A tip of the hat to Jerry Webber.

Jerry was the main anchor of KJRH's newscasts for many years.  His editorial on the night of the attack on the Murrah Building is legendary. He talked about the pride of the people under incredible stress, about their perseverance, about their courage.

I was recently contacted by a former KJRH colleague regarding a copy of the words by Jerry, now-deceased, uttered during our late news on April 19, sixteen years ago.

On my desk to this day is a piece of the building.  I can't remember who brought it to me but I keep it as a constant reminder of one of the biggest stories of my career.  I've looked and I can't find the video of Jerry's words, sadly.

My thoughts on this day always go to the news team in Tulsa, Oklahoma on that horrible day in April 1995. The incredible work of our co-workers. The stories that were never fully told. The right decisions. The mistakes I made. I will never forget.

Oklahoma City Remembers Terrorist Attack, 16 Years Later

The Story of Spike.

During the post mortem of Thursday's 6pm newscast, the conversation turned to pets.  I mentioned that we had not yet "re-dogged" after Dottie and Elizabeth Alex seized the opportunity to suggest that we not get a new canine and that we adopt her guinea pig Zack, instead. 

Zack is a delightful animal, according to Elizabeth, albeit a little "overweight."  You can contact her if you're interested.

I had a flashback and forced the team to hear yet another story about my past, which of course, they dutifully and patiently heard.  Bless their hearts.

Rewind to 1990.  We had just relocated from Reno to Deerfield Beach, FL where I ran the Broward bureau for WSVN.  Carly was in the second grade; Chaz, a toddler.  We rented a two-bedroom condo (and paid more than twice than we had in Nevada.  A bit of financial shock, to be sure).

We checked out the public schools and determined them unfit for our smart little girl so we enrolled her at Zion Lutheran Christian School. 

Carly was a good student but perhaps the transition from public school to a Christian private school was a bit much to ask of a seven-year-old.  Her teacher was kind but stern.  Her classmates were not as welcoming as they could have been.  A highlight, though, was the class pet.  A guinea pig named Spike which each student was allowed to take home for the weekend.  Carly really looked forward to "her weekend" because we had sadly left our family pet, a cat named Louise, back in Nevada.

At last the Spike Weekend arrived.  John and Carly carefully put Spike's home on the dining room table.  She was so excited, I didn't even protest.  Spike seemed pretty harmless so I put my rodent-hatred aside.  I think I may have even held the creature briefly, stroking its soft fur.  Both kids were absolutely enamored with having another live thing in the house. 

While she was doing her homework, John and I took a Friday evening walk, leaving the kids alone for about 20 minutes.

When we got back, both Carly and Charlie were coloring or playing with Legos.  I can't remember exactly but they were very calm.  All was well in the Phillip household.

Spike was sleeping in his cage.  The children are playing nicely.  I had a great job at a great TV station and a handsome husband who took good care of me.  Life was good.

At some point after the kids went to bed, we realized that Spike had not moved.  For hours.  My worst fear realized.  Spike was not sleeping.  He was DEAD.

How to tell the kids?  They would be devastated.  Just hours before, we had all held and cuddled the little furry creature, cooing about how sweet and funny and cute he was. 

And how would this impact Carly's stature in the school?  Would she be seen as the child who was unlucky enough to be in charge of the class pet when it died?  How could she recover from the shame?

Happily her teacher was benevolent.  She handled the news for the class with class and allowed the grief to be deflected away from Carly.

Many years later, Carly admitted that Spike didn't die from natural causes.  The poor thing apparently met his demise from fear after a ride in her Barbie car.  Imagine the screams...  Spike went on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at the wheel of a red plastic Corvette.

I'm still not a fan of rodents-as-pets but Spike will always be a part of the Phillip Family Lore.

Brush with the Crypt Keeper

Yep.  That's Martin Landau.  During our past weekend of house-hunting, we encountered a man at least a decade older than Mr. Landau.  You can imagine.
John called him the "Crypt Keeper."

When we arrived at a house for our scheduled showing in Fairway, he was at the door.  He begged us to stay quiet because someone was sleeping upstairs.  I don't recall the Crypt Keeper's exact words but he said someone "would scream" if we opened the door.

We didn't.

We never saw the master bedroom in the place that smelled funky but was filled with antiques, had incredible architectural design touches (like so many Fairway houses) and was within our price range.  The yard was amazing and all the home needed was a kitchen re-do and a new roof.

Alas, the Crypt Keeper followed us closely throughout our tour, chattering nonstop about parties they had had, where they'd put the card tables, what they served, why they decided to seal every exit on the south side of the house and why they removed the outside steps from what would have been a lovely sunporch on the south side of the house.

The man was a real estate-disaster.  He stuck to John and me like glue as we walked around the upstairs and downstairs and in the basement.

We never did see the master bedroom.  I hope whoever was in there is important to the owner.  We won't ever forget that showing!

Our search continues.