Champs should be crowned on the field

Penn State's undefeated season in 1994 and eventual victory in the
 1995 Rose Bowl is main the reason I no longer watch college football.

By Alan. K. Stout

Weekender Blog

Thankfully, the college football season is finally over. Now, when I open the sports page, or I put on a sports-talk radio station, and they're talking about football, they'll only be talking about the NFL.

I don't like college football. Well, let me rephrase that: I don't like the way college football chooses a "champion." In fact, many might say that it doesn't really have a champion at all. Last week, after the so-called "National Championship Game," people everywhere were still arguing over who was the best college football team.

It's ridiculous. And it happens almost every year. A couple of teams go undefeated, or maybe lose one tough game, and at the end of the season, three or four teams are all claiming to be No. 1. And frankly, I don't blame them. If you win all of your games, why shouldn't you feel that way? It's not the fault of the colleges, or the players, or the coaches that the season is a joke. It's the system's fault. And that's why I can't invest any time or interest in it. I don't watch sports for the joy of the game. I watch sports to see somebody win, and at the end of the season, to see somebody to be crowned the champion. And whoever that is should be determined on the field, or the ice, or the court. That's how it is in every sport.

Except college football.

At the end of the 1994-95 season, I went to State College to see the Nittany Lions play the last game of the regular season. Though I didn't go to PSU and could never understand how people could get so revved up rooting for a school they didn't actually attend, I'm a big admirer of Joe Paterno, and being born and raised in Pennsylvania, I was, of course, rooting for Penn State. It was a great day, as the team won the game and finished the season undefeated. But walking out the Beaver Stadium, there was an almost empty feeling. It was as if everybody knew the Lions would likely go on to win the Rose Bowl -- which they did -- but that it wouldn't really matter -- which it didn't. I don't even remember who it was -- maybe Nebraska or Miami -- but some other team won the Orange Bowl and were named "National Champions." Penn State's marvelous undefeated season meant zilch.

Why not just play a game and see who's better? That was it for me. Now, I don't even watch college football.

Frankly, I couldn't even imagine playing a sport that didn't have a true champion at the end of the season. I couldn't imagine going to all of those double-session practices, lifting all of those weights and putting in that type of commitment to something, and then go undefeated, and then have some "poll" tell me that my team was not the best. I couldn't imagine wasting my time playing a sport where the champion wasn't crowned on the field.

Perhaps no sport does this better than the NFL. The playoffs are a tournament. The quality of your season is rewarded by things such as a first-round bye and home field advantage. Yet at the same time, if you hit a bump in the road during the season, you can still make the playoffs, and if you raise your game, you can still advance. And the real beauty of it all is that it all ends with the Super Bowl. The two survivors of the long and hard season and the brutal playoff rounds meet on the field. The winner is the World Champion. Period. No discussion or debate afterward. No "poll." It's over. Fair and square. Baseball is pretty much the same. Long, hard season. Intense playoff tournament. World Series. Champion crowned. You say it wouldn't work at the college level? What would you call the College World Series? What would you call March Madness and the Final Four?

Only college football can't seem to get it right.

I love sports. I've seen my favorite teams win the World Series and Super Bowl in exhilarating fashion, and I've seen them lose the World Series and Super Bowl in heartbreaking fashion. It's what keeps me coming back as a fan. That's the thrill. And even if my team isn't in the playoffs, I can still watch and enjoy the NFL and MLB and know that I'm on my way to finding out which team is really the best.

Utah? USC? Florida? Texas? You college football fans can still dicker over who's the real champ. I didn't watch any of it. I will, however, be in front of my TV on Sunday watching the NFL. And on Feb. 1, I'll know which team is the best. There will be a Super Bowl Champion. Fair and square.

Decided on the field.

 

M*A*S*H with Mary Ann

By Alan K. Stout

Weekender Editor  

July 4, 2007

 

We've had her for almost five months now. She was born on February 9 and we brought her home just a few days before the biggest blizzard of the winter. We gave her an old family name, a name shared by her grandmother, and before that, her great-grandmother and great-great grandmother.

 

My daughter, Mary Ann, in just five months, has already stolen my heart. And though she’s still a relative newcomer to my life, I can’t imagine life without her.

 

Though I love music and sports and all of the things a man would like to share with a son, it was no secret in our family that this daddy always wanted a little girl, and already my daughter, with just her smile, has a way of putting everything in my life into perfect perspective.

 

Having a bad day, and you get that smile?

 

Suddenly, that day isn’t so bad.

 

Those first few days of her life back in February were memorable, mostly because of her arrival, and also because - since it was the dead of winter, frigid cold and dark most of the time - we didn’t do much other than stay inside and welcome this new little princess into our world. I recall sitting on the sofa and sometimes holding her for four or five straight hours, and though she slept most of the time, I will always remember with fondness those cold winter days and nights when Mary Ann and I first started to get to know one another, and when we first began what has become one of our nightly traditions.

 

We watch “M*A*S*H.”

 

I think it began that very first week we brought her home. I'd hold her in my arms as she slept and enjoy the old reruns and the crazy antics of the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. I'd laugh at Frank Burns, Radar, Henry Blake, Trapper, B.J., Klinger, Margaret Houlihan, Winchester and Colonel Potter. And most of all, I'd laugh at Hawkeye’s wisecracks.

 

Holding Mary Ann and laughing at Hawkeye.

 

It’s something I'll always associate with the winter of 2007, and as we now get into the middle of summer, it’s still something that we do a few times a week. Only now, she’s much more animated and more in tune to her surroundings. I get those smiles all the time, and I sometimes feel as if she really is watching with me, and laughing at Hawkeye.

 

When we first learned we were having a daughter last year, I found myself very excited about her life, but not in ways that involved me. Of course I'm looking forward to all of the fun things that lie ahead in the coming years ... pigtails and dance recitals and amusement parks and Santa. I always want to be not only her father, but also her friend, and I will always be there for her throughout her life. But when I thought about her in the months before she was born, I was more exited about the fact that our child will experience some of the joys and beauty of this world on her own. I thought about, a few years from now, when she makes her first friend. I thought about when she’s about 17, and she stays up all night at the beach with her friends for the first time and watches the sun rise over the ocean. I thought about her traveling the country and the world, as an adult, and experiencing the joy of visiting new places.

 

I realize that, throughout her life, she’ll probably always remember most of those things. She’ll remember the pigtails, dance recitals, amusement parks and Santa, and of course, she’ll remember that first friend, that first time she saw the sun rise over the sea, and that first time she saw San Francisco, London or Paris.

 

What she won’t remember at all, however, are these past few months. She won’t remember the blizzard that she came home to, or the times I held her for five straight hours, or how her first smile made me smile. I know this and I understand this. We simply don’t remember much at all from our first few years. But still, I like to think that someday, many years from now, maybe just some of it will come back to her from time to time.

 

Maybe some cold winter night, many years from now, she'll be doing a little channel surfing and something will make her stop.

 

Maybe she'll have a little memory of sitting on her daddy’s lap, and somehow regain that sense of feeling safe and loved, and being welcomed into this world with a joy like no other.

 

Maybe she'll sit there, flash one of those great smiles of hers, and laugh at Hawkeye.

 

Yo Sly! You did it!

By ALAN K. STOUT

WEEKENDER EDITOR

December 27, 2006

Sylvester Stallone is selling himself way short.

I recently read a few stories about the film premier of “Rocky Balboa,” held in Philadelphia, of course, and about what a mob scene the screening had created. There were police escorts for the film’s star and a large group of frenzied fans wearing “Rocky” t-shirts, boxing gloves and even holding homemade signs.  But Stallone, in one of the stories, insisted it wasn’t him the crowd was waiting for.

“The character has transcended,” he said. “He’s a real living person in Philadelphia. I’m just along for the ride. I have no illusions that any of this is for me.”

It was a nice, humble comment – and maybe even partially true – but the fact is people know exactly who Sylvester Stallone is. And those cheers, more than anything, were indeed for him.   

Stallone is more than just a pretty good actor. He’s also a good writer and film director,  and though he’s taken his share of cheap shots from cranky critics over the years, some of which surely must have hurt his feelings, I’ve always hoped that he’s taken some solace not only in his bank account, but also in the fact that “Rocky” – based on his own screenplay -  won the Academy Award for “Best Picture” in 1976, and that by continuing the often heartwarming and inspiring stories for the past 30 years, he has given America a great gift: one of the most likeable and memorable characters in motion picture history.   

Weekender column published December, 2006.  

In reading some other stories about the release of “Rocky Balboa, I’ve also seen some revisionist history.  There’s been plenty of praise for the new film,  but some of it has come at the expense of the other “Rocky” sequels.  It seems some critics are saying, “Well, yes – this is a very good movie – unlike any of the others since the original.”

What a load of nonsense.

“Rocky II” was a terrific, very well done film and got plenty of good reviews at the time, and though “Rocky III” was a more slick and glossy production, it was one hell of an entertaining movie. Maybe the fourth installment seemed too formulaic and farfetched and even Stallone admits he was disappointed in “Rocky V,”  but he’s also admitted that was the main reason he felt somewhat compelled to do another. He felt he’d let fans and the character down, and for nearly 15 years, he felt badly about that.

And maybe that’s the thing that he and his most famous character both have in common. They both seem like good guys.

Thank you note from Sly Stallone

Stallone certainly didn’t need the money he’ll make from “Rocky Balboa” and reports say he wasn’t even paid that much by Hollywood standards to make it. He did it because he, like us, values the wonderful character he created and wanted to give him a proper sendoff.  And I can tell you that after seeing the new film, he has done just that. And he has reminded us why so many of us love “Rocky.”

It’s not just because he’s a great boxer and the fight scenes are exciting.  It’s because he’s got a big heart.  It’s because he is a very good guy, as so many of the scenes in this new film remind us.

Much has been made over the fact that Stallone is 60 years old and that 60 year-old men simply do not box, especially against the reigning heavy weight champion. It’s a more than fair point and one that Stallone is well aware. He says he knew going in that the critics would come out swinging just as hard in real life as Apollo Creed and Clubber Lang did in his films, but like “Rocky,” Stallone seems to have overcome the odds by delivering a very feasible script that’s getting great reviews and is again winning our hearts. Here, he was a real life underdog, trying to make a film that, initially, no studio wanted to make. But like the character, he has prevailed. And maybe, since so many of us grew up with him and that character, it’s part of the reason we were rooting for him and this movie.

I won’t ruin any of the details for you, but since it’s already pretty well known that Rocky’s beloved wife Adriane has passed away in the film, I will share one of my favorite scenes. On the anniversary of her death, after visiting her grave, he takes a sentimental stroll through the old neighborhood – past the pet shop where she once worked, the ice rink where they once skated, and the old apartment that they once shared together. While standing outside the place, his mind flashes back to their courtship and her image briefly appears on the screen.

“I can remember standing right here with her,” he says. “And I was asking her to trust me …

“And she did.”

The scene stuck with me all night. It was a different type of human emotion that Stallone had captured. Not one fueled by testosterone – which he is clearly great at – but one of fragility and vulnerability. And it was easy to imagine many men going home after seeing the film, pulling their wives close, and saying, “Don’t you go ever getting sick on me.”

And that, just as much as the glorious knockdown brawls, is why we love “Rocky” and why we also love Sylvester Stallone. He can get to us with these films. He makes us happy, he makes us sad, he gets us fired up, he makes us want to start jogging, or hit the gym. He makes us want to be better people, and he has given us a remarkable, iconic and lovable film character that we can all – without fear of sounding corny – be proud of and celebrate.

And for that, Sylvester Stallone – not Rocky – deserves some cheers.

“I have no illusions that any of this is for me,” he said.

Yes it is, Sly.

Yes it is.

Handwritten envelope from Sylvester Stallone

THE POWER OF PADRE PIO

MODERN DAY SAINT SETS EXAMPLE FOR PRAYER MEETINGS

 

(Original newspaper article. Click image for enlargment)

 

 
By ALAN K. STOUT
Times Leader Staff Writer
September 13, 2003

Padre Pio is considered by millions of Catholics to be one of the most fascinating people of the 20th century. In 1918, the stigmata - the same five wounds inflicted upon Christ during the crucifixion - appeared on Pio's body and stayed there until his death in 1968.  For 50 years, blood came from Pio's wounds, and as his legend began to grow, so did stories of miracles, which were attributed to his prayers and interventions. On June 16, 2002, Pope John Paul II declared Padre Pio a saint, the highest honor in the Catholic Church.

 What makes Pio's story more intriguing is that it is a contemporary story, not one passed down through the centuries. Pio is a modern-day saint, and images of his wounds can be found in numerous books that include photographs - even videotapes - showing Pio bearing the scars of Christ.

The source of the wounds is for you and your faith to decide. Yet there is no doubt the wounds existed, and that they sometimes caused Pio great discomfort.

The Rev. William J.P. Langan, pastor of St. Francis of Assisi Church and St. Joseph's Slovak Church, Nanticoke, is the spiritual director of a Padre Pio Prayer Group that meets each month. For Langan, who attended Pio's canonization in Rome, Pio's legacy doesn't rest on the stigmata nor tales of miracles, but rather on the way he led his life and the examples he set.

“He had an ability to bring people back to the faith who had been estranged from it for a long time - mostly by the power of the celebration of Mass, because he celebrated it so beautifully,” says Langan, who adds that Pio was also devoted to the sacrament of confession.  “He would sit in the confessional for up to 18 hours a day,” he says. “People would make reservations a month or two months ahead of time, to be able to get in to see him.”

Two of the greatest mysteries surrounding Pio is a miracle that reportedly occurred in 1947, when Pio prayed over a blind girl who was born without eye pupils. After the prayer, she was able to see, which doctors were unable to explain. Another mystery attributed to Pio are reports that upon his death in 1968, all signs of the stigmata disappeared from his body. There were no scars or signs of the wounds that had been there for 50 years.

In addition to those tales, there are reports that Pio was blessed with the gift of bi-location, and was sometimes seen in two places at the same time. And there are reports that those who pray to him for intercession sometimes experience a strong scent of flowers.

Still, Langan says that during Pio's life, the church was cautious in the way it handled his fame and growing legend, and that Pio was often a tormented soul.

“For many years, he was silenced because of the stigmata,” says Langan.  “They didn't want it to turn into a big circus, so he was told to just go about his simple work of hearing confessions and saying daily Mass. So he suffered - not just the wounds of Christ, exteriorly, but he also had a lot of interior suffering - just as many people do today. Many people have psychological or interior suffering, and if there's anyone that could speak to someone who's suffering like that, it would be Padre Pio, because he went through it himself.”

Langan says it was Pio's dignity and devotion to God, not simply the signs of the miraculous, that led to his canonization.

“It was his personal sanctity, not the manifestation of the stigmata,” says Langan. “His personal holiness in the midst of great suffering, both external and internal suffering, and his ability to remain holy and confident in God - that is the mark of his sanctity.”

The local Padre Pio Prayer Group meets once a month in Nanticoke. Meetings last about 90 minutes and include a scriptural reading, recitation of the rosary and prayers for those in need. Those who believe they have received an intercession for Padre Pio are welcome to share their stories with the group. Margaret Aciukewicz, who serves as vice group leader, says the group began meeting in May and it usually attracts 80 to 150 people.

“This man was a special man,” says Aciukewicz of Pio. “He was in love with God. Even though he suffered and had all of those pains, he still never gave up. He gives you hope. How many times in your life have you had difficulties, and you said `Oh Lord, can I do this?,' and you look at him and how he carried the marks of the real crucifixion, and yet he was a joyful man, and a man who was able to communicate with people, and he gave them encouragement.”

Sister Elizabeth A. Brody, group leader of the prayer group, says she became involved because she wanted to learn more about Pio. She describes the gatherings as “a very prayerful, peaceful and quieting environment.” She says she feels a connection to Pio because of his contemporary status and his selflessness.

“He was someone who lived in our time, and who is now a saint,” says Brody. “He had great dedication to the Eucharist and a great wanting to help people.”

That help, says Langan, continues today, 35 years after Pio's death.

“His life was extraordinary, but I do try to model my life somewhat after his compassionate attitude towards people,” says Langan. “He certainly helps me in my everyday duties as a priest.”

 
IF YOU GO:

WHAT: Padre Pio Prayer Group
WHEN: Meets at 3 p.m., third Sunday of the month.
WHERE: Site alternates between Francis of Assisi Church and St. Joseph's Slovak Church, Nanticoke. Next meeting is Sept. 21 at St. Joseph's.
INFO: 735-0331 or 735-6903
MORE INFO: The National Centre for Padre Pio is in Barto in the Diocese of Allentown, about a 75-minute ride from Wilkes-Barre. The Centre is the home of one of Pio's confessional booth, which has been imported from Italy, and one of Pio's protective gloves, which he wore to help control the bleeding of his stigmata.
ON THE NET: For more info, visit www.padrepio.org

(Originally published in The Times Leader, Wilkes-Barre, PA - September 13, 2003.)

 

October 30, 2001

ON A GHOSTLY QUEST 
 

SOME THINGS BEST LEFT UNANSWERED

 

By ALAN K. STOUT
Times Leader Staff Writer

The pictures were fascinating.

Sitting at a table inside Keenan's Irish Pub on Wilkes-Barre's Public Square, admitted ghost-chaser Bob Shortz and his friends Reda and Heather Griffiths began to show Mary Therese Biebel and me an impressive collection of seemingly unexplainable photographs.

There was a shot of a phantomlike female figure in an area cemetery and strange circles - which they called  “orbs”' - hovering about a variety of settings. These, they told us, were spirits of the dead.

There was also a bizarre collection of pictures taken at the Wyoming Monument, which included laser-like bolts of light flashing around the local landmark. They too, Shortz told us, were spirits.

A photo taken at Our Lady of Fatima Blessed Grotto, a shrine to the Blessed Mother near the courthouse in Wilkes-Barre, showed strange blurry lights, which almost completely engulfed the entire area. These, Reda told us, were prayers said a short time earlier, now on their way to heaven.

They also told us a few spooky stories of hearing eerie voices, witnessing vanishing cars and sensing strange presences.

Throughout the conversation, I couldn't help but think Shortz and the Griffiths seemed like normal folks and that the camera they used for many of the photos was a simple Polaroid-style model. Orbs, they told us, were common and could sometimes be found and photographed with relative ease. And when they offered us the chance to see for ourselves, Mary Therese and I jumped at the opportunity to tag along for a night of ghost-hunting.

Well, at least I did.

After hearing from Shortz that a spirit had once followed him home, Mary Therese seemed a little more nervous. She later confided that she even went to church to pray for protection just before we met at Keenan's. And even I must admit I did dab myself with a little holy water and said a few words to the man upstairs before leaving my apartment that night.

I did, however, really want to see a ghost.

For me, seeing such a thing firsthand would not necessarily be frightening, but might help answer the biggest question of all time: What happens to us when we die?

Think about: Our belief in God, and thus life after death, relies almost solely on pure faith. As far as we know, God simply does not reveal himself to us in any physical form. Our prayers often go unanswered. People we love die, sometimes far too young. Tragedies continue to grab the headlines, and bad things happen to good people every single day. But many of us, through our faith, continue to believe God cares for us and watches over us. We continue to believe - and hope - that our loved ones go on and that we will be with them again someday.

To me, seeing a ghost with my own eyes would give all of this a sense of tangibility. It would be proof of life after death, and in a sense, proof of God. It would be a life-altering experience and certainly not frightening.

Our first stop was at a local hospital, where Mary Therese tried to contact an acquaintance who recently died there. Hoping to reach him, we stood outside the old wing of the facility. Not one to stand idly by, Mary Therese took on a leadership role.

“We come in peace!” she said firmly. “We come with respect.”

 Then, upon the advice of Shortz, she invited any spirits present to appear in our photographs. Times Leader photographer S. John Wilkin took some photos of a third-story window on a dark corner, while Mary Therese did the same with the ghost-busters' Polaroid.

“Wow!”' I said, as Mary Therese's first photo began to develop before our eyes. There, right on the photograph, was a big yellowish blob of light, directly outside the third-story window of the hospital.

Maybe it was an orb!

Another photo, taken only a few seconds later of the same window from the same angle, revealed nothing. Perhaps, just for one split second, we had indeed captured a glimpse of life on the other side.

This was going to be an amazing night.

Next, Mary Therese, Bob and I went into the hospital's chapel, which was very quiet and holy, and, out of all the stops we made throughout the night, seemed to have the most spiritual presence. Mary Therese again invited any spirits present to pose for a photo, and again, it appeared she may have had something. When her Polaroid developed, streak-like lights invisible to the naked eye appeared. And though Bob believed something supernatural was happening, I wasn't so sure this time.

These looked more like blurry pictures to me.

At this point, I became more skeptical and began asking our photographer more and more about what he thought of the photos we were taking. When he said he believed the odd lights might be explained by shutter speeds, glares, hand movement, nearby lights or bulb flashes - and that he could probably reproduce the same effect with his cameras, I made a point of taking any pictures I shot in the darkest of areas an with the most steady hands.

And, from then on, I got nothing.

No ghosts. No apparitions. No more orbs.

Visits to the Wyoming Monument, the Forty Fort Cemetery and Our Lady of Fatima Grotto provided us with nothing but dark pictures or photos I would simply describe as out of focus. Bob, Reda and Heather seemed to share our disappointment but explained that there are good nights and bad nights for ghost-hunting, and we might have just picked a bad night to head out.

As for me, I certainly can't explain some of the photos they showed us earlier that night at Keenan's, nor can I explain the unusual photo Mary Therese took on our very first stop at the hospital. And, for all of the reasons I mentioned earlier, I still want to believe in ghosts, orbs and anything else that has to do with the spiritual world.

For now, however, I still don't have a definite answer to that big question, nor do I have a photograph that provides me with the answer to life's great mystery. And maybe that's just how the man upstairs wants it to be.

Maybe faith - not Polaroids - is all we're supposed to have.






























































 

They're reading names out, over the radio. All the folks the rest of us won't get to know ... Jesus can you take the time, to throw a drowning man a line ... peace on earth."

                                                                                              - U2, "Peace on Earth," 2000

Reality Sinks In On Visit To Ground Zero

The Times Leader

October 5, 2001

By ALAN K. STOUT

MUSIC ON THE MENU

The top was down on my old Chevy convertible as I cruised over New York City's George Washington Bridge on Tuesday. It was a gorgeous fall day - picture perfect, in every sense - and to my right I could easily see the majestic skyline of the town I've always loved the most.

I wish I could tell you I had a deeply profound thought just then, at that moment, when I first saw that skyline, or that I said something wise, spiritual or even self-comforting. But the only words that came to mind cannot be printed in any newspaper.  

There was, of course, a sad and empty space in New York's landscape where the World Trade Center once stood. And my not-so-kind words were clearly directed at the lowly bastards who shamelessly killed some 3,000 innocent people on Sept. 11. 

Upon clearing the GW and entering the Bronx, an old friend and I parked my car at Yankee Stadium, where we would be seeing a game later that night. But before that, there was a subway ride to take, down to lower Manhattan. There was respect to be paid, and a human travesty to see firsthand.

There was a planned visit to what is now called Ground Zero.

What I saw there, three weeks to the day after the world was forever changed, was, in some ways, exactly what you've seen on television. There were millions of tons of concrete and twisted metal, still serving as an ugly grave for the innocent. There was a war zone feel, with roadblocks everywhere, and police officers, firefighters and military personnel on every corner. There were prayers posted on abandoned buildings, flowers hanging on fences and an odd smell in the air. There was still a dusty soot covering some storefronts, even several blocks away.  

And Broadway - a festive road if there ever was one - was silent. 

At one point, I ran my finger across some of the ash-like dirt covering a pay phone. I think I just needed to feel some tangible connection to all of this, or to prove to myself that what I was seeing was real.  

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," I thought, as the soot touched my hand. The sad irony was obvious.

Standing amid this horrid mess, I thought of my visit to the Twin Towers with my aunt when I was a kid and how my sister and I stood in their shadow less than a year ago at the Yankees' ticker-tape parade. I thought of the obituary of the young man and attack victim that appeared in our paper on Tuesday, how he and I graduated from high school in the same year, and how we graduated from King's College together.

"I didn't know him," I thought, "but our lives must have crossed paths at some point."

If not, they certainly did on Tuesday. 

Some people at Ground Zero wore protective masks and some bought flags and patriotic pins while others stood still, staring at the wreckage in deep thought. I did what I always do whenever I pass a car accident on the road or a fire on the street: I made the sign of the cross and said a short prayer.

All of New York, it seemed, was also looking inward. 

The subways were full yet also quiet. Soft and polite gestures from strangers were common. Later, back at Yankee Stadium, planes flying overhead that never would have drawn much notice caused some to pause. And because the game being played was originally scheduled for Sept. 12 - the date on my ticket - I couldn't help but think that some of the empty seats in the stadium may have been so because those planning to come were no longer with us.

"Thank you," a stadium security officer said after he gave me what I once would have considered an insulting pat-down as I entered the facility.   "No," I said. "Thank you."  

Everything has changed. Everywhere.

The other night at Hops & Barley's in Luzerne, my favorite hangout, the entire bar sang along to "The Star-Spangled Banner" when someone played it on the jukebox. Last week, I was pleased to find out I'm still young enough to serve in the military if need be.

"Just give me a couple of weeks' training," I thought. "And the biggest gun you have."  

I've never thought that way before, nor have I ever even held a gun. But I'd sure like to now. Especially if I could help get whoever did this.

  What does any of this have to do with music?

Nothing. Nothing at all.   I was, however, listening to music as I crossed that flag-decorated bridge and saw that crippled skyline. And I will tell you this: John Lennon, a peaceful man who also loved New York, may be gone, but thankfully, his disciples sing on. And for me, his spirit and voice can be found in the music of such artists as U2, Sting and Bruce Springsteen, who have always been discerning and thoughtful, and who have always served as a fine voice for the social and political conscience of America's youths.  

As I drove around New York on Tuesday, I actually listened to three songs from U2's latest album, "All That You Can't Leave Behind." One, "New York," celebrates the vibrancy and energy of the city yet also mentions the "religious nuts and political fanatics" who can be found on its streets. The gorgeous "Walk On" talks about overcoming adversity through inner strength, and "Peace on Earth" condemns needless violence and hints at a sense of jaded faith.  

All seem perfectly fitting at this time. And all were written and released a year before this happened.

So if you, too, have turned to music at all, even just a little, during these crazy times, I recommend bands such as U2 and artists such as Sting and Springsteen. I refer you to people whose integrity can be trusted and whose hearts and motives are pure. Be leery of silly, chest-pounding, angst rockers, who - just three weeks ago - were singing songs about needless violence but are now suddenly singing on benefit songs. Be leery of the now suddenly sorrowful rappers who only three weeks ago sang about turf wars and murder but are now weeping under the flag and calling for brotherhood.

My trip to Ground Zero, with the dust on my hands, the smell of death in the air and the silence of the city showed me firsthand that what's happening in this world is quite real. And though it's somewhat insignificant, I want my music to be real, too.

Now, more than ever, everything is real.

Holiday Angel

 2 NEWSPAPER ARTICLES FROM '40S CONVEY
 TRUE MEANING OF CHRISTMAS



The Times Leader

December 24, 2000

By ALAN K. STOUT
Times Leader Staff Writer

It was on this very day - Christmas Eve, 1940 - that a story appeared in this newspaper that seemed to exemplify and encompass the true holiday spirit. It was a true story, offered by an anonymous reader, and although it was really just a short lesson in human kindness, it remains as heartwarming today as it did 60 years ago.

The tale appeared in Little Studies, a regular feature of The Times Leader Evening News. The feel-good, slice-of-life column, which appeared on the front page, often included inspiring tales set within the cozy confines of this self-proclaimed "Valley With A Heart.''

This particular passage told the story of a crippled man, who - facing very hard financial times - had headed out door-to-door on a cold Christmas Eve the year before, seeking help for himself and his family. Santa, he said, would not be visiting his 5-year-old son that evening. And despite the man's noble efforts, it appeared that would not change.

"No one had time,'' he wrote, "for a beggar on Christmas Eve.''

The article didn't mention where the man was from, but it did say where he visited: the Lyndwood section of Hanover Township. And it was there that a brief yet warm encounter with a good Samaritan would help change his life and provide us with this special holiday tale. 

Mary Ann Orant

Mary Ann Hannigan was born April 30, 1908, and died on July 29, 1984. Throughout her life, as she married and remarried, she was also known as Mary Ann Roberts, Mary Ann Orant and Mary Ann Zakonis. She was apparently unconcerned with titles or formalities. She sometimes went by "Marion,'' "Marian'' and, to most of her family, "Aunt Mamie.''

One young lad simply called her "Nanny.''

She - the daughter of Irish immigrants - often called those she cherished "Love."

She knew both joy and pain in her life, and in a time of limited medical technology, she was widowed three times. As a young woman, she also lost a child. 

Yet this woman, who lived through the Great Depression, two World Wars and all of the remarkable and tragic things her generation witnessed, never seemed to complain. She always demonstrated great courage and, most often, great kindness. She was warm and cheerful, had a tempered smile, and although she was of modest means, she loved to give.

Although Christmas also marked the birth date of the young son she had lost and most likely came with some difficult memories, she still treasured the holiday season and enjoyed its celebration. A decorated tree, a hearty meal, special treats, bayberry candles and Mass at St. Aloysius Church were all parts of her holiday tradition. The sights, the sounds and the smells of Christmas always filled her home - a home that was as warm as the holiday carols she would playfully whisper and sing in her daughters' ears. And it was upon her door that a tired and weary stranger would knock on that blustery Christmas Eve and, in turn, experience first hand the very spirit of Christmas.

'A new start'

"Home after home,'' wrote the man of his joyless journey, "I went without success. My crippled legs were exhausted, and I was numb with the cold.''

"Doors,'' the story would also tell, "were slammed in his face.''

It was then, with great discouragement, that he came upon the home of Mrs. John Orant. After shyly and hesitantly ringing her bell, he wrote, he was quickly welcomed inside. Soon, the young lady had summoned him into her kitchen, where she began preparing him a meal. While he ate, she filled a large shopping bag with goodies for his family, and upon his departure, she extended her hand and wished him a "Merry Christmas.''

Seeing that he was properly warmed and replenished, she then clasped a few dollars into his hand.

 

"That bag of food and that money gave me what I needed so badly - faith and a new start in life,'' he wrote. "It was a grand Christmas, thanks to that generous woman."

The following Christmas Eve, the man - who signed his letter only as W.R.S. - wrote to Little Studies again. He told of how, since the Christmas of '39, he had turned his life around.

"Best of all," he wrote, "a daughter has been added to our home. We have called her Marion, the given name of Mrs. John Orant - that kind and generous woman who gave us a new start.

"Once again, our hearts go out to her and hers.''

Nanny's touch

My grandmother never told me this Christmas story.

Even my mother, who is also named Mary Ann and shares many of her mother's qualities, was unaware of it. It only recently came to our attention when my Aunt Joan, my grandmother's eldest daughter, sent me a copy of the Little Studies article.

And although many in our family smiled when we first read the two little clips that have been reprinted here today, I can't say any of us were really surprised. My grandmother - the subject of this story - was the most loving woman I've ever known. And as I sit here today writing this holiday story, I can still feel her warmth and, in some ways, her presence.

Now, 60 years later, I like to think that somewhere out there, perhaps still in this very town, is an extension of that family which had once been touched by her goodwill.

I like to think that somewhere out there, perhaps still in this very town, is a woman who, because of my grandmother's kindness, also shares her name.

 

I don't know why Nanny - as I called her - never shared this mirthful story with us. I don't know why she, despite her modesty, never shared with us the tale of how someone, probably much to her embarrassment, wanted to tell this "Valley With A Heart'' about the special lady he'd encountered on a frosty Christmas Eve so many years ago.

What she did share with us, however, were the same things she apparently shared with everyone she ever knew. Nanny, more than anything, always shared her wisdom and her warmth.

Nanny, at Christmas and every day throughout the year, always shared her love.