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.

Twenty-four reasons; one for each year

April 2 is our anniversary and it's time for the annual assessment of my relationship to the One That Sleeps Next To Me.

This is the third year of a "love list" for the long-suffering John Phillip.  I challenge myself to come up with the real glue that keeps us together and although the task may seem daunting because according to self-imposed Peggy Rules, I can't repeat myself, it's really not that difficult.

Here, on the eve of the eve of our 24th anniversary, are twenty-four more reasons I love my husband:

Dear John...

1. I love how you water the plants that I love-but-sometimes-neglect even though you don't care about them one bit.  Especially the basil.
2. I love it when you make breakfast on the weekends.  It doesn't happen often but your scrambled eggs are always great.
3. I love when you agree to try a new restaurant despite every cell in your body is screaming NO NO, NEW THINGS ARE BAD.
4. I love when you instinctively realize that my car is on "E" again and fill the gas tank in the dark, rain or snow even though I could have stopped at a service station on the way home.
5. I love how you call to find out exactly when I'm leaving work so you can make my steak rare, just the way I like it.
6. I love how you tell me to tell our kids-who-are-now-adults what to do because you think they only listen to The Boss (not true).
7. I love how you understood immediately how important it was for me to get to South Dakota when my dad was so sick in February.
8. I love how you continue to look for New York-style pizza smack dab in the middle of the country.
9. I love your (sometimes feeble) efforts to make me a low-cal breakfast smoothie to my exact specifications.  
10. I loved watching "Big Love" with you and I'm sorry it's over.
11. I love that you've realized you can get the internet other than from AOL.  
12. I love how, when I'm cooking up a storm, you come to the kitchen and kiss the back of my neck.  Goosebumps!
13. I love seeing you read the Sunday edition of the New York Times.  You enjoy it as much or more than I do.
14. I love the picture of us taken at the Washoe Valley shack more than two decades ago when I was young and thin and pretty and the one we took in January, 2011 in the same place by our kids-who-are-now-adults.
15. I love the choices you make on our Netflix movie account.  Haven't we seen some great movies together?
16. I love the silent battle for bathroom space for your toiletries and mine.  You move stuff to my side, I move it to yours, back and forth, back and forth. 
17. I love that you become a South Dakota State University fan whenever necessary.  Go Big. Go Blue. Go Jacks!
18. I love that you exclaimed "no more pools"  which was recorded on my Flip camera after your bracket was busted (again) and I look forward to how you will explain your NCAA bracket fixation in 2011.
19. I love your devotion to crazy television shows on HBO and Showtime and that you don't expect me to watch "True Blood" or any of that other crazy stuff that I hate.
20. I love that you pack for a two-day trip with a giant suitcase filled with clothes for every possible weather/social event.
21. I love that you carry a switchblade on our walks through the benign Olathe trails, just in case a serial killer accosts us.
22. I love how you wish for grandchildren.  I do too.  (No pressure kids-who-are-now-adults, it will happen when it's meant to happen)
23. I love your devotion to our beloved dog Dottie, now gone for more than a year.  It's time for us to re-dog, honey.
24. I love the rare, rare weekend mornings when we get to sleep in, wake up at the same time, open our eyes simultaneously and smile at each other with the warm familiarity of our years together.  Magic!
    

The Trains! The Trains!

After 20 months on Fantasy Island, aka Olathe, KS, John and I are back to house-hunting on weekends. Last Friday, a monumental event happened that has given my husband pause to reconsider our desire to move closer to 4720 Oak Street.

Here's the news release:

Downtown Quiet Zone Completion Announced by Mayor Copeland

To rousing applause during his annual State of the City address, Mayor Michael Copeland announced that...trains are no longer required to sound horns on the western tracks through downtown Olathe.

There are exceptions to the quiet zone regulations. For safety reasons, train engineers are responsible for sounding horns, even within the quiet zone, when workers are within 25 feet of the tracks or when other hazardous situations are observed including the presence of persons, animals, or vehicles.

An average of 120 trains travel though the city daily. The 11 crossings on the western tracks running through downtown generated about five hours of whistle noise each day alone. During the transition to a quiet zone, residents and visitors are asked to be patient as train engineers adjust to the new exemptions.

The Downtown Quiet Zone Project began in 2008 and is budgeted at nearly $6,000,000. The project involved constructing safety modifications at 11 at-grade crossings from Woodland Ave. to Dennis St.

I knew that I was losing sleep as a result of the train horns at all hours of the day and night but FIVE HOURS of whistle noise?

View Larger Map

You can see the proximity of our rental house to the tracks (less than a mile to the west). No wonder I'm so crabby! I haven't slept all night in twenty months!

I happily report that in the three days since Olathe became "Quiet Town," I've definitely noticed the difference. It's not enough to keep me from house-hunting on the weekends but getting a full night's sleep should certainly improve my disposition in the car. And maybe in the newsroom!

March Madness

My poor husband spends...well...hours on his NCAA tournament brackets. He races to the nearest newspaper stand to buy the USA Today and studies each team. This year has been hell for him. This past weekend just about sent him over the edge and he made a bold statement that I was lucky enough to capture on my Flip. I can't wait until March 2012. :)

Hello? Where is Pebbles Flintstone in this list?

Memorable TV Women in the Making...

Banging erasers.

This is for my South Dakota friends and family...or the ones who are old enough to recall a simpler life and time.

My first school was Kennedy #2. A one-room schoolhouse (all eight grades are taught in one room) 3/4 mile north of our farm north of Wagner, SD. Our school did not have indoor plumbing. We drank water from cone-shaped paper cups filled from a large crock. The bathrooms were two-hole outhouses (one for each sex) just north of the school building. Everybody brought their own lunch in brightly colored tin boxes advertising the most popular Saturday morning cartoons. I recall being jealous of my cousins who sometimes had hot dogs from a Thermos. Another family had perfected the art of grilled cheese sandwiches using toast and American cheese wrapped in tinfoil that languished on top of the furnace all morning and smelled DELICIOUS by 11am every day.

Mostly, I had baloney sandwiches on Wonder bread (building strong bodies 12 ways).

Kindergarten was six weeks in the spring prior to the year a child was eligible for first grade...so for me, I think it was 1962 when I got my first taste of Sally, Dick and Jane.

I really loved those three kids. And their friends. And their pets, Spot and Puff. Couldn't get enough, couldn't wait to learn to read. Of course, the books are now the subject of some ridicule for their simplistic view of life (too many white folks, plenty of money, no troubles) but for this farm child, they were The Perfect Family. I remember asking Mom if she could please adopt an older brother so our family would be more like Dick, Jane and Sally.

I had two classmates at Kennedy #2. Neighbor David Kokesh and my cousin, Kendall Wiechmann. There were no other larger groups than ours so we received more attention (I think) than the classes with just one or two.

Our teachers were Miss Uecker (kindergarten and first grade), Mrs. Glanz (second grade) and Mrs. Cuka (third and fourth grades). It was Miss Uecker who sent us home in the middle of the afternoon when I was a first grader after President Kennedy was assassinated.

A seismic shift occurred at some point and although I don't recall Mom and Dad telling us much about it, my fifth grade year began in "town school." Kennedy #2 closed, there was an auction, all of the books, etc were sold including the building which was moved from it's acre and we rode a bus to East Charles Mix #102.

We lived six miles north of town but drew the short straw when the bus routes were determined. Ours was the first stop at about 7:10am. Rollie Jespersen was the driver that first year and he was patient. He beeped the horn a few times and waited for us (four that year) to run out of the house to the end of the drive. The family farms I remember from the route--Kokesh, Seiner, Broz, Soulek, Petrik, Hawley, Hrdlicka, Morrow, Doty. Of course there were many more and I wish my 54-year-old brain could remember but I hope you'll nudge me!

Our bus ride lasted until 8:30am (I'm pretty sure an hour and twenty minutes would be illegal now) and then the school day began for real. In the fifth grade, Mrs. Eitemiller was my home room teacher. A tiny thing, she kept order by being the master of the quick retort for anyone who tried to act up in her class. She was a great leader and I really adored her.

Back to the title of this entry. In country school, we had blackboards and chalk, naturally. Not being very math-proficient, I dreaded the invitation to solve a problem "on the board" but loved to practice my penmanship there.

The chore of banging erasers together to rid them of chalk dust was considered an honor. Something earned.

At some point, I earned that honor during my fifth grade year. In my memory, Nancy Smith (now Fernandez) was the partner Mrs. Eitemiller assigned to the eraser-dust-eradication task but I could be wrong. It was not another farm kid. To my amazement, there was a MACHINE that sucked chalk dust from erasers at "town school."

That was the first time I thought that city life might not be so bad after all.

Dad

My dad is the youngest son of German immigrants who came to America in 1882. He was born in 1930, just before the "Dirty Thirties" got started. His father died of a heart attack when my dad was just a teenager so Dad didn't finish high school but he's one of the smartest men I know. My high school algebra was never a problem for him, nor figuring out how to get an engine running or building a complicated machine to do a task that he didn't want to do anymore. My dad is not a Luddite, at all. He likes machines and figuring out how to make something do the menial work.

He also built things for fun. We had a little tractor that could mow the lawn but could also be use as a 5-mph tow truck for a wagon filled with delighted children from other farms nearby. Remember the flimsy backyard swing set?

We had the biggest, best swings in the 60s because he looked at the design and made it better, sturdier in his shop, welding leftover pipes together perfectly in a frame that still stands today. Our teeter-totter has been the source of splinters for three generations. And yes, we are proud.

Dad farmed for decades, scratching out a living for my mom and his seven kids. When I was a child, he worked long hours, often leaving the house before we woke up and returning long after we were in bed.

He owns the house he grew up in on the acres that he bought from my grandmother after my grandfather passed away.

He realized that irrigation was the way to save his crops from the harsh South
Dakota summers when rain is never a certainty. He also raised cattle (Herfords) and pigs (Chester Whites)

but it always seemed like it was the corn, beans and sorghum that sustained us. If the price wasn't right, he'd store his grain in bins until the money improved. It was a gamble that sometimes paid off. Sometimes not.

Dad didn't have much choice in the 80s when he stopped farming and starting driving semi trucks for a living. He rented the farm land and supplemented the annual income with a more regular check from hauling hogs, cattle and grain (probably some from his own fields) hither and yon. He never stopped working hard, though. He continued driving trucks until 2010, well into his 79th year.

How lucky I am to have a father who always had the interests of his kids at heart. He still serves as an usher at the First United Methodist Church in Wagner. He and Mom still play cards with the neighbors once a month. He served in the Korean War (it was more than a Conflict) and proudly loves the United States of America. Yes, we have had our differences...I'm a Democrat...he's the Other Party. We don't always agree but what we he taught me is to work hard, play hard and never give up.

Thank you, Dad, for modeling the way for me. I am very, very grateful.

I love my new hometown!

Risky Business

The Lara Logan assault is shocking. Risky Business

Rep. Kristi Noem: Head of the Class

How does a small state like South Dakota continue to churn out leaders on both sides of the aisle? McGovern, Daschle, Thune and now Noem.

Rep. Kristi Noem: Head of the Class - HUMAN EVENTS

Fight at 4:30pm. Tune in Tuesday and Wednesday!

Can't really call this "Fight Night" because it happens in KC at 4:30pm but I must admit, I have been intrigued and slightly frightened by the IBM computer that takes on two human brains in a highly-touted man-versus-machine trio of Jeopardy programs.  There was too much IBM minutiae in Monday's episode.  And the eye candy with the bright lights between Ken and Brad was just that--an avatar playing the role of a stack of computers in another room.

But I wish the Watson voice wasn't so damn close to that of HAL, the computer in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

God help me if there is breaking news that forces us to interrupt any of Jeopardy between now and Wednesday at 5pm!

How not to clean a dirty DVD.

Saturday Night is often "movie night" for John and me.  I know it didn't get great reviews but I was really looking forward to "Secretariat."  I like Disney movies.  I like horses.  I like history.  I like strong female characters.  I like John Malkevich.  The perfect combination!  Except for...when the picture scrambled and became unwatchable at about an hour in.

Grrrr.  Just then, the phone ran.  Our son Charlie is pretty technical and offered the following solution:

• Smear a thin film of toothpaste or peanut butter (we used Crest) on the DVD.
• Put the DVD in the toilet and flush.
• And flush.  And flush.  And flush.
• And flush.

Supposedly the swirling water cleans the toothpaste/peanut butter off, leaving a pristine surface.  Maybe we used too much Crest but after 15 flushes, there was still residue on our DVD and I was feeling pretty guilty about the wasted water.  Then we realized how ridiculous we would look to anyone who walked into our bathroom and saw us watching the DVD bob around in the toilet bowl.  We fished it out and tried again but it still did not work.

John found the movie on pay-per-view so for five bucks we were able to watch the end.  Spoiler alert!  Secretariat wins the Triple Crown.

And Netflix sent me an apology.

	Dear Margaret, We're sorry to hear that Secretariat was unplayable. We go to great lengths to ensure the movies you get will play without any problems but occasionally a few get through our inspections, or are damaged in transit. Please return the unplayable disc and if you've requested a replacement, we will ship it out as soon as possible. We apologize for the inconvenience. -The Netflix Team

I wish they'd pay my pay-per-view charge.

Slippery slope.

Bottom Line Communications™

Sad news

Rick Gevers announced today that Greg Koelfgen passed away suddenly Monday. Greg and I worked together in Reno back in the 80s. Great guy. Smart guy. Loved his family very much and was especially proud of his daughters' success on the softball field.

"I have been on the mountaintop" - Martin Luther King jr.

Seriously?

Starbucks offers now the Big Gulp version of its cold coffee.  Is this really neccessary?

Let's disagree but be more thoughtful, ok?

U.S.

Obama Calls for New Era of Civility in U.S. Politics

By HELENE COOPER and DAVID M. HERSZENHORN

Published: January 12, 2011

The president offered the nation’s condolences to the victims of the Tucson shooting rampage, urging Americans to usher in a new era of civility in memory of the fallen.

The NYTimes has already posted it's first story about President Obama's speech.

I must admit, the early cheers, whistles and hoots made me uncomfortable.  But when the announcement came that Gabby Giffords opened her eyes today, I was thrilled.

I was following the speech on Twitter and not surprisingly, our local Darla Jaye called the president an android with no soul.  (sigh)

We have a long way to go.

Choosing our words and images carefully

I can't disagree with the advice of this article:
Threats, Violence and the Language We Should Remove From Civil Political Discourse

I think we in the media can ALL do better in our coverage on multiple platforms.

CNN reports.

And Business Week.