Eulogy for my Mom

 St. Aloysius Church – August 6, 2015

To my Dad, my sister and I, my Mother was our best friend. She was the one constant in our lives. Through all of the ups and downs, and the good times and the bad, she was the one that was always there. She was kind, she was strong, and she was wise.  And the three of us each had our own unique and special relationship with her.

Though for the past 38 years, the four of us were a family, my Mom and I actually go back a bit further. And I sometimes think of the five or six years that she was a single Mom, and it was just the two of us, living right here in South Wilkes-Barre. It was the mid -‘70s, and there was a popular song on the radio at the time called “You and Me Against The World,” and sometimes when it came on the radio when we were in the car, she would sing it to me.  Many years later, when I got married, I surprised her with it as our mother/son dance at the reception. And for the past few days, one line from that song has kept going through my mind.


“And when one of us in gone, and one of us is left to carry on, then the memories will have to do, our memories alone will get us through. Think about the days of me and you, you and me against the world.”

Some friends told me this week that my Mom was still with me, and that I should watch for the signs, but I really didn't want to do that just yet. I haven't turned on the radio or TV all week, and I wasn't looking for some heart-shaped cloud in the sky. I told a good friend, just last night, that if my Mom could ever send me such a gesture, I wanted to be walloped right over the head.


This morning, I stopped at the store to pick up some photographs of my children that I'd had developed and that I thought I might place with my Mom before she was laid to rest, and as soon as I walked into the store, that song  - "You and Me Against The World" - came on. It is not a song that you hear very often. It is not played very much. And I suppose the people in the store may have been wondering why I was walking up and down the aisle crying, saying "Oh, thank you, Mom. Thank you so much."


I thought all of you, who are also feeling great loss right now, might take some comfort in knowing that.


I have never forgotten those years with my Mom, and I never will, because she made what could have been difficult years great years. We had fun. And she was incredibly strong. Stronger than I can ever hope to be.


She was amazing.


My Mom married my Dad when I was nine. A year or so later, she had Susan, and for the past 39 years, we have been a family. And that’s how most of you here today know us, and that is how you’ve known her. And nothing mattered to her more than her family. She loved my Dad so much, and over the past few years, they really enjoyed retirement and travelling. He was just telling me the other night, with fondness, about some of their adventures, and I still have warm memories of being on family vacations, and looking down from the balcony of the condo, and seeing them going for one of their twilight strolls together on the beach. My mom loved the ocean. She could sit and just look at it for days. And my Dad always made sure she got there, often. Thank you, Dad.


Though Susan has lived in Philadelphia for 20 years, it’s really almost as if she never left. She visits home often. Very often. And she called my Mom and Dad pretty much every day. They had a special bond that can only be found between a mother and daughter, and my parents would also sometimes go and stay with her at her home in Philly for a few days. They also traveled together, visiting places such as Ireland and the tropics. They had fun. And if you noticed how perfect all of the arrangements for these services are, with everything so beautiful, that was simply Susan being her mother's daughter. 

Mom loved her family. And we loved her. And if the three of us thought there wasn’t even any more room for love in her heart, we were wrong, because once the grandchildren started to arrive about eight years ago, Mom seemed to take love another level. First was my daughter, Mary Ann, who shares my Mom’s name, her mother’s name, and her grandmother’s name. I know my Mom was proud of that, but probably not nearly as proud as I am. Then came my son, A.J., and then came Susan's and Matt’s son, John. My Mom loved Matt like a son, and she loved her three grandchildren with all of her heart. To say she spoiled them would be an understatement, and I know both Susan and I will find it to be very strange, over the next few weeks, to not be getting calls from her, asking us if there is anything the kids need for school. I know she would have been stopping by my house with a few bags of new clothes, and tablets and pencils and crayons, or, more likely she would have just taken the kids shopping with her and let them pick out some things they wanted and needed. Her grandchildren, all three of them, never wanted for anything. And nothing seemed to make her happier than bringing them joy.

Everyone here today, and those that we saw last night, had a unique and special relationship with my Mom. Her sister Joan, is here, who is heartbroken over the loss of who she still considers to be her baby sister. Other family members and friends, some from right in the neighborhood, some who have traveled a great distance to be here today, are also feeling great loss. Her former co-workers from King’s College, with whom she remained close with even after retirement, are feeling great loss. There were many times over the years that I talked with my Mom and asked what she was up to, and she said she was having dinner that night with the ladies from King’s. We met them all last night. She loved you.


Even before she retired, my Mom was also always busy at home. She enjoyed working in her beautiful yard and she was always tweaking something at the house. It seemed rooms that didn’t really need to be painted might be painted, or wallpaper that didn’t necessarily need to be replaced would be replaced, but her taste was always impeccable. At Christmastime, cars driving down her street would stop and compliment her on her holiday decorating.  Mom was always making things better. Mom liked things to look nice. And her home was immaculate. And today, when I have a guest at my home, or my sister has guests at her home, and we receive compliments on how the pictures are always hung perfectly and everything is in order, we both know - and we are proud to say - that we are simply a reflection of our mother.      


My Mom would be happy - and I know she is happy - that this beautiful church is her last stop here on this Earth. When the school next door opened in the 50s, she was among the first students to attend it for eight years. She received her sacraments here, she sang in that beautiful choir, and she enjoyed the May Crowings in the schoolyard across the street. Three months ago, she was joyous here as her granddaughter received her First Holy Communion. And now, she would want us to be strong. And she would want us to be joyous. She would want us, after a heartbreaking few weeks, to get back to our jobs and our work and to do good things. She would want my Dad to go fishing and spend time with us and his friends. She would want all of us  to enjoy our lives and our families. She never wanted us to worry. As recently as a few weeks ago, when she first began to have some setbacks with her health, and I would ask her how she was feeling, she would tell me not to worry, and that she was fine. Thinking back on it now, I think maybe she knew she was not fine, but she did not like to be fussed over and she always put her family first, and the thought of us worrying about her health was probably much more of a concern to her than her health.


In the end, my Mom simply showed us all the same strength that she showed me 40 years ago, when it was just her and me against the world. Back then, I didn’t have to worry about a thing. She made sure of that. And that’s what she still always wanted, for all of us.


About two weeks ago, I was with her at the hospital, and things were still looking OK. She was just starting to get some treatments, and she was sitting up in bed, and after a nice visit I was about to go home, and as I was leaving I told her that she was the strongest person I know. And she looked at me, and said, “Oh, I’m just doing what I have to do.”


And then she paused, and she looked right at me, and she said, “And you do what you have to do.”


It was one of the last conversations I ever had with her. And I have thought of it many times over the past two weeks.


We will all do what we have to do, Mom. We will be strong, like you, and we will always be here for each other, just as you were always here for us. We will still talk to you every single day, for the rest of our lives, until we see you again.


We will never forget you.


And we will never stop loving you.

Tom Lahart and ‘The Big Red Machine’

The Reds: 1979 Kingston Little League National League Champs. Coach Tom Lahart is at far right.

Kingston Little League coach left his players with lasting memories

My old Little League coach, Tom Lahart, passed away last week. I played for him in Kingston from 1978-1980. That’s a long time ago, but with his passing, he’s been on my mind a bit over the past few days. He was a good guy, a fine baseball coach and someone that had a lasting impact on my life.

I was 10 years old in the spring of 1978 when I found out that the Kingston Little League team that had selected me to play for them was the Dairy Queen Reds. I had moved to Kingston from South Wilkes-Barre in 1976, and though I had played one year of baseball at St. Therese’s, I was not by any means a polished baseball player. I was a quiet and shy kid, and though - because I had a “Johnny Bench Batter-Up” pitching machine in the backyard - I could hit OK, I could not for the life of me catch a fly ball.

Mr. Lahart taught me how.

The Reds practiced often. We practiced on cold spring days on fields all over Kingston. When he was teaching his outfielders how to play the position, Mr. Lahart would put us in the outfield and he would stand in the batter’s box. He’d then point to you with his bat, to let you know this one was for you, and he’d then toss the ball in the air and hit it in your direction. He was good at it, and he’d always loft you a nice, soft, high fly ball. I, however, was much too eager.  As soon as he’d hit a ball towards me, I’d start charging in for it at full speed. And it would always land about 30 feet behind me.

1978 Kingston Reds 

Mr. Lahart fixed that. He taught me how to hold my ground, read and track the ball, and go catch it. Two years later, in my final year of Little League, I was the starting left fielder in an All-Star game.

Thank you, Mr. Lahart.

One of my fondest memories of my All-Star season does not involve a game, but a practice. Once the All-Stars had been selected by the coaches in the league, the practices were pretty intense. There were about 15 kids competing to be one of the nine starters, and at the final practice before the big game, one of the assistant coaches who was pitching batting practice was really dealing. He was challenging us with some serious heat in what was essentially a simulated game, and as I stepped into the batter’s box with two strikes, my teammates started busting me that I was about to whiff.

1980 Kingston Reds

I launched the next ball not just out of Kingston’s Memorial Field, but into Janjigan Field, which sits behind it.

I was the only one on the squad to hit one out during all of the All-Star practices we’d had, and with that swing, I had made myself a starter. But what I remember the most about it was walking away from the field with Mr. Lahart after practice. It was just the two of us, and I think he was proud that one of his Reds had shined. I’d actually, at that point, never hit a ball over the fence before – I just don’t think I was quite strong enough at the time – but he told me he thought I was quite capable of it, and that I probably could have done it many times. Perhaps it was the competition at the practices that raised my game. Or maybe, as I was playing my final games as a Little Leaguer, I was finally developing into a better player. All I know for sure is that my coach believed in me. And that meant something.

Thank you, Mr. Lahart.

1980 Kingston National League All-Stars, managed by Tom Lahart  

In my first year with the Reds, Mr. Lahart taught me how to play. In my final year, I was one of his best players. But neither of those seasons is the season that I remember the most. It was my middle season playing for him, in 1979, when we had the best team. We were led by Mr. Lahart’s son, Eddie, who was not just the best player on our team, but probably the best player in the league. He was only a year older than me and he was my teammate, but I looked up to him. We all did.  If Mr. Lahart could take a skinny and clueless kid like me and turn him into a decent player, you can imagine what he was able to do with his own son. Eddie was our star and he led us to a 15-3 record and the Kingston National League Championship. We were a pesky, scrappy team, and when we squared off in the Kingston World Series against the undefeated 18-0 American League Champion Yankees, nobody gave us much of a chance.

Except Mr. Lahart.

He believed we could win and he certainly made us think so. We were Kingston's version of the “Big Red Machine,” we were not intimidated by anyone, and in Game 1 of the best of three series, we beat the mighty Yankees. It seemed like the whole town was there watching those games, and thinking back, it still feels pretty good to have stunned them all. They were good times. Our moms became our biggest fans, the “Radical Reds,” and they all arrived at one of the games on a float. Our dads watched with appreciation, trusting in their sons under Mr. Lahart’s guidance. I can still remember in the dugout before Game 2, he told us that the Yankees were probably still pretty shocked that we beat them in Game 1, and that if we could come out and get an early lead in Game 2, they might panic and fold, and we could wrap things up that day. But it was not to be. The Yankees were not 18-0 for no reason. They had some fine players and they were also well coached, and they beat us to even the series.

Game 3 would be for all the marbles.

I remember it like it was yesterday. “Are you nervous?” asked my Dad, as he drove me to the field. “No,” I said. “Good,” he said. Mr. Lahart had us ready to play, but what happened on that warm summer night is still to this day the most heartbreaking loss I’ve ever been a part of on any field.

It was the bottom of the sixth inning, which in Little League is the equivalent of the bottom of the 9^th.  We had a one run lead. There were two outs. The Yankees had runners on second and third. There were two strikes on the batter. The crowd was loud. A strike, or any type of groundout or pop out, and we were the champs. A base hit, and the Yankees were the champs. It was about as good of a baseball game as you will ever see. I was in left field, fully anticipating a strikeout. I was expecting to be tossing my glove high in the air and running into the infield and mobbing my teammates, just like you see MLB players do after the final out of the World Series. But that’s not what happened.

The pitch got by the catcher. The tying run scored from third.

The catcher could not find the ball. It had gotten stuck under the backstop. He frantically looked around for it as Eddie, our pitcher, ran in to cover home while yelling and pointing to where the ball had lodged.

Too late.

The winning run scored. All the way from second base.  

We lost the World Series. On the last pitch. Because two runs scored on a past ball.

We were heartbroken. And, because we were still just little boys, we cried.

Base of trophy from the 1979 Reds, Tom Lahart's best team

Sitting in the dugout after the game, Mr. Lahart could see our pain. He was disappointed, too, especially since he knew that we had played well enough to win, but that we had lost on a freakish play. He told us all how proud he was of us, and that we should all be proud, and then he walked off to his car, came back, and gave us all a gift. It was a patch for our jackets that read “Reds – 1979 Kingston Little League National League Champions.” I still, to this day, wonder if he had patches in the car that said “World Champs.” He probably did. But the way he handled things that day, and they way he treated us, in such a sad little moment, is something I have never forgotten.

My son played t-ball this year, and though he played his home games in Larksville, he had a few “road” games on the fields in Kingston – the same fields that I played on more than 30 years ago. And every time we went there, I thought about the things I have written about here today. I thought of Mr. Lahart.

I have been asked if, next year, I would like to serve as a coach on my children's team, and I have already said yes. I think it will be fun to help teach young boys and girls how to play the great game of baseball, and I know that if I’m ever stuck on something, I can draw on some of the things I learned from my old coach: How to track a fly ball. How to prepare for a big game. How play with confidence, but not cockiness. And how to display good sportsmanship. And I will know that the many hours spent, volunteering time with those kids, is not being done in vain, and that decades later, some of them still might appreciate it.

I know I do. And I always will.

Thank you, Mr. Lahart.

  

Remembering “Buddy”

The two pictures were always in my grandmother’s home, properly framed. One, I clearly recall, contained a small locket of hair. They were of a young boy.

I was about the same age as the child in the photos when I first asked my grandmother who he was. And though she was gentle in the way that she told me and offered few details, she explained that he was her son and that he had died long ago.

“He came home from school on Friday not feeling well,” she said. “And by Sunday, he and four of his classmates were gone.”

This was in 1933. His name was Edward Roberts, but everyone, including my grandmother, called him “Buddy.” I would later learn, when I was much older, that Buddy died from diphtheria. It was, unfortunately, common at the time. And obviously when it went through a school, it was devastating.

My grandmother, with her second marriage, went on to have two daughters who she loved dearly. Buddy, however, remained somewhat of an enigma. Neither my aunt Joan nor my mother knew him. He had passed away before they were born. And since my grandmother’s first husband had also passed on, it seemed he only lived on in her memory and her mother’s memory. Buddy, we were told, loved his grandma and she adored him. They are in some ways still together, as they are buried side by side.

Buddy was a blonde-haired little boy, and when I was his age, so was I. My grandmother and I were very close, and as I think back on all of the time I spent with her, she never seemed to mind having a house full of my friends. Sometimes I now wonder if, on some of those days, when her home was filled with the laughter of little boys at play, her mind didn’t drift back to 45 years earlier and to the son she had lost.

A few years ago, I began to do some ancestry research and was able to learn quite a bit about how and when my family came to America. I even learned a little bit about some of our family history in Europe. But Buddy’s story, which was only about 80 years ago, was the one that got to me the most. And perhaps that’s because there were also some odd coincidences that paralleled his short life and the life of my family today. He originally lived in Pringle, but moved to the Lynwood section of Hanover Township. My mom originally grew up in Hanover Township, but now lives near Pringle. I also now live near Pringle, but because of some recent changes in our family life, I have found myself spending quite a bit of time in Lynwood. There is a long Pringle/Lynwood connection to my family which goes back more than 100 years, and I find it ironic that I now find myself driving down Buddy’s old street a few times a week. And then there is my son, who is now five years old and who is also a blonde-haired little boy. Though it was not at all by design, I often call him “Buddy.” 

There is no one alive in our family today that actually knew little Edward Roberts. He passed away on this date - September 24 - 81 years ago. But my sister and I have decided to be the keeper of his flame. We do this to honor his memory and we do it out of respect to our grandmother. And so today, if even just a few of my friends took a few minutes to read this little blog, his memory has been passed on.

Rest in peace, sweet boy.

You have not been forgotten.

‘In ways we cannot be … even in memory'

Anyone that knows me knows that I had a very special relationship with my grandparents. Though they passed on many years ago, I still speak of them often, and there is not one day that goes by that I don’t think of them. When I was a young boy, their home was my home.  I was there five days a week after school, from about 3 to 5 p.m., when my Mom would pick me up after work. And in the summers, she’d drop me off at about 8:30 every morning and I’d be there all day. I probably spent just as much time there, if not more, than my own house. I even had my own room there.

And I loved it.

I always felt complete love there. My grandparents didn't seem at all burdened with the fact they were essentially babysitting a young boy everyday during their golden years. They seemed to love having me there. My friends from the neighborhood were all welcome there. We’d play in their yard and all throughout their house all day. Lemonade was always there for everyone. Lunch, too. They even put a pool in their yard, just for me and my friends, which came with only one rule: nobody goes swimming unless grandpa is in the yard supervising.

It was good rule.

And they were good people.

I could probably write a mini-novel about my memories of that house. And though I haven’t been in it in more than 30 years, I can still remember everything about every room in it. From the pattern of the linoleum on the kitchen floor to the sound the back screen door made when it closed, it is all as clear to me today as when I was eight years old.

And the nice thing is, sometimes, I go back.

Not literally. But in dreams. They don’t come as often as I’d like, but when they do, I always wake up feeling like something special has happened. Sometimes, I’m a young boy again, and it’s summer, and everything is as it once was. Sometimes, I’m the age I am now, and I go inside, and my grandparents are still there, and we chat. I call these dreams “visits,” because that’s really what I like to believe they are.

I can still recall the first time I had such a dream. It was around 1986, which was eight years after my grandpa had passed and only two years after my grandmother had passed. I was about 18, and I must have not been feeling well, because I had never been one to nap, especially at such a young and vibrant age, but for some reason, on a beautiful summer afternoon, I fell asleep. And, for the first time in about five years, I found myself back at my favorite place: my grandparents’ home.

I still remember the feeling I had when I woke. It was wonderful.

Sometimes, the visits are in full color. Sometimes, they have a sepia tone to them. Regardless, they always feel remarkably real.

Some years ago, one of my favorite bands, The Badlees, recorded a song called “A Fever.” The first time I heard it, it resonated with me. It reminded me of my visits.

Some of the lyrics:

“I dream of you

In light as blue as neon when it's blue
Past visions of rolling hills
In movie stills
A panoramic stew ….

A fever's brought me close to you

In ways we cannot be
A fever's brought me close to you
In ways we cannot be
Even in memory”

I have made a little slideshow here of some photos of my grandparents, set to the song:

I share this today with some family and friends because it was 30 years ago today that my grandmother passed. It is hard for me to comprehend that it has now been three decades since I have talked with her, and even longer since I've seen my grandpa.

I hope to see them again someday.

But for now - in ways we cannot be - I'll take the visits. 

Blessed to have two ...

Those that know me best would probably note that I have always been a very reflective person. I often tend to look back on things from the past, but with today’s perspective. It is actually something that I enjoy. When I'm not doing that, I'm usually looking ahead and preparing for what’s next. That’s fine, too, but by doing both of those things too much, you can sometimes lose sight of the present. And you might not appreciate it. And though I recognize that living in the moment has never been something that I've been particularly good at, I can honestly say that such is not the case when it comes to my two children. When I am with them, I am very much right here, right now.

And I consider this a gift that they have given me.

Driving home from an amusement park last night, just the three of us, I realized that these days - right now - are some of the best days of my life. Putting my arms around them and holding them tight as we went on some of the park’s more adventurous rides is something that, well … I know these are things that will not last. My five year-old son telling me he would like to ride the mini roller-coaster, but only if I rode with him, are moments that, even while they are happening, are very special to me. And, thankfully, I was well aware of this as I held him close as we rode. The joy on my seven year-old daughter’s face as we emerged - completely saturated - from one of the water rides is something I will never forget. Her eyes - like the Irish girl that she is - seem to gleam even more when she smiles.

Taking them both to Yankee Stadium last weekend to their first MLB game provided for another moment, or series of moments, that I will never forget. The thrill in my daughter’s voice as we pulled into the Bronx and she spotted the stadium for the first time will stay with me forever. As will her funny but astute observation about the place, which she made from her seat in about the sixth inning:

“This is big.”

Every time I go back there, for the rest of my life, I will also always think of my son’s favorite part of the ballpark: the escalators, which he pronounces “excavators.”  He seemed happy to see Derek Jeter play baseball, but I also think he would have been happy to simply ride the stadium “excavators” all day. I suppose I could have saved a few hundred bucks and just taken him to Boscov’s. The boy always makes me smile.

Parents with older children often tell me to “cherish these days.”

Trust me. I am.

Though life often twists and turns in many directions, and though change is always in the air, I am – when it comes to my precious Mary Ann and A.J. – well aware that these are some of the best days of my life, and that these are days that I will someday look back upon and perhaps long to revisit. I am also well aware that being their father is the most important thing I will ever do, and that I am blessed beyond words to have them in my life.

Some people wish they had but just one thing to live for.

I have two.

Coffee with … Santa Claus

By Alan K. Stout

Westside Bulletin Correspondent

Santa Claus is a professional toymaker best associated with his tireless work during the Christmas holiday season. Claus, who is believed to be several hundred years old, resides at the North Pole with his wife, Jessica, who is best known as “Mrs. Claus.” Their extended family includes a workshop staff of 1,000 elves and nine reindeer, one of which has a red nose. In a rare and exclusive interview with The Westside Bulletin, Santa recently offered some insight into his magical life and why he continues to do what he does every Christmas Eve.   

 How did you first get involved with the whole giving-out-toys-to-every-kid-in-the-world-on-Christmas-Eve thing? That’s a pretty big undertaking. “If you have ever seen the TV special ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,’ they did a pretty good job of getting the story right. I was adopted by the Kringle family as a baby, who were the finest toymakers in the world. When I got older, I offered to deliver the toys to the children at a nearby town, and over time it just grew into a rather epic yearly adventure. I remember the first time I did the whole globe in one night, I thought ‘Never again. That was a bit much.’ But the kids really loved it, and there was really no way I could stop. I’ve been doing it every Christmas Eve ever since.”

What do you still enjoy about it the most? “Just seeing the joy that the toys bring to the children. People assume that when I get back to the North Pole, I must be so tired that I sleep for three days. But I’m still too hyped up on adrenaline to relax, and after working so hard in getting ready for the big night all year, I want to be able to enjoy seeing the children open their gifts. So I tend to look in on them for a few days through my crystal ball, and I get to see the joy. A few days later, it all starts to catch up with me and I get some rest. New Year’s Eve is always a quiet and restful night at the Claus home. Our work is done.”

When do you start to get ready again for next year? “February 1. I always give everyone the month of January off. They put in some very long days, especially in November and December, so I give all of the elves a well-deserved break. Then, on February 1, it’s back to work.”

What is your favorite gift to leave for the children? “Dolls for the girls and trains for the boys. My staff and I have seen every toy trend come and go over the years, and my elves are the best, so they can make anything, but at the end of the day, you can never go wrong with a doll or a train.”

Do you really leave some kids coal at Christmas Eve? Growing up, I never heard of that actually ever happening to anyone. “It’s pretty rare, but it’s been done. Usually, it’s the parents that insist on it, and so I must oblige. Clearly, they want to use Christmas as a way to teach their kids a lesson and improve their behavior. I’m not a big fan of it and I don’t do it often. I think it’s been a good 10 or 15 years since it happened to anyone. But the possibility is always there. I do have a list, and I do check it once and then check it twice.”

What’s your favorite Christmas movie? “It’s funny, but I tend to prefer holiday films that don’t involve me or films in which I have appeared. I enjoy ‘Miracle on 34^th Street,’ but I’d rather watch something like ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ or ‘A Christmas Carol.’ I love those stories and how they reflect the Christmas spirit.”

What about the children’s holiday specials? Do you watch them?  “Certainly. I love them. And with those, I do like the ones that feature Santa. ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,’ ‘The Year Without A Santa Claus’ and ‘Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer’ are wonderful. I also enjoy ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas,’ ‘Frosty The Snowman’ and ‘How The Grinch Stole Christmas.’ They’re all very well done.”

What’s your favorite Christmas music? “Well, honestly, the most moving Christmas music to me is the holiday hymns that you might hear sung by your church choir on Christmas morning. Those are the ones that best capture what the holiday is all about. Christmas is not about Santa. I’m just a small part of its celebration. The Christmas songs you hear in church are the ones that remind us why we celebrate. As for holiday albums, I love the classics – Bing Crosby, Johnny Mathis, Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra – albums like that. I also love the Elvis Christmas albums. The King loved Christmas. Sometimes when they’re working in the shop, the elves will be playing some of the more modern holiday music, such as Mannheim Steamroller or Trans-Siberian Orchestra, and I’ll stop and listen to it with them for a while. I like it. But in the end, just give me Bing singing ‘White Christmas.’ I love the classics.”

What do you do to relax? “I really do love anything that has to do with winter and the outdoors. We love to go sledding and skiing and ice skating. You’d think at my age, I’d have slowed down a bit, but I haven’t lost a step. Give me a toboggan and a big hill, and I’m as happy as a child.”

Any nicknames? “No. Not really. Some people think Kris Kringle and St. Nick are nicknames, but they are also my official legal names. People in different parts of the world prefer to call me by different things. To some, I’m Santa. To others, I’m St. Nick. To others, I’m Kris Kringle. As long as I am welcomed there, it doesn’t matter to me. Sometimes, if I do something wrong at home,  Mrs. Claus will call me Kristopher. She is the only one that calls me that. If I track in snow through the house, and she yells ‘Kristopher!” from the next room, I know I’m in trouble.”

Hobbies? “I collect vintage toys. And when I say vintage, I mean vintage. Though I’ve been making toys for a few hundred years, they actually go back much, much further. Dolls, toy animals and toy soldiers have been found on archaeological digs, and it is believed that the word ‘toy’ was first used in the 14th century. Any toy that pre-dates the Kringle-era of toy-making, I’m interested in.”

Favorite food? “I love sweets. Can’t you tell.” (He breaks into his famous “Ho-Ho-Ho” laugh.)

Favorite city? “They’re all special and unique. Obviously, with my work, I’ve been to all of biggest cities in the world, and also to every little town and village. New York and London really do Christmas well, but it doesn’t matter to me where it is – big town or small - as long as they are celebrating the holiday and I am made to feel welcome, I feel at home.”

Favorite vacation spot? “We actually stay north year-round. Sometimes if we want a little hustle bustle, we’ll visit Montreal or Toronto, but we tried the Bahamas and the Caribbean a few times many years ago, and it’s just not us. We’re winter people.”

Favorite color? “Red, of course.”

Favorite author? “Charles Dickens.”

Favorite book?  “ ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas.”

Tell us something about yourself that people might not know. “Most people seem to know that my crystal ball allows me to look in on children from time to time to see if they’re being naughty or nice, but what they might not know is that it also allows me to see into the future. For example, the 51st President of The United States is currently six years old. And what she wants for Christmas this year are a few Hello Kitty items. There’s also a boy I know who is now four, and 20 years from now, he will pitch in the World Series. Right now, he’s into ‘Batman’ and ‘Star Wars,’ but I think I better also leave him a ball and glove.”  

Defining moment? “It was a few days after we did that first one-night global trip many, many Christmas Eves  ago. The thank you letters had started to come in from the children, and I read every one of them. And each one touched my heart. At the time, I didn’t know it was something I’d do every Christmas Eve. It was just something I wanted to try once. We had plenty of toys at the shop, and I wanted the children around the world to enjoy them. And so off we went. And a few days later, when I started reading those letters, I knew I had my life’s work and my life’s mission. There is nothing like the smile of a child, and as long as the Good Lord allows me to remain a small part of his special holiday, I will always be there for the children on Christmas Eve. Always. Some people say that I am a blessing, because I make children happy, but I feel I am the one that has been blessed.”

 

HAPPY TRAILS, CHIEF

 

"Joe B." is leaving the Times Leader. He will be missed, but not forgotten

  

 

It's hard to imagine The Times Leader without Joe Butkiewicz. When I see the paper on my front porch every morning, I think of him. For 30 years, he was a constant presence in the newsroom, and I was fortunate enough to have been there with him for about half of them. At first, he was my co-worker. Later, for about eight years, he was my boss. Then, as we each moved in and out of different positions at the paper, he became a trusted colleague. Ultimately, what I will always consider him to be is a mentor and a friend. And since this is his last week at the TL, I would be remiss to not share some thoughts on the man that I have come to respect as much as anyone I have ever known in my own 20-plus years of journalism.

When I say "Joe B," as everyone calls him, was a constant presence in the newsroom, I mean it. When I first started at the paper in 1993, he was already a 10-year veteran, a features writer, music writer, and a film critic. And I can still recall those days in the early '90s when much of the newsroom staff would gather outside of the editor's office to discuss the latest highly-hyped blockbuster while Joe held court. His opinion mattered then, and years later when he became the editorial page editor, it mattered even more. With his commentaries on life in NEPA, his voice was, in essence, the voice of the newspaper. And in recent years, as he has served as executive editor - a.k.a. the big boss - his experience and leadership became its daily conscience.

My own nickname for Joe is "Chief." No real reason for it, other than from 1996-2001 and from 2005-2007, he was my boss. And I liked him. In fact when he was the Arts & Leisure Team Leader, or features editor, I think we all would have run through a fire for him. He led by example and he worked harder than any of us. He also let us develop our respective beats, while also creating a culture where we all knew that we could - and should - contribute to all of the features pages.

In 1998, when Chief envisioned changing our Friday "Weekend" section into a tab, he knew exactly what he wanted. He knew it would be better for the readers and that it offered more creative ways for stories to be presented and designed. We all bought into his plan and helped launch "The Guide," which can you still find in your Times Leader every Friday. If you like it, you can thank Joe B.

As a boss, Chief was the type of supervisor that you didn't want to let down. If he gave you the ball, you didn't not want to drop it. He always reminded us that everything we did - everything - was about the reader. "The Reader, the reader, the reader," he would sometimes say, or write in an editing note on a story. Sometimes, back in the '90s, when Joe liked one of your stories or how you handled a certain situation, you might find a little note, typed on his stationary, lying on your desk. Later, they came via e-mail. In my home, in a drawer in my office, I still have them all. When Chief said you did good, it made you feel good.

When it came to arts and entertainment, Joe was not concerned with following trends. Yes, I was assigned a story on the "Macarena" sensation - I mean, we had to do it - but he also liked the paper to be first in informing people about things they might find interesting. I remember in 1996 there was a very good local band that was about to release an excellent new album. I had an advanced copy, and I thought that while the group did not have the following of a band like The Badlees, it too had a chance at a national record deal. I pitched the band and its CD release as a cover story for the "Weekend" section, and though I told Joe I thought they were fabulous, I also felt I should tell him that the group wasn't really packing the clubs just yet.

"That's doesn't concern me at all," he said. "Let's be the ones to tell everyone about them."

They were our cover story. And sometime later, Mere Mortals were voted NEPA's best original band.

Joe always supported my projects. When I got involved with "Concert For Karen" and "Concert For A Cause," he came to the shows and always bought a t-shirt. When I later worked with the Newspapers in Education program and helped present the annual Times Leader/Scripps Spelling Bee, Joe was there. His position at the paper did not really require him to attend such events, but he did. And it meant a lot. On one occasion, when Joe was features editor, we got word from a publicist that a story I had written and had moved on the national wire had run in some of the largest newspapers in the country. He took the list of papers it had appeared in right into the editor’s office to let her know. Thinking back, I now realize that the fact that Joe was happy for me and proud of me meant more to me than the thought that the article might have been read a million people.

In 2000, I wrote a "Look Back" story at Christmastime. I won't bore you with the all of the details, but when people ask me what is my favorite story I've ever written, it is the one. My first draft, however, was quite different than the one that was published. And the suggested changes that helped make it my favorite came from Joe B.

Perhaps such tales are why I worked for Joe not once, but twice. In 2001, Joe left his position as features editor to become editorial page editor. In 2004, I left the features desk to become Newspapers in Education Manager. I liked the job very much and was in the position for about a year when I was called into the publisher's office. Ironically, I had literally just gotten back from a week-long conference in Charleston, where I met with other Newspapers in Education managers (NIE) from around the country.

 "Did you know that while you were away, the editor of The Weekender resigned?" asked Pat McHugh. I told him I did. In fact, he was a good friend. "Would you consider taking the position?“ he asked. “With your experience as an entertainment writer and copy editor, I think it's a great fit."

I paused for a minute. Though I figured that was probably what he was going to ask me when he called me in, and I knew it was a nice opportunity, I really did love the NIE program. Noticing my hesitation, he leaned forward, smiled, and offered this:

"I should tell you that while you were gone, I made some changes. Joe B. is now overseeing all of the weekly newspapers, so if you do this, you'll be working for Joe."

He had me. He knew he had me. And for the next two years, Joe and I had some fun times working on The Weekender. In fact, I think we surprised people. Though some may have thought that two old Times Leader guys coming over to The Weekender might have led to the paper losing some of its edge, Joe and I stirred stuff up all the time. One week, with a somewhat racy cover, we actually got the paper booted right out of every Turkey Hill in NEPA. We in turn used the publicity to our advantage and had everyone in town looking to pick it up. Not bad for two Catholic kids from Kingston.

More than anything, however, Joe is a very serious journalist. As noted, the reader is always his main concern. Such was the case when he covered music, reviewed films, wrote slice-of-life columns, and when he wrote features and editorials. I also saw it firsthand once again when, in 2011, I sat with him on the newspaper's endorsement board for what was an incredibly important election. And throughout his entire tenure of his final position at the paper - as its executive editor - he worked well with everyone from the reporters to the designers to the online staff. And I assume that's because they all felt the same way about him as I did.

Joe always referred to tough days and the challenges of working at a newspaper as "The Bear." Sometimes, he said, The Bear will win. Sometimes, he said, you will win. Joe slayed many a bear.

A few more Joe B. stories:

Back in the early '90s, there was a forecast for a major blizzard that was expected to start mid-afternoon. We all knew it was coming. Steve Corbett, our loud and outspoken metro columnist, was seated at his desk near the window when he shouted, "I just saw the first flake!"

 "That's your reflection," deadpanned Joe B.

Not only did the comment itself crack me up, but I was even more impressed at the speed at which it was delivered. Steve fumbled for a witty comeback, but came up empty. I was a young and quiet kid at the time, sitting off in the corner, but I think in my 18 years at The Times Leader, it was the hardest I ever laughed. Steve did, too.

In 2011, I left the paper to work with Big Brothers Big Sisters of The Bridge. Joe and I have stayed in touch, and earlier this year, I told him we were about to start getting ready for "Bowl For Kids' Sake," our biggest annual fundraiser. The Times Leader has always been a major sponsor of the event, but I knew there had been some big changes in the marketing department at the paper, and I wasn't sure who I should talk to about running some promos for the event. Joe thought about it for a minute, and finally said, "Just get them to me." This was certainly not the responsibility of the executive editor of the newspaper. And while some might say he had bigger fish to fry, Joe does not think that way. He knows a newspaper has a responsibility to a community. Our "Bowl For Kids' Sake" promos ran in the paper, and I know that this was not simply because of our relationship. He's done it for many other community groups as well. He knows it is just as important as the page one headline.

Though he was no longer my supervisor, I worked with Joe right up until the day I left the paper. For about two years, I wrote a Sunday feature called "MEET." It was Joe that asked me to write it, and again, I enjoyed working with him. And after 18 years, on my very last day at the paper, even though he worked in another building, it was Joe that came over to my office at the end of the day and walked me to my car. It meant a lot. 

It's funny, but whenever I worked with Joe and I would thank him for something he did for me, or taught me, and I would try to give him a compliment, he would deflect it by saying 'You're only as good as the people you work with." That might be the only thing I disagreed with him on. Joe has never given me bad advice on anything, and your boss can make you better. And he or she can't do that if they're not pretty damn good themselves.

 Again, Joe cared the most about the readers. (The reader, the reader, the reader.") But he also cared about his staff. I've shared a few of my stories here, and I know many others who worked with him can easily do the same. When I was covering rock music for the paper and Joe was my supervisor, there were certain things he expected. He wanted concert reviews that were both reporting (the attendance, the set-list) and commentary (crowd interaction, sound quality.) And you better hit your deadline. But every time I headed out of the newsroom to cover a show at Montage, or the arena, or the Kirby, or Philly, the last thing he'd say was, "Have fun."

Chief, we always had fun. And that, in large part, was because of you.

Joe leaves The Times Leader on Friday. On Saturday, the presses will roll on. Which is exactly what he wants. I'm sure he hopes the TL carries on for another 106 years, and that the co-workers he leaves behind continue to have fulfilling careers. What I want for him as he enters a new phase of his life is the same thing he wanted for me when he was my boss and I was his music critic.

 Whatever you do, Chief, have fun. Have plenty of fun.

 Nobody deserves it more.