and completed a few 5Ks and I thought maybe I could do that too.

It seems like the trendy thing to do these days. Get a cute outfit, colorful shoes, a Fit Bit and run like the wind. I have never been a trendy kind of girl but I did have running experience. I ran track in high school for one year.

This experience was atypical for me because it involved athleticism. Yes, I come from an athletic family but I was not an athlete. My dad tried out for the Pirates when he was a teen, my brother excelled at every sport he ever tried and my sister played softball and tennis. I blew into a clarinet. I was the musical one and that was ok, but something inspired me to jump hurdles in my junior year.

I look back on my track year with mixed emotions. I was not that fast or good. The coaches did not put a lot of time into me because well, they knew it too. I got a 4^th place ribbon once because someone didn’t show up and another runner had the flu and went the wrong way. This was a high point for me. I got a ribbon for a sport! Take that siblings!

John Lennon had his 'lost weekend' and I had my lost track year but the feeling I felt when I completed an event stayed with me. I felt good. I felt like I accomplished something. I earned each drop of sweat that fell from my forehead and whether I was first or last, I put myself out there. I was ready to do that again but was it possible? I am in my 40’s.

This past September marked my one-year anniversary of running. I started small – just running at the local high school track after dropping my son off at school. Getting to one mile was tough but I knew this was a work in progress and in time I would be 5k ready.

I became an all season runner. 'I’ll come running…Winter, spring, summer or fall' like the lyrics in the James Taylor song 'You’ve Got A Friend' but it took everything I had on those cold winter days when the track was unfriendly and there was ice and snow.

I have not run a 5k yet but I will. I run 9 miles a week and each time I run I am reminded that life does start at 40. Here I am doing something I couldn’t even do in high school. If I can do this what else can I do? I may not be the fastest or most graceful but I am 42. My age is no longer a negative thing to say. It is my excuse to - Just Do It. (Sorry, Nike!)

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

Sometimes I think I was born at the wrong time. If you know me you know my affinity for the music of the 60's, especially the entire Beatles' catalogue. Yes, I missed out on Beatlemania by a little over a decade, but quite frankly, I think the excitement would have killed me. As much as I love listening to their music, I am not sure if I would have been one the screamers, but just being at one of their concerts, being in their presence and among other like minded fans, would have been beyond exhilarating.

This past weekend I was finally able to watch the much touted Ron Howard Beatles' documentary ‘Eight Days a Week - The Touring Years'. I really wanted to see it in the theater but the only local one that was showing it was in Dormont, with only one daily showing. I couldn't wait any longer to shlep out to the South Hills so I did what many people have done, sign up for a free trial of Hulu, a Netflix wannabe, but with more current programming.

The documentary was being promoted as having new revelations about the Fab Four. After 52 years since their U.S. debut, how could there be anything fans don't already know? Yes, I knew there was never before seen footage unearthed, but considering all the books, articles, liner notes and anthologies, I was skeptical.

From the moment we, yes - my family watched it with me, pressed play, I was entranced. The concert footage was incredible, even if the Hulu version is missing extras from The Beatles' 1965 Shea Stadium performance. I loved seeing the guys play together and enjoy playing together. Watching the early shows, before the monotony of touring began to weigh on them, you are transported to a simpler time when music was fun and an escape from the troubles of the world.

While I was watching I couldn't help think of my co-worker Ernie Spisak who frequently makes colorful references to the music of his youth in his weekly columns in The Valley Mirror. I always pick up on his references, because like I said, I was born at the wrong time. Ernie lived through this and boy, am I jealous. I also think of my dad who was on a date the night The Beatles first performed on Ed Sullivan. He lost the girl because, for that night, four lads from Liverpool were a little more important than stealing a kiss in the living room.

I have been listening to The Beatles since I was five. I remember walking into my parents' bedroom and hearing this amazing noise coming from their clock radio. You know, I don't even remember what the song was, but I remember hearing the KDKA radio DJ saying, "And that was The Beatles!" From that moment on John, Paul, Ringo and George, became a fixture in my life and would provide the soundtrack for my youth, teenage years and beyond - decades after they were no longer a band.

Years ago on WRRK, they would air Beatles Christmas. Starting at 6 p.m. on Christmas Eve the radio station would air 24 hours of straight Beatles' tunes with limited commercial breaks. I made so many mixed tapes trying to compile a complete catalogue of all their songs…even the odd ones like, "You Know My Name Look Up The Number." While everyone was singing "Silent Night", I was outside lighting luminaries listening to my Walkman singing "Sexy Sadie". I can only hope God likes The Beatles too because, well, maybe there should be some penance due for that?

With that being said, even though I wasn't around in the 60's, I've had my own little Beatlemania, and now it is continuing through my children. We've had Beatle themed birthday parties and just last year, my oldest and I went to see Paul McCartney in State College. (It was my son's first concert.)

While watching Ron Howard's documentary can teach fans a thing or two about the ‘touring years', at this point for me, it is about sharing my passion for the greatest band in rock n' roll history because The Beatles had something that captured a generation. Although I was born too late to live it first hand each time I hear one of their songs I am once again that little girl, who in an instant, began a love affair that will last my entire lifetime.

Scratch This

It's that time of year. The days are getting cooler, the leaves are changing and I am dealing with my annual bout of poison ivy. I really don't know why it happens, but for the past eight years or so this has been a recurring theme.  This time, the location of the rash, and how I got it there is baffling except for one glaring factor, my DNA.

Every summer my paternal grandmother, Dororthy, always got a case of the 'Ivy' but she was always asking for it. Trimming the hedges in front of her house in McKeesport became her mission after my grandfather passed away. She had an outfit which usually consisted of her trusty sweatband and possibly one of his old shirts. We would tell her not to do it because she was just inviting trouble, but she was determined and took her date with the hedges very seriously. It was her mission and she was up for the task no matter the risk.

I have not been doing any yard work recently. If you watch the beginning of an old episode of "The Munsters" you'll see what my house looks like these days. Apparently, amidst the overgrowth, lurks the poisonous plant and Eddie playing fetch with Spot.

The part of my body affected, my left side above my hip,  is always covered because I normally wear... a shirt. This year the summer got away from me before I could get "bikini ready" so yeah, a shirt is typically my M.O. Usually the rash appears on my arms or legs except for that one time, back when I was a kid when it was everywhere.

I was about 13 and there was a new medicine on the market that you were supposed to dilute before applying. One of my parents, I cannot reveal who since this is still a sensitive topic and someone made me promise never to repeat this story out loud,  thought if he/she applied it full strength to the affected area it would work better. Well, it didn't and things got way worse. I was miserable but so was this parent who was reminded of their mistake each time I scratched and I scratched . Lucky for my siblings, I'm the oldest so this error was not repeated.

I did do some weeding last month and I took every precaution to prevent any possible 'Ivy' contact. On a hot August day, I brought out jeans, knee high gardening boots, one of my husband's flannel shirts and gloves. Yes, I was a sight. My youngest said to me, "Mommy, you look hot." That was not supposed to be a compliment. Because of the outfit, I was successful in avoiding any rash, but would have had an excuse since I really gave to those hedges and rose bushes. Right, Grandma?

What I did last week to earn such colorful blotchyness, I cannot put my finger on - except for the DNA. A few days after my grandmother would attack her hedges she would sit in her un-air-conditioned house, in front of the fan, covered in calamine lotion, retelling the tale of how she fought the hedges and lost. I would shake my head in disbelief and say to myself, "that will never be me."

Flash forward 30 years and it is me. It has been 19 years since my grandma passed away and the older I get, the more I see her in me. I took a selfie a few months ago and when I looked at myself, I saw her face - minus her classic 50's updo that made her one of  Aqua Net's most valued customers.

The interesting timing of this year's poison ivy party, is that it falls between the anniversary of my grandmother's death (Sept.18) and the anniversary of her birth (Oct. 6). This  year for the first time since they were given to me, her wedding rings fit my finger. So with each itch I remember my grandmother, a spunky lady who loved her family above all things and whose legacy I am proud to carry on. She always said, "You'll get better before you get married." Maybe I'll get better before my anniversary.

And The Blue Ribbon Goes To....

I am a busy gal. I cannot name one thing that I do regularly for enjoyment's sake. Maybe that's something I should work on, but for now let's talk about cheesecake.

For the second year in a row, for my daughter's birthday, I made a cheesecake. This is not my way of getting out of making a traditional cake. While that would be the easier route, the aggravation I saved by not having to decorate it was worth every block of cream cheese [4] I bought to make this extravaganza. Thanks to my mom and the Wilton company, I cannot just make a cake.

One of my earliest memories is watching my mom put thousands of star tips on my brother's Batman and Superman cakes. Each year she outdid herself - graduating to piping roses -which were the prettiest and, of course, yummiest to eat. We would fight over who got a rose on their piece of cake. Yes, nothing says 'Happy Birthday' like a mouthful of buttercream icing and a sugar coma.

Remembering our special cakes is what made birthdays so memorable. I only remember a handful of birthday gifts from when I was a kid that really stand out: a tambourine, a Farrah Fawcett head and my green peridot ring. The taste, the look and the time my mom took to make my cakes are what I really treasure.

So yeah, back to the cheesecake. I like to keep the cake tradition going with my kids and I've made everything from a Hulk smash cake to a  ladybug cake. Last year was the first year we got cheezy.

 The tools were provided by a dear friend who was concerned that I did not have my own springform pan - a necessity for any dessert lover or amateur baker. She also provided me with The Cheesecake Bible. This book lives up to its name in that it contains the ingredients to live by if you want your mouth to go to Heaven.

Last year, I made the French Apple Cheesecake. I am not a big fruit eater and would have preferred to make the plain, chocolate or turtle recipe, but we all thought it was good. That was until the Blue Ribbon Cheesecake entered our sites.

My daughter wanted a plain cheesecake this year and there were two recipes; Blue Ribbon and New York Style. I wanted to go with the New York, but the birthday girl picks. I spent a Friday evening making this recipe- not knowing it was going to change my life. It was 85 degrees outside and 350 degrees inside -probably a little hotter if you factor in the glass of wine I had, so needless to say it was a labor of love.

Most of us have had a good piece of cheesecake. Because it is an indulgence, we remember when and where we ate it, what was on top, and what made it so good. I remember a mouthwatering piece of pumpkin cheesecake I had during an anniversary weekend in Cleveland, Ohio. My husband was so sweet and pretty much had one bite and let me eat the rest. [He probably figured he'd get his cake later.]

With my limited amount of spare time, it is frustrating when I put effort into a recipe and it doesn't turn out. This recipe from start to finish was flawless. There was one heart-stopping moment when I accidentally stuck my oven mitt in the middle of the cheesecake, but like Picasso, I made a swirl with a butter knife and fixed the mistake.

Dishing up the dessert, I was waiting for my opportunity to try it. My family started asking for seconds, which is when I remembered I had fresh strawberries to go with it. Once everyone had their second piece, I went in for my first. The initial bite was almost too good to be true. "Did I really make this?", I thought. Did my husband try to prevent any disappointment and swap out my cheesecake for one from the Cheesecake Factory?

Yes, it was that good and I will make it again. For now, there is only one piece left. It is saved for the lady who started it all and made birthdays a day to show your love through baking.

Still the land of dreams

Waking up each day, watching the headlines, it is very easy to become disenchanted with our country. For most of the year we have been bombarded with politics and as we enter the final weeks before the election, it is impossible to get through the day without a Hillary or Trump story.

I admit – I have had thoughts. Unpatriotic thoughts. Thoughts about leaving the United States about starting fresh in Canada or Liechtenstein. Thoughts that would get me out of choosing a candidate in November. 

While this notion of relocating is utterly impossible and half-baked, it is a romantic notion that gets a few seconds of airtime before crashing into the net. Oh and by the way, my relocation fantasy does not include kids, dog or husband. Oh wait, he proofs what I write, so yes, he will be coming and I am happy to have him. 

Things would have to get a lot worse for me to leave my home. Putting things in perspective, dealing with a President Trump or another President Clinton is definitely more tolerable than religious persecution or sexual discrimination. Plus, our country does have a built in system of checks and balances, which my husband continues to remind me, so declaring war or building a wall would need more than one person's say so, right? Founding fathers, can you back me up on this?

My thoughts became sincere last Wednesday when I witnessed 19 people become U.S. citizens. After a year of preparation these people, representing 13 countries, took the Oath of Allegiance to support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic and to bear true faith and allegiance to the same. 

The first Oath of Allegiance dates back to the Revolutionary War. This is according to a Wiki search, the most reliable source of information on the internets. If you read the whole oath you can see it is possible the text may date back 200 years for there is a section about bearing arms for the country. Applicants can now obtain a waiver to opt out of that part if they have religious objections. (If I was taking the oath I would need to opt out for coordination objections.) Kennywood game attendants can vouch for my lack of skills just based on the milk bottle game. No large plush poop emoji for me this year. (If you visited the park this season you know that was one of the big prizes.)

But looking at these people on Wednesday -a true melting pot of what the world has to offer, I felt proud. Proud that I live somewhere that people still dream of living. Despite talk of building a wall, deporting Muslims, and limiting the number of refugees, there are still people willing to do what is necessary to become a U.S citizen. People who make a thoughtful conscious decision to  absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen.

Up to this point, I had taken for granted my U.S citizenry. (Except for the days surrounding 9/11 when most of us felt united and strong in our patriotism.) But seriously, all I had to do to earn my citizenship was be born. In fact, my mother did all the work, so, thanks, Mom. No thought on my part, no contemplation - my parents act of love assured my residence in the greatest country in the world. Get born and be an American, can a person get any more lucky? Mom? Dad?

I am happy that I could witness the ceremony last week. I had only a couple objections ...not opting for the Elvis Presley live version of America the Beautiful for the video montage and the fact that Obama sent a video message to congratulate these new citizens. Come on? Couldn't he have at least sent Biden? He was just here last week.

In all seriousness, becoming an American is a big deal. Being an American is a big deal. Yes, there is a lot of negative right now and yes, we can list a number of reasons why things suck.  But....these 19 people were able to brush the bad aside and focus on what makes being an American great. Shouldn't we? 

A Date With Stu

Reporting the news of the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities involves meeting different people from all walks of life. There are some people who have made an impression that will stay with me as long as I live. One of those people was William “Stu” Getz of Swissvale.

It was two years ago that I had my first run in with Stu. It was during Swissvale’s Community Days. I had been there, taking pictures of the festivities, and getting volunteers for our Opinions On The Street feature. Stu had been sitting under the covered table area, as it was a very hot and sunny day.

He must have noticed me talking to various people and wanted to get in on the action. And for an obvious reason, he had a story to tell, and he wanted me to tell it. 

I saw him standing there waiting to talk to me thinking to myself, I wonder what this guy wants. When I finally turned my attention his way he said, “I’m Stu Getz. I’m a World War II Veteran. If you want to talk to me, I’ll be sitting over there.”

I knew our conversation would take a while. I did not want to blow him off but I was short on time. When I had a chance to go over and speak to him, I told him I really wanted to hear his story, but wanted to call him during the week so we could talk. Stu was a little hard of hearing so this interview would need to be done in person so we set up a time on a Tuesday.

When I arrived at Stu’s house he was sitting on the porch, wearing his Army cap. It would be a lie to say I didn’t get choked up as I walked down the sidewalk. I couldn’t stop thinking about my own grandfather who served in World War II. I never had the opportunity to talk to him about his experiences and I felt privileged to be able to be in the company of someone who was so proud to be a veteran, and could recall events as if they had happened yesterday.

Stu sent me a thank you note after my story ran. That is the kind of person he was, thoughtful and appreciative of the little things in life. Before that summer was over, I was in the neighborhood and stopped in to say hello. We sat on the porch once again and he told me stories about his wife and children. The time flew and before I knew it, the streetlights had come on.

Stu passed away last April and I feel badly that I did not get to see him one last time. I am grateful for that day in July when he waited to speak to me and I am thankful that when I rode past his house the other day, the American flags are still attached to the light pole out front.

Dolls Are For Boys

Seeing the world through the eyes of a five-year-old boy can be enlightening. My youngest child is, in a word - challenging.  As many have said over the years he is "your typical boy".  He is rough and tumble, a ball of non-stop energy and very independent.  I have seen him pin to the ground his teenage brother. But on the flip side, I have seen the gentler side of this young man, through a character I call "Little Daddy" and his baby Flower.

I am not sure when he started playing with Flower, a left over baby doll from his older sister. She was never into dolls like many little girls. Don't get me wrong. She was into princesses and playing house, but did not play with Barbies or doll babies. She preferred stuffed animals and her favorite animal changed quarterly.

This doll did not get much playing time even though she had her own stroller and high chair. She  is one of a few toys kept out for when younger cousins come to play. About a year ago, my little guy kind of adopted her and gave her a name. I tried to throw out some other possibilities, thinking that name was already taken by a skunk in a Disney film, but his mind was made up.

I wasn't sure what to do about my son playing with a doll. People have different feelings about this subject and it can get tricky. My oldest son had a small Emily Elizabeth doll, you know, the owner of the big red dog Clifford? Emily went everywhere with us and amazingly, she has lasted long enough to make it into his keep sake box.

When you have a unique "lovey" that probably cannot be replaced,  it can be scary when it gets lost. We lost Emily quite a few times and one time it appeared she was gone for good. It was after a family member had been babysitting. My husband and I tore the house apart and no Emily. At one point we decided to take a break and get a refreshing glass of ice water. When I opened the freezer, there was Emily.

It was upsetting to see my son's doll in the freezer. I knew my kid could not reach up that high and an adult was responsible for Emily's trip to the Arctic. I cannot remember if I addressed this issue with the babysitter, but I tried to understand where he was coming from. Some people find it unacceptable for boys to play with dolls thinking it might lead to something less manly, but now, watching my youngest play with Flower, I can see that it might lead to something  very manly - growing up to become a great dad.

My son treats Flower very tenderly unlike his other toys. He holds her carefully and takes his time when he dresses her, so as not to hurt her. Watching him cradle her in his arms is one of the sweetest things. He tries to console her when she is "crying" and tells her "it's ok. I'm here."

Just this morning, I was up early to get some writing done. I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. It was my son and Flower. He said she had had a bad dream so he decided to wake up and stay with her. I encouraged him to go back to bed but he insisted on watching a show with her to calm her down.

The thing that is the greatest about watching the "Little Daddy" show is that I know the inspiration - my husband. Dads today have to be more hands on than ever with most families having two working parents. How many men do you see these days pushing strollers or sporting baby slings? Carrying diaper bags, dressing up for tea parties, walking around covered in glitter from the day's art project - these guys do it all.

My husband has been parenting with me every step of the way, except of course, the breastfeeding part. I would be dead tired and have to get up for a 2 a.m. feeding and he would sympathize and say "I wish I could help more", then roll over and go back to sleep. I did not resent him - for long.

It is reassuring to see parenting through the eyes of child. Seeing the tenderness, compassion and love shown by my son makes me hopeful that if he is called to be a dad, he will rise to the occasion. It also makes me happy that with the craziness of family life, and we all know at times it can be far from the Donna Reed Show, it is love that he seems to be taking away.

Who knows what the future has in store, but lucky for Flower and I, Little Daddy is here and making sure everything is all right.

Look For The Helpers

Mr. Rogers encouraged kids to look for the helpers in times of trouble. “You will always find people who are helping,” he said. I have recently seen helpers first hand and it wasn’t the people I expected.


This past weekend my family and I traveled to Chicago for the 50th annual Croatian Fraternal Union Festival. This event attracts Tamburitzan groups from all over the United States and Canada. One of the highlights of the event is a mass performance in which all the groups gather on stage, with their instruments, to play and sing songs from the homeland.


This is an amazing sight to see. The stage is filled, rows deep with children ranging in age from 4 to 21, in some of the most beautiful, ornate costumes you will ever see. One of the drawbacks, with so many kids being on stage, it’s hard to pick out your own, unless they are right in front. This really did not bother me at the time, but now I wish, for this performance, I could've seen my daughter.


She fell ill during the singing, tried to get off stage but fainted before she made it safely to the side. No one in the audience saw this because you could not see her - she’s not tall and was in the back. People from our group and people we did not know rushed to her aid.


I received a text while sitting in the audience to come backstage immediately. I ran like the wind in a desperate attempt to see my child. After running through what seemed like a maze, I saw her sitting in a chair, surrounded by people. Of course there were grown ups on the scene, but the person closest to her was a college student.

Marie is studying to become a nurse and was using the training she has accumulated to assess whether my daughter had a concussion. (She apparently hit her head when she fainted.) Another young lady, Annie, is studying to become a pharmacist, She was close-by and was explaining to me what had happened.

These two young women, both Tamburitzan alumni, displayed such poise and calmness. My eyes filled with tears as I gazed upon my child, being attended to by so many people. My daughter looked both small and big at the same time. I touched her and asked if she was ok. That was all I could do. I was in emotional overdrive.


I truly admire people who can jump in and help. Some people run toward trouble and see what they can do. As a young child I remember watching my dad spring into action, putting his military medic training to use when my brother, sister or I got hurt. I also remember neighbors seeking his help when one of their children was either sick or injured. I did not inherit this calmness under pressure skill.


I am the person who freaks out at the first sight of illness. My house goes into quarantine at the first sign of a cold. Loose teeth make me uneasy. I am not your girl when calamity strikes.


With that said, I appreciate people who have a way to remain calm, think steady and take care of others in stressful situations. Although I will never be one of those gifted people, I will forever be in the debt of those who come to the aid of my most precious gifts – my children. Based on the actions of Marie and Annie, the next generation of patients will be in good hands.

The Mom Code

Back in March, my eighth grade son travelled with his school orchestra to the state capitol to play in the rotunda. This was the farthest he has travelled solo and I was a bit anxious. It was going to be a long day - an early departure and a late return. He would need lots of....electronics to make the travel time go faster. His backpack contained his mp3 player, tablet, a book and a modern day extension of my umbilical cord - his cell phone.

The texts started coming almost as soon as the bus pulled away from the school. "I hate this", "It's too loud, I can't hear", "Someone just passed gas”. While I was happy to hear from him, the complaints were not the 'I miss you mom' I would have preferred and became a little much. I encouraged him to talk to his friends and try to have fun.

The phone went silent for a while and I was about to enjoy a few moments alone in my house, which never happens. I kicked off my shoes turned on 'The View' - wondered who these people were and what happened to Whoopi, when my phone buzzed.

The text read, "I knew something would go wrong".

My mind began racing. Did someone get sick? Did they break down? Were they in an accident?

"WHAT HAPPENED?", I typed as quickly as I could.

"I forgot my sheet music!" (frowny face) was his reply. "I am a disgrace to my state."

Now if you knew my son, like I know my son, his text was no surprise. For as smart as he is, he is not the most responsible. Before I could write, "Well, you made sure you had everything that needed charged before you left", he wrote, "I know what you are going to say - I brought this on myself."

Ok. I was thinking that, but I knew he was upset and now was not the time to point fingers. How could I help? Could I take photos of the music and send those? Was there Wi-Fi in the rotunda? Could he use his tablet to pull up the images? And then my light bulb went off.

State Senator Jim Brewster - yeah, I'll call him. Maybe he can step away from the budget crisis and help me solve this orchestra crisis. I was desperate and before I could say impasse, I Googled the number and was on my way to a solution.

A woman named Ranee answered the phone. I asked, "Ranee, how far away is your office from the rotunda?" She said, "Less than a minute walk." Bingo. I explained my situation and from the start she was on board. Getting this music scanned and emailed to her took some time. (I did not know we were dealing with nine pages!) But with minutes to spare before their performance, she arrived to save the day. She said she recognized my son because he was the only one who looked like he needed help.

I tried to express my gratitude as best as I could, but nothing could convey how much she meant to me after what we went through. She said, "I'm a mom to a US Soldier and have had a few mom's take care of him when he was across the country! So it's the least I can do…from one mom to another."

Free Willy Days

Before my career went strictly to the print side of media, I spent some time in radio. I was hired to do traffic and news reports by Metro Networks in Pittsburgh back in 2005, and had the opportunity to fill listeners in on tunnel back-ups and accidents.

Although most of the employees at the time worked out of our Greentree studios, some worked at the radio station they provided traffic for. I occasionally would fill in for the full time reporters when they were sick or on vacation. This is how I came to meet Chilly Billy.

The traffic for the former oldies station WJAS-AM was done from their studios, also in Greentree. When I began training, I was so excited about working among two local legends, Jack Bogut and Chilly Billy. You don't get bigger or better than these two, and I have to say for both of them, you don't get any classier. 

I occasionally did traffic during Bogut's 6-10 a.m. morning show. Around 9:30, Bill would come in to prepare for his 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. shift. I remember sitting in my studio, which was sandwiched between the WJAS and WSHH studios, watching him arrive. I could see him through the windows that separated us and I would anxiously wait to meet his gaze. He always seemed happy to see me, like an old friend who he had not seen in a long time. 

For me, 9:30 to 10 a.m. was very busy. Rush hour was coming to a close and I had quite a few reports to do. It was a shame because those reports were the last thing I wanted to be doing. I could hear the two legends catching up, swaping stories about their families and reminiscing about their colorful careers. There was plenty of laughter during those 30 minutes and I wished I was with them - not participating - just being able to listen in on the stories about things they had heard and seen over the years. 

I would always stop in at 10:00 a.m. to say hello to Bill. We would have about 3 minutes to talk during the news break before he would begin his show. He would ask about my kids - I would ask how he was feeling and inquire when he going on his next getaway. I was always amazed that first - I was having a conversation with someone in their 80's, and second, with someone who was so well known. I mean Chiller Theater - Studio Wrestling, this guy was the tops. But he treated me like I, was the tops.

I happened to be filling in at WJAS on my mother's 60th birthday. I had the idea to have  Bill call her and sing to her. I was a little hesitant to ask because I wasn't sure how he would feel about it, but I thought, what the heck, this would make her day. Bill did not hesitate when I presented my request. He treated it like it was an assignment and he asked for as many details as he could about her to make the experience as personal as possible. I was able to watch the entire phone conversation and honestly, I don't know who enjoyed it more. Seven years later, my mom still talks about that special phone call and how exciting it was to talk to Chilly Billy. 

The funny thing most people don't know about radio, unless you're in the business, is that the pay is not that great. People hear your voice on the radio and they think you are raking in the cash. In the final days of oldies music on WJAS, before the station was sold and they went to all talk, employees were being asked to take days off without pay.  If jocks had  a regular show and they were talking a week's vacation, that week's show would be prerecorded by the jock. This is the state of radio. Bill had a phrase for his days off - Free Willy Days.

These guys were not in it for the money. They did it because they loved it. They craved that connection with the listeners and felt honored to still be gracing the Pittsburgh airways.

For me, doing fill in work at WJAS was not easy. I had to be there by 5 a.m. and usually left afterwards to pick up my kids or head to my regular job. I already mentioned the pay. But for nine years I accepted the WJAS shifts that came my way. The opportunity to work with people like Jack Bogut and Chilly Billy, in my mind, was priceless. I knew it wouldn't last forever and I enjoyed every moment I spent with them and was proud that I could hold my own. My life was enhanced because of those opportunities. I will always look back fondly and with gratitude. 

I was saddened when I saw Lori Cardille's post on Facebook a few weeks go about her father's recent cancer diagnosis. My intention was to send a card and tell him how much I admired his eternal positivity and how, because of his attitude and love of life, I had no doubt he would be able to get through this rough patch. 

The chance to send my card for him to read has passed.

So I am left with these words to comfort my soul. In his memory I am going to make more of an attempt to do the things that should not be put off. A call, a card, a compliment - the time is now.

To his family, I extend my deepest sympathies for their loss. He will be missed by many but the void he has left in their hearts will never be filled.

Hopefully, moving forward, we can all keep Bill's memory alive. A kind word, a smile, a laugh - this is what makes life worth living. Bill had a great smile and a great laugh. He had a great career and he was one that certainly deserved it.