THE TRUTH ABOUT DRUIDS

I once wrote a graduate paper on the subject of "male menapause". I did so only partially out of curiosity. I also saw an opportunity to examine the proverb "physician, heal thyself", as found in Luke 4:23.

I was going through a rough time and suspect some past events in my life had caught up with me. It was a time of both confusion and loneliness.

It was a fascinating how little was known about the subject at the time. The paper was well received and I was told it would become a reference source in the school library. One assumes you could find it in the "weird irishmen"' section , with the appropriate Dewey Decimal coding.

Many men who have experienced this time in their life - regardless of the label attached - are much more inclined to appreciate the demons of female menapause. Several things can bring on the onset of this malaise in men.

It would take too much time to go into it so I have created a story to capture one example of it's manifestation.

Occasionally I would wander over to Frick Park by myself to enjoy the glorious nature God provided. I would people watch from a park bench, feed peanuts to the squirrels, listen to the birds, and smell the flowers. I often waved to complete strangers (as opposed to those people I knew who, like myself, were only 3/4 strange.)

It was there I met Dora , an avowed "druidess". She was also a friend of nature. During our subsequent meetings at our Rappaport style park bench, Dora made many predictions about the future based on her intense study of nature.

Our attraction to each other started when I first commented:"It's a nice day" and she immediately agreed. As I said, I was very lonely and perhaps a mite too desperate for companionship. We immediately became immersed in conversation on a variety of subjects.

We didn't agree about all things although we were in harmony as to the immortality of the soul. This was due to our mutual familiarity with Pythagoreanism, which we both embraced.

As much of the druid instruction was secret, Dora had me take an oath never to reveal the subject of our weekly conversations in the park that summer. Being somewhat of a coward, and knowedgable of druid practices, I was thankful the oath required no blood letting.

Dora often spoke in poetic verse consistent with the communicative ways of her druid ancestors. It was difficult to understand sometimes due to our cultural differences. She insisted hers was the only true religion. However, she did think that whole thing about Saturday afternoon confession was pretty cool.

Unfortunately, we had other disagreements . I had to remind her often that despite what might have happened in Gaul, my country had banned human sacrifices - other than during the occasion of marriage.

I asked her once how she, a druid, came to be among us when scholars reported that most druids pre-dated the second century. Her response was that somehow her family had slipped through the cracks. For some reason I found this revelation to be both meaningful and insightful.
While I questioned some of her teachings as well as her general outlook on life, I enjoyed the feeling that to know her made me truly unique. After all, while studies of "druids" were many, only the Irish swore to the possible existance of the"druidess". Others carped, "Yeah, first it was leprechauns and now it's druidesses."

One day when it was raining I suggested we venture from our comfort zone and pop in on a local Irish pub over in Regent Square. It was a gathering place for the local intelligentsia and I was anxious to show off my new BFF. She reluctantly agreed to accompany me.

Dora was not immediately impressed when she ordered "blood of Yak" and was told by Liam, the Irish bartender, "We just ran out, but the truck should be here by next Wednesday."

A few of the regulars were turned off by her wearing a shroud. I attempted to defuse this criticism by telling them we had just attended a ritualistic wake in Rankin. While that satisfied them for a while I soon found that Dora was now engaged in a heated conversation with one patron over the possibility of Y2K in the year 2000.

I stood up to protect her from this uncouth ruffian when Dora slipped from her stool and a white plastic ID card was discharged by whatever she was wearing under the shroud. I picked it up from the floor and immediately recognized the familiar script of "The Carnegie Institute of Technology."

Dora then admitted she had been a member of their famed drama department in the early 60's and was one of those curious "dramats" we made fun of. She also revealed the card was old and she had been kicked out in 1966 due to her religious leanings - which were strange even for Carnegie Tech; let alone Carnegie Mellon.

It was at this time we parted forever. I knew our religious differences would preclude marriage - even in Massachusetts. I chose not to renew our relationship despite her conciliatory offer of two front row seats at a performance of Beowulf.

But, I learned a valuable lesson: Never accept a druidess at first meeting - no matter how lonely and confused you might be.

Famous Fables

This is a story that has been passed down through the ages in the Sullivan family.

It seemed there was an island nation that existed at one time and practiced old time traditions. All the island residents lived in a simple unspoiled manner in thatched huts woven from the thick grasses of the island. Their only non-food product was gold from a small mine which they had pretty much mined out over the years .

They kept only a small portion of the gold for themselves to make jewelry. However, each year they rewarded their king for his wise leadership by matching his weight with the gold they mined. "The Weighing of the King" ceremony was the source of a huge celebratory dinner and dance.

The natives noticed their leader, King Lotsame, seemed to be packing on a few more pounds each year, but they said nothing for fear of punishment.

Recently the King had ordered that all of the gold he had received through the years, as well as the natives jewelry, must be melted down and turned into a throne appropriate for a leader of his stature. It was from this huge throne that he dispensed favors and various rulings from his hut.

This was a closed society. Nobody outside the island knew about King Lotsame's enormous wealth nor how he had attained same. But, alas and alack, as often happens, a dissident who was missing his gold bracelets, but not authorized to discuss the subject, let it slip in a note he deposited in a bottle and cast out to sea.

The bottle came ashore in some far away country . Their representatives immediately established an expedition to investigate the island and the king's enormous wealth. (The dissident had apparently been considerate enough to provide directions to the island in a separate bottle which arrived the following day.)

Weeks later, one of the island spotters located on the highest point of the island noted a boat in the distance and alerted the king. It was not long before the king's council met, unraveled the tale regarding the bottle thrower, had him put to death and established a way to discourage the invaders.

The island wizard, "Obamarama", came up with the plan. The natives would add a second floor to the kings hut . They would then stow the kings throne on the second floor away from the prying eyes of the invaders. When the intruders left, the throne would then resume it's normal position on the first floor, and all would be as before.

The invaders landed and showed the natives their weapons. Two of their entourage demanded that they be taken to their leader. The remaining intruders remained with the boat and discussed global warming.

King Lotsame greeted the two representatives in the room that previously housed his throne. Employing a universal sign language, he and his visitors began to discuss the weather. It was at this point that the invaders heard a gnawing sound overhead. Fearing an ambush, they jumped up from the hut floor and ran in the direction of their boat.

The King, being rather enormous these days, was not as fleet-footed. The throne fell through the ceiling, landed on him full force, and killed him instantly.

The moral of the story was obvious to even the least sophisticated native:

"People who live in grass houses should not stow thrones".

ALL THE NEWS THAT'S FIT TO PRINT

The title of this blog is taken from the upper left hand corner of The New York Times front page. That is, it was before librarians started to file it's copies in the Fiction section.

Okay, let me explain what is to follow:

Monday was never my favorite day of the week when I was employed. Not much has changed since I retired, as you shall observe for yourself.

I love to use my early Monday hours to peruse various media sources so I can be told what I REALLY read, saw, or heard over the weekend.

Yeh, I may THINK I know, but, I need the media to really set me straight in this age of information overload. What would I do without them?

Before enjoying a bowl or two of my cholesterol lowering Cheerios and getting to my USA Today I spied the latest edition of People magazine.

I subscribe to this now as the print in National Geographic has apparently shrunk and the subjects in their photos have become much more modest. Besides, People is better suited for allowing me to be "hip" when reading my grandkids comments on Facebook.

There was a huge picture of Heidi Montag on the cover which revealed she had 10 plastic surgery procedures in one day. I found this fascinating as I didn't know that was possible plus, I didn't have a clue as to who the hell Heidi Montag was.

This happens often as I continue to search for People's TV, Book and Movie reviews, a daunting task as newsprint containing page numbers seem to be in short supply.

I enjoy the reviews particularly so that I can later compare what the supposedly well informed critics have to say as they viscerate directors and stars whose movies later go on to make zillions and are enjoyed by many.
.
I then move to the Mailbag section of People to see whether or not I agree with the opinions of the readers. One reader wrote: "How wonderful that Britney Spears is back on track in both her personal and professional life." (Shouldn't the readers have to include their age and IQ?)

My guilt for my lack of sensitivity increased after reading another reader's comment: "Sitting by the Christmas tree while reading your year-end issue has become a ritual for our family." (Made me wonder what the Addams Family was doing over Christmas. )

Having satiated my desire to be current socially, I opened my copy of Sports Illustrated dated January 18, 2010: today's date. I was upset as I had allowed it to remain unread from last Friday. I might have learned something that I could have used to advantage in today's call to my bookie. He reads only betting slips and racing forms.

The S.I "Lineup" page teased me with quotes from the major articles contained inside:

(1) Kurt Warner leads a potent offense into New Orleans. (Actual Score: N.O: 45 AR: 14)
(2) Dallas defense will give Brett Favre and Minnesota all they can handle.
( Actual Score: Minn.: 34 Dallas: 3)
(3) Colts beware: Baltimore is bringing its brusing defense and ground game to Indianapolis.
(Actual Score: Indy: 20 Baltimore: 3)

(Questions: (1) Does the library locate back up S.I. copies in the same area as The New York Times? (2) Is S.I.'s writers department where retired meteorologists go before they die? )

Fortunately, today's E-mail from my brother-in-law, Mike Galdino included several quotes attributed to Andy Rooney of 6o Minutes.

My favorite: " I have a right NOT to be tolerant of others because they are different, weird, or tick me off."

Now that truly is "All The News That's Fit To Print!"

Happy Monday!

THE FROZEN TUNDRA

"Are you kidding me?", came a small voice from the right front seat of the golf cart as I was heading up the street to our local post office on Monday.

"Do you see a cask of brandy around my neck?', she continued. "I'm a Chihuahua. I was not built for this kind of weather. These stupid sweaters are too loose and I'm getting air intake where it was never meant to be."

"I was just trying to get you out of the house. You looked bored.", I replied. "Besides your mommy says we need to bond more."

"Why can't we bond over a plate of french fries, somewhere warm? I've about had it with Florida. I have no undercoat, you know."

"Yes, I know. But, when Mommy isn't happy - ain't nobody happy."

"What happened to my bundling up on the couch beside her and watching your old movies? Now, that was the cat's meow."

"Perhaps you have watched too many of the old classics", I replied. "But, we can't stay home with you every night due to the weather and watch the telly. And, you're terrible at Bingo."

Now she was really frustrated. "OK, perhaps you don't understand this whole cold weather and Chihuahua thing. You see, I was born to be warm and cuddly and lie out on the lanai' where the sun's rays strike my bed in the early morning and tickle my delicate nostrils. This has become a thing of the past nowadays. I'm thinking of filing a disability claim with Social Security. Three Geckos fell out of a tree and landed on my head while I was out doing my thing last night"

"Lot's of that going around these days.", I countered. "However, SS benefits do not apply to dogs and particularly ones with a big mouth who complain a lot."

"I'll tell them I'm illegal.", she threatened.

"It still won't work!"

"There's that whole Master/Slave thing you use against me ever since you guys bought me up at the Red Barn flea market. Do you ever really listen to me? I'm talking about change here. Didn't you even listen to Obama?"

"And your point is what? Like, what kind of change?", I queried.

"Well, I think rather than you having to defend a lawsuit for intentionally misleading me about this Florida weather thing, you might be willing to ship me down to Costa Rica to vist my cousin Matteo. I know he misses me and has invited me to go windsurfing with him."

I didn't even know you had a cousin Mateo, let alone one who lives in Costa Rica."

"See, that's just the point. You never listen to me", she complained.

"Look that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard of. Man up and start acting like man's best friend."

"So that's your attitude on this, huh? Just exactly what is P.E.T.A.'s telephone number down here in the frozen tundra?"

"Ask your mother!", I replied, while wondering if Mateo would be willing to take in adults too.

The Grass Is Greener?

At my age, I often become frustrated with my inability to perform certain tasks that my grandchildren can while multi-tasking something else.

My computer, automobile, television and cell phone totally baffle me.

However, I've decided it's time to take the glass half-full approach and ask some pointed questions.

I'd like to see my lovely grandaughter Cassie who is out fertilizing farms on Facebook attempt to use an ink wiper to clean the constantly dirty ink pen that came with it. Would her fingernails all be stained from the inkwells on the corner of her wooden desk?

I'm also curious how she would have handled those ugly green wooden pencils that were about the size of tire irons and had actual lead in the center for us to chew and sniff. Mine was never far away from me as my first grade teacher, Miss Duerr had tied it to my wrist.

Would Erin have become upset when Miss Duerr smacked her knuckles with a ruler or sent her to the dark cloakroom until she learned to behave?

Could any of the girls have been able to handle the embarassment of non-membership in the elite 2nd grade reading groups: The Robins, The Eagles, and The Blue Birds because they were stuck in the dreaded Buzzards reading group?

Could Shannon have successfully put the wet clothes through the wringer on the washing machine without getting her fingers stuck between the rollers?

Would my grandsons Shane, Tyler, and Troy be able to figure out how to use a home phone that had no numbers to push or even a rotary dial to turn?

Could this same terrific trio ever have had the nerve to go to school wearing knickers?

Would Steven's shoulders have ever been strong enough to carry both The Pittsburgh Press and Sun-Telegraph up and down the streets of Forest Hills?

Would grandson Kyle know how to shoot marbles into the center of the circle without pinching them? Would he know that the Purees or Cateyes were the valuable ones in a marble trade?

Would Danielle know how to eat a cho-cho? Could she get a bottle of pop out of the old style vending machines?

Could any of the grandkids have mastered Taffy pulling - particularly when Taffy wasn't even there?

Would they have had the patience and talent to weave the multi-colored plastic strips into lanyards, key chains, and bracelets?

Could they handle a music source that stopped every 2 1/2 to 3 minutes because the record was over?

And, when little Liam get's here will he care about any of those things because he's totally tied up with challenges we can't even fathom today?

I don't know about you but I'm feeling pretty good about myself now.

So, there!

The Winter Of "50"

I was a skinny kid and didn't cast a shadow until the age of 13.

Despite this I was encouraged by my parents to join the annual Boy Scouts Thanksgiving Weekend in the mountains of Western Pennsylvania. I assumed we were getting holiday company and they needed my room.

Why else would you put a stick figure child in the mountains during the winter unless the Boy Scouts needed a life sized thermometer?

It's a well known fact that there was no inside plumbing in the tiny cabins. You slept in bunks on top of tic mattresses. The entertainment schedule included a spitting contest with the potbelly stoves as targets. We loved to hear them sizzle.

Into this mix went ole Bar who could have worked part time as a stand-in for The Duquesne Light Company's mascot - "Reddy Kilowat" when they changed the lighting during commercials.

It was this same skinny rearend that graced the privys spread across the campgrounds. My favorite was "The Cadillac", so named because it had 7 stalls arranged in a circle. I found #5 to be the best one for ultimate wind blockage.

I recall little of the events but I'm sure some of them must have been designed for the acquisition of Merit Badges. If I had been interested "The Donner Expedition" badge" would have been my first choice.

My scouting career peaked at Star Scout. The attraction of the winter scout meetings back home was to play basketball in the Atlantic Avenue Auditorium at the conclusion of the formal stuff. I was among the first to start folding up the chairs

It was in 1950 that a group of about 15 to 20 of us attended the Thanksgiving festivities at a campground in the Laurel Mountains near the tiny town of Trent. One day we future leaders sliced our way through the testosterone and smoke in our cabins to hike into town.

The main, and possibly only, attraction there was a young store clerk, named Kate, who had achieved the prodigious development of her mammary glands.

We salivated all the way back up the mountain and froze over the zippers of our parkas.

We scouts were in these mountains during the worst snow recorded in the annals of Western Pennsylvania weather at the time. This event caused us to have to remain an extra day as the roads were closed and we had no telephone contact. On the last day and a half we subsisted on Pea Soup the consistency of pond scum but, it was hot and nourishing as all get out.

Our chefs were Mr. Chilcoat and Mr. Valentine, two gentlemen who had seen their sons through scouting and swore to continue this propagation of child abuse on other callow youth. (Actually, they were great role models but, that would screw up the story.)

Now, I was not a stranger to away from home sleeping. I often was sent up to Wilmerding, PA, the birthplace of my parents and the home of my widowed grandmother, Lizzie Sullivan.

These summer vacations were designed to enable me to play in the damp, dirty, soot impacted brick alley that ran behind her flat. The soot was courtesy of Westinghous Air Brake, the towns biggest employer, and the one who signed paychecks for both my grandfathers and my Dad at one time or another.

The nightly hum of the wires and the whooshing sound the streetcars made as they passed the occasional parked cars on Middle Avenue below often served to lull me to sleep as I lay on my foldaway bed in the front room. Yeah, I was BIG!

Where I was obviously truly grown up, some of the other kids were not. The news of our delayed departure suggested we would run out of hankerchiefs before the Pea Soup disappeared.

The roads were opened early Sunday morning and I soon traipsed up Sumner Avenue in waist high snow, my duffle bag over my shoulder and burst through our front door, anxious to regale my parents with tales of my character building exploits.

Mom told me to take off my shoes as she finished putting down a mixed Canasta, discarded, and then "went out". This caused her opponent, my Dad, to throw down his remaining cards and complain about her incredible luck. I went upstairs to pick a fight with my brother.

(OK, I lied. They missed me. I didn't tell them about Kate.)

Mechanical Men (revised)

(Disclaimer: In case you may wonder when you finish reading this, I truly loved both my Mom & my Dad.)

I have previously written about my Dad and his Mechanical Man failings. He was a short powerful man, an excellent Accountant, and meant well, but lacked proper tools as well as any real aspiration to succeed in tasks that did not require Johnny Inkslinger skills.

Despite this handicap, each year he and I would dutifully engage in" The Hanging Of The Lights", a pre-Christmas tradition in the Sullivan household. We did not volunteer. We were a product of non-military conscription by my feisty and often quite funny Irish mom.

This annual torture took place at our residence on Avenue "F" in Forest Hills, a suburb of Pittsburgh. We used letters for street names as our forefathers were imagination challenged.

Avenue "F" was barely two cars wide from our curb to the one across the street at the end of the ballfield. In the summer, Dad would sometimes sit on a lawn chair in our front yard with his extremely small baseball glove to protect our picture window from long ball hitters..

Our annual assignment was to arrange and attach Christmas lights to the faded wooden frame surrounding our front door; and it had to take place on the coldest day of the winter. I still miss my fingertip swirls.

Dad was Mechanical Man # 1. I, as the oldest, was designated Mechanical Man # 2. Dad, my leader and mentor, would take from his Burbury flannel jacket several of his brass horseshoe shaped brads while I held the light cords in place against the frame. I found this arrangement to be beneficial and great practice should I opt to catch bullets between my teeth at the Allegheny County Fair, the following year.

Dad would next attempt to impale the brads into the defenseless door frame, which appeared to be pock marked from acne due to these same labor efforts by us in previous years.

The colored lights Mom provided were about the size of baby kumquats and refused to lie supine so the brads could be easily inserted into the wood. We did not remove the bulbs first because this was the final lighting pattern that Mom had approved the previous year. Our goal was to avoid a second mission: "The Arrangement Of The Colors."

As one could imagine, Dad dropped several brads on the porch floor before finally locating and blasting one with his ball-peen hammer. His frustration accelerated when the target brads landed across the street in the ball field and his thumb suggested the need for ER visitation.

When Dad had deposited enough brads in the field to seriously threaten the water run off path from the snow and ice, I opted to take over. His language became more creative and mothers were now scurrying to get any impressionable children into the house.

Dad would then fill his pipe with Half and Half and light up as he stationed himself in his usual observation post against a "telly" pole across the street. Our father-son bonding exercise was taking it's annual "pause for the cause".

Admittedly, my manual dexterity exceeded that of my Dad, but my spatial skills were apparently lacking. This conclusion is based upon my inability to arrive at any alignment of the lights that would satisfy Mom, "The Lighting Engineer".

This disability resulted in about 7 or 8 return visits by Mom during which time she continued her appraisals and dispensed Leona Helmsley non-motherly observations. During one of them I noted Dad was slinking away to Delaney's Morningside Inn, the neighborhood pub. I also was growing impatient and nature was calling. God forbid I would track snow inside the house enroute to the bathroom.

Noting there appeared to be rain dripping from the door frame due to the meeting of the two fronts: heat from the house - icy cold from the porch, I received only passing comfort in discovering a skim coating of ice was now appearing on the door sill. After all, this was Christmas time. I'm sure I would have really felt bad had Mom sustained an injury during one of her visits.

Once the symmetry was reluctantly approved by Mom, she then confronted me with Mission #2 -the previously noted :"Arrangement Of The Colors". Mom insisted the one I had layed out before her was not that which she had chosen the previous year. She also suggested I must have failed "Primary Color Recognition" in Miss Young's 5th grade art class .

Oh yeah! On her last trip she confided she didn't like the way some of the kumquats were leaning either. I continued to plunge on while using some of my newly acquired epithets to curse Dad under my breath and now refer to Mom as Marge.

After recovering her wind blown paisley babushka from one of the prized azaleas I reluctantly recalled Mom for what I hoped would be her last reinspection. She immediately claimed the colors still didn't blend correctly, that the kumquats should stand as erect as a carrot on a snowman, and quickly took her leave. Smiling to myself while reflecting on a Playboy cartoon involving a snowman and a carrot, I concluded: "Bar, this is not a Kodak moment".

Mechanical Man #2 was now becoming numb, feeling faint and a little lightheaded. At one point I imagined I saw a dozen or two of Al Capp's Shmoos laughing at me from Dad's previous observation post. The crowd of Shmoos seemed to be increasing each time I looked over there. I would have chased them away but realized we needed the milk and eggs. (*)

On Mom's most recent visit I detected what appeared to be a departure from her previous "Pick Purgatory or Hell" grimace. Due to a frostbite high, I saw this as a positive sign.

I made 2 more adjustments to the color chart and peeked in the living room window. Mom was sleeping peacefully - if exhausted - on the couch, and I heard the haunting sounds of Liberace and his violin playing brother George on the TV, as they waved goodnight.

I chose to emulate their wave and quickly fled to rejoin Mechanical Man #1 for a "father-son" bonding much better suited to our mutual talents.


(*) (www.deniskitchen.com/docs/new-shmoofacts.html) Shmoo not Schmoo from Al Capp's Little Lil Abner.

Dis n Dat:

I chose the above title for this blog carefully My goal was to provide some flexibility to comment on whatever struck me as interesting. Like most bloggers I found that target was easier to aim for than to hit. Some days you just don't feel like being Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.

Our last log was a little bit of nostalgia - kind of non-threatening stuff. You see, once you reach this age you can't always ramble on about all the disengenous people you observe. When you do many people just look at you as "some old poop" . You know what? Sometimes they're right. So, this year you're going to see A NEW ME!

Today we'll just go on down the primrose path skipping along among the daisies:

We won't rant and rave about the graft involving our politiicans and the impact it has on their decision making abilities.

This means we also won't be preaching about how insecure people continue to take advantage of good people because they sincerely believe compassion is a sure sign of weakness.

We will refuse to describe in detail various forms of punishment that non-handicapped people should receive when they insist on parking in handicapped parking places.

You won't find us talking about the stupid Steeler fans who are so upset that some of the NFL teams chose to rest some regulars at seasons end and impacted their sacred team that started 6 and 2 and then proceeded to give away the next 5 games. No sirree, Bub!

To be fair there also will be no mention about the Pirates managment who have systematically demasculated our beloved Pittsburgh Pirates and their loyal fans..

We will refuse to make any argument suggesting that maybe movie stars and rock performers have not been blessed with some prescient wisdom on world issues.

The last thing we'll do is campaign for some more well written romantic comedies as opposed to films that explode buildings and people of every race, religion, and creed. Yep, we've changed.

So, nope, you ain't going to see those kind of things in this mans blog in the new decade .

Just give me a pair of well fitting Depends and a few nips of good Irish Whiskey and you'll hardly know I'm here.

"HAVE A GOOD DAY!"

The Rear View Mirror.

For some reason the habitual occurence that drives me nuts at the end of each year is "The Year In Review"

It's the constant rehashing of the year just then ending by almost every newspaper and media source in the land. Sorry, I really don't think 2009 is what I want to watch and hear in my rear-view mirror. If I'm that bored I'd rather purchase the DVD : The Best of CNN. (should it exist)

Please understand, I'm not encouraging anyone out there to run away from reality. Just consider a brief respite until the learned Wolf Blitzer covers the next big story for us.

If, like me you're feeling a little glum, why not check out some of the old radio shows from a much simpler time. These are the ones that many of us listened to and really laughed. They also gave us an imagination. We were not taught then how we should react to something. We just kind of figured it all out by ourself.

My research revealed sample tapes (with commercials) of complete shows like Sam Spade, You Bet Your Life, Gunsmoke, and Phillip Marlowe are available on line. Phyl and I were thoroughly entertained. She couldn't get over how quick and clever Groucho was.

You may want to first test your memory with the following radio questions to "whet your whistle"
.
On what radio soap did you hear the announcer tell you: "This is the story that asks the question: Can this girl from the little mining town in the West find happiness as the wife of a wealthy and titled Englishman, Lord Henry Winthrope?"

Who was the outlaw who ambushed John Reid and his brother when they were members of the Texas Rangers - leaving John, the only one to survive and fight for justice?

Who were the original Amos & Andy?

Who played the original Matt Dillon of Gunsmoke radio fame?

Who are the two Marx brothers about whom we hear so little?

Who was the only other person to know the true identity of the Shadow?

Who was the accomplished actor who early in his career starred as radio's Sam Spade?

What actor and member of a great theatrical family performed on radio each Christmas as Ebeneezer Scrooge?

What was the name of his weekly radio show?

Who played the part of Marilly, his housekeeper, and later became TV's " Mother-in-law
from Hell"?



(answers below)

1. The opening introduction of the radio soap: "Our Gal Sunday"
2. Butch Cavendish of the "notorious" Butch Cavendish gang!" The show was The Lone Ranger.
3. Freeman Gosden and Charles Correll. - a couple of caucasion gents who never anticipated
their efforts which mesmerized America would later be called politically incorrect.
4. William Conrad, who went on to fame as Cannon.
5. Gummo and Zeppo.
6. The beautiful Margo Lane who had this thing going with Lamont Cranston, "da Shadow".
7. Howard Duff , who was married to the beautiful actress and director, Ida Lupino.
8. Lionel Barrymore
9. The Mayor Of The Town
10. Agnes Morehead - the lovely Endora.

Now, that's some "rear view mirror" stuff I can "really" appreciate. Bring it on, 2010!