Depends on where you live, naturally -- or unnaturally. Regional climate and all that stuff. Isn't it wonderful that we give such a heavy responsibility to a groundhog (which is really a woodchuck) who has not even had a class in meterology?

The most famous forecaster is Punxsutawney Phil. He lives in Pennsylvania -- in the town he's named after. Could it be llIndian in origin? Most likely. For years they have had a festival around "his day" and is world famous even having a movie made about him that repeats and repeats and repeats. Bill Murray sure did appreciate the fact there was a festival about his shadow experiences and this this stupid event that had to be dreamed up by someone who had nothing to do.... again, again and again. At least Murray and Harold Ramus, who lives next door to my new daughter in Glencoe, IL, made a buck on the shadows and groundhogs and story line.

You can follow the details of Phi's predictioning process at their Website by clicking the link below. So get ready! Apparently, our lives will be cleaverly manipulated by this historic annual event. Last year, New England and the Big East had six more weeks of winter, hea, hea, hea.

There are many places who have developed a Shadow Day for thier community. In southeastern Michigan, students, friends and forecasters will be ready to wait for Woody the woodchuck (or groundhog) at the Howell Nature Center. Trying to break into the action and publicity. Bet he (or she) will see the ignominious shadow. And from what I know and understand because I grew up and was educated by Old Time Radio..... "the Shadow knows!" Anyway, there's a limit to how much wood a woodchuck can chuck, isn't there?

BUT THE MOST ACCURATE FURRY FORECASTER OF ALL TIME RESIDES NEAR ATLANTA IN STONE MOUNTAIN, GEORGIA. General Beauregard Lee, Ph.D., Georgia’s Official Weather Prognosticator once again will accurately predict he immediate weather. After all he used to watch Guy Sharp. He's do his forecasting from his beautiful Weathering Heights Mansion just after sunrise Thursday at The Yellow River Game Ranch in Lilburn, Georgia, a 24-acre animal preserve.

Beau will be awakened by the traditional ringing of the antique farm bell, a duty professionally performed in this, the 26th year of Beau's annual prediction. The General will be watched by a committed crowd of bleary-eyed, faithful supporters to rouse the groundhog from his slumber.

After conferring with the huddled crowd, Game Ranch CEO Col. Art Rilling will proclaim Beau’s prediction: Will it once again be, “PACK YOUR PARKAS AND BREAK OUT THE LAWNMOWER...! NO SHADOW THIS YEAR-- IT'S AN EARLY SPRING!"

The General's celebration of Groundhog Day brings accolades from far and wide. In addition to recognition by five successive Georgia Governors, Beau was proclaimed "Gwinnett's Official Weather Prognosticator." Beau's 96% accuracy rating was also lauded by U.S. Congressman John Linder, who noted in a letter that the National Weather Service had twice commended Beau's uncanny ability.

So, where it really counts for those who habitat the Southeast, "We gonna get us an EARLY SPRING." Jes you wait. Gonna grease up them garden tools right away. We'll give you a report this Thursday.

For 157 years, Americans have had fun with eating conversational candy hearts. Whether you’re nine or 90, odds are you’ve received Sweethearts ® Conversation Hearts on Valentine’s Day. After all, there are plenty of the much-loved Sweethearts Conversation Hearts to go around, as the New England Confectionery Company (NECCO ®), America ’s oldest multi-line candy company, produces eight billion of the sweet treats each Valentine’s Day season. Fifty years ago there were some 25 different ways that expressed one's feelings toward another. In 2004 there were nearly 100 sayings.

Last year, they added these new Sweetheart Sayings:
“#1 Fan,” “Fit for Love,” “Dream Team,” “Love Life,” “Be A Sport,” “Love My Team,”  “Cheer Me On,”  “Be My Hero,” “Pot of Gold” and “All-Star.”

This year, 2006, they seem to have focused on the home:
"Sweet Home," "Home Soon," "Call Home." "House Party." "Home Sick," "ILU." "Go Home," "To," "And," and finally "Home Run."

Whether sports or homey inspired sayings to cheer on that special someone, the Sweethearts original recipe remains the same.  With only three to six calories a-piece, the candies always hit a home run with that special someone. 

They also have a Sweethearts™ Gum, introduced last year as the world’s first heart-shaped, blister pack gum with assorted flavors and colors. Sweethearts gum has zero net carbs and is made with Splenda which is sure to bring a smile to sweethearts of all ages. Adding a twist to the iconic candy, Sweethearts Gum features two-sided sweet sentiments like “Be Mine/Be True,” “It’s Love/Marry Me,” “Sweet Talk/Cool” and “Kiss Me/Hug Me.”  Sweetheart's Gum comes in five intense fruity flavors including Boomin Berry, Fruit Blast, Juicy Orange, Green Apple and Luscious Lemonade. The suggested retail price for the 12-piece package of Sweethearts Gum is $.99. The product is available at all stores now.

But that's enough of the NOW. Let's talk about the THEN. How carefully we "handled the little candies with our dirty fingers." We would select a candy heart or hearts that seemed to express a message of our inner feelings toward the one we were giving it to. But we would "simply die" if we knew that the message got through as intended -- at least in grade school.

The famous candy hearts were floating around in most boy's pockets around Valentine's Day -- along with coins minted in the 1940's, usually a pocket knife, couple of marbles, a rubber band or two and appropirate lint that was always present in a boy's pocket. And the person who was given the candied message from that unsanitary storehouse would read the message, innocently eat the candy, and smile with approval.

This was a sure way to express our embarassed affection for the girls. It was silent, sweet, and clear. Good thing there was a limit on negative sayings that would convey a cool, quiet message of derision to my male friends.

At other times of the year, this same company used the same candy recipe for a nickle sized wafer. They would have denominations on them printed in food color -- denominations of 5, 10, and 25 with a circle on the edge. Some of you will remember and others will be able to say I bought one of those last week since they are still made after 157 years. Packaged in a six-inch waxed paper roll, NECCO wafers were a staple in my diet when I was a boy -- last year.

I used to pretend they were coins but had one in my mouth so often. The corn starch powder they had on them mixed with the different flavors was wonderful. There was also a smaller two-inch package that sold for a penny. The large roll was a nickle. I always liked to lick the surface to remove the powder and see the rich color of the wafer itself and a clearer image of the denomination that was printed on it. Sometimes we would put four or five wafers in our mouth and weld them together with our spit ( That's saliva in a little boy's mouth. )

Pastel-colored little candy disks called NECCO wafers first appeared in 1902, named for the acronym of the New England Confectionery Company.

As some "sidetrack information" check this out. In the 1930s, Admiral Byrd took 2 1/2 tons of NECCO Wafers to the South Pole -- almost a pound a week for each of his men during their two-year stay in the Antarctic. During World War II, the U.S. government ordered a major portion of the production of the wafers. Since the candy doesn't melt and is 'practically indestructible' during transit, it was the perfect food to ship overseas to the troops.

The New England Confectionary company, popularly know as NECCO, was founded in 1847. Each year there is a press release telling the public that NECCO is still manufacturing the wafers and hearts we all love. Home base has been Cambridge, Massachusetts since 1902, when it started making conversational hearts that are available between Christmas and Valentine's Day -- even though production of the hearts goes on all year. Today, three plants turn out 100,000 pounds of candies EVERY SINGLE DAY! That translates into 26 million pounds a year.

This familiar candy that symbolizes love, has a shelf life of three to five years. With nearly 10 billion conversational hearts being sold at this time of the year, it's the single largest selling Valentine based product on the market, according to NECCO.

If you plan a special event for next year's Valentine Day be aware that you can order your own hearts with any custom sayings you select or write. Wouldn't that be fun with friends? By the way, to do that you must have a minimum order of 3,600 pounds.

Many of the sayings have been popular for over a hundred-years and are still used today. You can't improve on "Be Mine," or "I Love You." But each year, out of date sayings are discontinued and new ones added. One of the latest is "Fax Me."

So when you pop one of the conversational hearts in your mouth this Valentine's season, pause and think that you are not unique. 8.5 billion others are being popped into mouths just like you.

If you don't know where to buy the old Necco wafers drop me an E-mail and I'll send some resources on to you. Remember those Sherbet Mints, Chiclets, Walnettos, Chuckles, and the cherry/licorice/lemon/grape "candy buttons that were on what looked like adding machine tape? You bet you do. But that's another article, isn't it? Click the link below to have a fun trip to NECCO in Revere, MA N. Plunkett

The Terry and the Pirates radio program was an adaptation of the popular comic series, first created in 1934 by cartoonist Milton Caniff (pictured on the right). The comic strip also owed its existence in part to the Chicago Tribune’s colorful "Editor-in-chief," Captain Joseph Patterson, who encouraged Caniff to come to the Tribune and create a strip under the title “Terry and the Pirates,” with its setting in the Far East. Patterson had also played a role in the creation of another famous cartoon, when he convinced Harold Gray to change the “Orphan Otto” in his fledgling strip to ”Little Orphan Annie.”

The fifteen-minute daily radio-serial proved a faithful rendition of the original comic series. It featured the young adventurer “Terry Lee” and his grown-up pals, “Pat Ryan," "Flip Corkin," "Hot Shot Charlie,” and the ladies, ”Burma" and "Elita,” together they traveled Orient routing out pirates and villains at every turn. Foremost among the villains was the infamous “Dragon-Lady,” who headed a syndicate of bandits that terrorized the Far East.

The radio show had a varying cast over its broadcast life. Early on, Jackie Kelk and Cliff Carpenter played “Terry” -with the role during the war years falling to Owen Jordan. Clayton Collyer (of radio’s Superman fame ) was the best known “Pat Ryan,” while actress Agnes Moorhead (of Suspense, Mercury Theater on the Air, and televison’s Bewitched) provided audiences with the most memorable “Dragon-Lady.”

Throughout the war years, the plotline of the cartoon and radio program enlisted Terry and his friends in combat against the Axis powers and the “evils of fascism.” Even the notorious Dragon-Lady would join forces with Terry to fight on the side of the Allies. Despite the Far Eastern setting for the series, the most common and formidable of the wartime villains seemed to be Nazi spies, sent by Berlin to oversee operations in the Pacific. Terry and Pat would fight against lingering pockets of Nazi’s well into the year 1946!

After the war, the Dragon-Lady would return to her old ways as head of an organization of “international pirates.“ But with the deadly hosts of wartime agents vanquished, the show somehow lost much of its intrigue and drive. Ratings began to slip and by 1948 sponsor, “Quaker Puffed Wheat Sparkies,” pulled the plug on the radio broadcasts.

In 1953 Terry and the Pirates was to become a short-lived television series, sponsored by Canada Dry Ginger-ale, which ran from June through November of that year. Earlier in the 1940’s there had been a successful film series (starring William Tracy in the lead as Terry and Sheila Darcy playing the Dragon Lady) so it seemed natural for a television series to come about. William Tracy was hired for the series, but this time acting in the more elderly role of “Pat Ryan,” with John Baer playing “Terry.” The television show proved less popular than producers had hoped and was terminated after 18 episodes.

In 1946 Milton Caniff the comic’s creator, decided to leave “Terry and the Pirates” to start another strip of his own. The Chicago Tribune owned the rights to Terry and his Pirate band -and it was the paper, not Caniff, that reaped the monetary rewards for its success. Caniff began work on his new action-comic, “Steve Canyon”, while Terry was left in the capable hands of cartoonist George Wunder, who would carry on the Pirates tradition until 1973.

Philippians 2:1-4 The Living Bible, Tyndale Press.

James 1:1-4 The Message Bible, Navigator Press, Colorado Springs, CO

[Take a moment to look it up to see what the reward is, And we can't leave this next verse out of the mix.]

And we know that all that happens to us is working for our good, when we love God and are fitting into his plans.

Romans 8:28 The Living Bible Tyndale Press, Wheaton, IL

You've not seen any new writings by my son, Christophe Sean Plunkett. What a great job he has done for the past three years. We've all enjoyed his stories and mini-histories of Old Time Radio programs. In fact, I've posted two of his best articles to honor his work.

You haven't read anything recently for a very good reason. Oh, I've used some of his previously written articles but haven't been able to post anything new. The reason? Since last summer, Chris went back to his old haunts in Eastern Utah. He was asked by his previous employer, the United States Forrestry Station in Vernal to come back and serve as the temporary Hydrologist and supervise all of the summer college techs.

Let me review a little of what has happened up to this point in time. Chris returned to Atlanta in the fall of 2001 to be with his mother during the last part of her war with ovarian cancer. He had just finished his second degree at Utah State so he would be qualified educationally for a job as a hydrologist anywhere out West. Rather than follow through on that plan, Chris chose family first and being with his mother for as long as he could . Chris was immediately employed by Peachtree Media and made a huge contribution to the operation. When Nancy had to "leave early" in June 2002, Chris decided to remain in Atlanta until he felt it was time to do something else.

For the next three years he became important to Peachtree media and it was a joy and gift to have him in Atlanta. During this time, he brought great joy to his grandmother, who will be 100 next month, and spent many evenings with her reading the short stories of well known authors.

That "Call of the Wild" came to Chris in June last year and we all were so glad for him when he left for Utah once again. This past year, Chris was honored for his work and commitment by being appointed by the government as the Hydrologist for the Unita Wilderness and Flaming Gorge Basin in Northeastern Utah. He began this new work in November in the very area he had worked in since 1991.

Chris is throughly enjoying his work and now owns a 1920's farmhouse on an acre of orchard and garden just outside of Vernal. He is restoring the farmhouse and enjoying every minute. Perhaps, I can get him to do an article for us once in awhile to give us a glimpse of the wilderness in which he now works. Someday we'll all be reading his published short stories because someday he will be recognized for the incredible writer he is.

Just thought you'd like to know.

Regular Ramblins readers may have noticed of late a certain, "tapering off" shall we say, in the constant, steady, insistent, endless, pounding, relentless, unremitting flow of quirky little news-bits here on the Norm's Ramblins page.

This lapse (for which I must assume full responsibility) could perhaps best be "explained away" as my succumbing to a potent mélange of: panicked last-minute income-tax calculations, the Easter holiday, protracted bouts with spring fever, March apathy, April croup, and pre-May malaise, a recent full-moon, the annual Georgia needle point and toll-painter's convention (Doraville chapter), and perhaps that most noble of cop-outs, "attentions needed elsewhere!" But in the end (independent of one's personal outlook) the truth remains that there are only so many good articles out there (on mad pigs and duly elected Japanese pro-wrestlers) to plague I mean, "expound upon!" And as such, dry-spells will happen.

So until the next wild-pig charges, whooping crane takes wing, or jackass sets sail o'er the bounding main in a teacup, I'll have to fill the time with a little "free-hand news" of my own. And at the moment, the only story that comes to mind (with even the slightest entertainment prospects) is a recent walk I took on a foggy afternoon.

It all started around ten-thirty on a Wednesday, a couple weeks back. I was happily working away in my spacious executive suite, here at Peachtree Media's corporate worldwide operations, when some of that April croup-mélange stuff started kicking-in, hard and heavy. Seeing as all of my superiors were still away in Colorado, I took some uncharacteristic "junior middle-manager's initiative," got into my Jeep, and went for a little drive.

A couple hours later, I ended up near a forest-highland I know in the southern Appalachians. It was during that dark rainy week (if you'll remember) and as I approached a cold mist hung in shrouds across the blue upland slopes. Once I reached the forest roads I rolled down the window and slowed to enjoy the scenery. Since it was a workday (and lousy weather at that) I practically had the entire district to myself. Through my open window I'd catch sounds of songbirds and tumbling water from shaded streams I'd pass, and everywhere came sweet scents of hickory, evergreen, and damp earth. Springtime had only just arrived to these coves and valleys, with bright blossoms and tender green fringes, but as the road wound higher onto the plateau the fog-bound forests along the crest still slept in late winter.

I drove on through the fog and drizzle to a meadow I know near the brow of a broad ridge. There I parked, dug around in back for a book to read, and waited to see if the rain would stop. After a few short class-based escapades with ole Maupassant, the rain slacked off and I decided to go for a walk. When I'd left Atlanta on my little drive, I hadn't really planned on hiking (or ending up in the Cohuttas for that matter), but thankfully I'm a hopeless slob and within my vehicle there's usually left "a little something" for any contingency. Digging around I found a rain jacket, a broad brimmed hat, wool socks, and a pair of unbelievably heavy and infamous Norwegian-welt boots.

I'd bought these boots years ago, as a young (and stupid) Forest Service seasonal in Utah, imagining I needed something thick and sturdy enough to last longer than the one measly summer all my previous boots had managed to hold up. And last these super-boots did, but with spite and venom! Even months (years!) after "braking in" these boots gave blisters like a toad does warts, ate toenails like they were candy, and had the unparalleled ability of reducing heels into bloodied nubs in as short as a half-mile, if one (I) was foolish enough to venture across level ground in them with a full backpack. After a spoiled trip to the Needles district of Canyonlands I threw the boots away into the basement. ("Iron maidens" though they were, I'd blown a lot of money getting them!) There they moldered and languished until recently, when I ran short of something disposable to dig trenches and till-up lawns in.

So there I was, a fool in a wet foggy field with his old nemeses a long memory, and a steadfast desire to go on a "little" hike.

In the end I did what any rational human being would have under the circumstances. I put on my socks, laced those puppies up, and set out on my (doomed) afternoon walk in the woods!

I would continue with this "harrowing tale" (going nowhere fast), but seeing as this afternoon "my attentions," yet again, are "needed elsewhere," we'll have to make this a two-part exercise (in futility), continued when this "potent mélange" of mine once again subsides. Until then, this is the end of part one -Chris Plunkett

Part Two

Leading away from the south end of the meadow is a trail that winds it’s way off the plateau, fifteen hundred vertical feet or more, down to a nice set of waterfalls. Beyond the falls the trail continues along a good-sized creek (and level ground) for another couple of miles to a lower trailhead. In the past I’ve hiked to the falls along this easy, lower-leg of the trail. Now I decided I’d see what the upper sections were like, maybe even walk on down to the falls themselves. After all, they couldn’t be too far off. Right? Right!

So I started down the trail, through silent hardwoods and silvery mist. By the way, if you’ve never had the chance to walk through a fog-bound forest in springtime, it’s an experience I‘d highly recommend. It’s hard to describe, but the land and trees, even those quite familiar and ordinary otherwise, take on a surreal quality. At once both intimate and infinite, it’s a world where one’s dreams (and ghosts) hold sway, where anything is possible, probable, and waiting… just beyond.

Well... not quite, but anyways, I made my way over rolling terrain to a stone precipice on the brow of the plateau. From there the slope and the barren hardwood canopy split apart and fell into an endless white void. Along the edge a cold breeze rolled in from the southwest, carrying with it trailing vapors, like breaths of cloud. The trail turned back into the forest, crossing several small seeps, before it began a set of long switchbacks off the steep highland.

As I worked downward, everywhere along the damp forest floor, small sprouts and blossoms were emerging. Aside from a few chickadees, woodpeckers, crows (and myself), it was more a day for "invertebrates." The spring rain had driven a lot of earthworms to the surface. I came across some real whoppers, stretched to over a foot in length across the faint earth bed of the hiking path. I also found several large snails, slithering through the dew along the trail.

With no one else around (to call me “screwy”) I took the luxury of stopping to watch a couple of these snails (for quite a while) with their stalked beady eyes and gulping mouth-flaps, sliming along at "breakneck" speed through their mountainous world of pebbles, leaves, and twigs.

Halfway down, the fog began to lift and it started to rain, really really rain! I walked for what felt like ages before I found a stand of hemlocks large enough to even think about hiding under, but by then my hat and rain jacket had already given out and my T-shirt and jeans were about as wet as they could get anyway. It wasn’t too bad though; my feet seemed to be doing surprisingly well, considering -and so long as I kept walking, I was plenty warm enough. Besides, by then I’d made it off the plateau (for the most part) and had come to a large stream. Any second now, I just knew I’d be at that waterfall!

Probably an hour, and several touch-and-go stream crossings later, I came to a roadbed. (Yet another thing I’d not figured on.) By then the rain had tapered to a drizzle, but the waterfalls (and, for that matter, my place in this world) continued to elude me.

After a short search I found where the trail picked up, down to the left and I followed it to yet another, very large, stream crossing. About then (back at the road actually) this nagging sensation had begun to grow in the pit of my stomach as I became vaguely aware that it was starting to get dark! I didn’t have a watch on me, but now that I thought on it, thousands of vertical feet and miles (and hours) back when I started this “little stroll,” it couldn’t have been much earlier than three in the afternoon.

But until then, I'm going to repeat a great essay he wrote last fall about an educational/activity toy he had whan he was a small child. Enjoy the story, the bombastic humor and the subtle satire that was woven around how we interacted with out children before we had the governament to help us.

Have a look at this toddler-rearing relic from the not so-so distant past! My dad came across it "whilst" cleaning out the shed. When he showed it to me I was a little surprised to encounter this long forgotten ghost, this bright little “box-o-lawsuits” otherwise known to adoring multitudes as Playschool’s #551 "Hammer n’ Nail Set," for ages 3 to 6!

My first reaction was to give my dad a standard issue “Oh yeah, I remember that thing.” But then came a sudden revelation, as my modern eyes took in the scene on the cover. “Holy Cow! Look at them little wood pieces –windpipe candy if there ever was! And those hammers and tacks –they’re real!”

Yes, real indeed. The box top does not lie (at least as far as the game’s “arsenal” is concerned). Upon lifting the cover, I found two little iron-headed hammers and dozens of colorful bite-sized wooden shapes, sprinkled with generous portions of rusting tacks -the very things (along with a good sharp set of lawn Jarts) that are woefully absent from the well stocked playroom of today.

But what I really love is the staged scene on the box’s cover. It’s a true masterpiece, filled with all the captivating detail of a late medieval Flemish still-life. Here we have two plump Teutonic cherubs, “Hummel figurines incarnate,” toiling happily in their elven workshop. Their orange tweed table is lain in precise disarray with assorted spare parts, tight clusters of hobnails, and paper schematics of “Quaker fraus.” The day glow sun-dressed “Frida” tranquilly wields a hammer, smashing home nails (“fingernails” included) for the final touches on a “choo-choo train” and what looks to be some sort of atomic particle-accelerator.

Tacitly assessing her progress is young “Otto,” the brown-pants’d heir to equestrian nobility. Poised between his tender fingers is the very nail that sends him choking and gagging to the emergency room mere seconds later.

Between the two children, a paragraph of text floats miraculously in the air. It proclaims with all its 1969 authority and splendor.

“A prime coordination toy that evokes an ‘esthetic’ challenge. Permits child to make countless combinations of interesting designs and pictures from a wide variety of colorful, simple wood shapes, laying sticks, and beads on a composition pounding board with a real hammer and nails. Play-tested.”

Ah yes, play tested. Sheer poetry! Forget the box’s contents, if that’s not a convincing enough testimonial to inspire an immediate blind-purchase, then I don’t know what is! My actual memories of even using the thing are vague at best. I think I remember it being nearly impossible to actually fasten the pieces with my awkward youthful fingers. (But then again, how much “production” can you expect from an unsupervised two year-old!).

The hammers provided were large enough to easily smash fingers, hands, and brothers, but pitifully inadequate for driving the small nails into the tough asbestos and formaldehyde-composite “pounding boards.” I usually just jammed the piece into an already existing nail-hole, which certainly limited one's "aesthetic options." My older brother Jon on the other hand was a lot more adept at it, and taking the lead from "wunderkinder" Frida and Otto, often made trains. In fact the pounding board still boasts some artwork from that golden era decades and more ago. Some of the odd bits flying through the air above the train are possibly my contribution to the Loeuvre.

You may be asking, “So where can I buy such an engaging and educational tool for my three-year-old?” I’m not certain, but I’d imagine you’re out of luck. I doubt any such game has been retailed this side of the 70’s! Along with other far more entertaining items (such as water-rockets, fireworks, trampolines, bow-and-arrows, lead soldiers, B-B guns, and chemistry sets) they’ve been sacrificed for the sake of a safer, albeit more boring, childhood. But in the case of the “Hammer ‘n Nail set” I’d have to say it’s been a change for the better.

Harlan (Krakow) Kreklow says that the referece to "Chicagoese" could extend to other northern "European American" cities like Toledoese, Milwaukeeese, or even parts of New York City. Poking fun at how we used to talk (with vestiges still able to be found) is all so hilarious and so much fun to hear again. After all, we grew up listening to "real people" who talked like this. And some were even in our family, "Ennah?" In fact, I could list about 25 names of friends and relatives who use many of these expressions with gusto. Enjoy. See what you missed? Thanks Harlan for passing it on. If you really want to know, I talk a little like dis when I wanna have fun. This Chicagoese has a huge amount of Italian in it.

THE ONLY LANGUAGE I'LL EVER BE HAPPY SPEAKING...

1. "Grachki" (grach'-key) is Chicagoese for "Garage Key" as in, "Yo, Theresa, waja do wit da grachki? Howmy supposta cut da grass if don't git intada grach ta get da mowar?"

2. "Uptadaendada" (up-ta-da-en'-dada) as in, "Joey, you kin ride yur bike uptadaendada alley but not acrost or I'll bust yur butt . . ."

3. "Sammich" or the variation -- "sannich." It's Chicagoese for sandwich. When made with sausage, it's a sassage sammich; with shredded beef, it's an Italian beef sammich, a local delicacy consisting of piles of spicy meat in a perilously soggy bun.

4. "Da." The definite article is a key part of Chicago speech, as in "da bears" or "da bulls" or "da Mare" - the latter denoting, for as long as he wants it to, Richard M. Daley, or Richie, as he's often known.

5. "Jewels." Not family heirlooms or a tender body region, but a popular appellation for one of the region's dominant grocery chains -- Jewell Tea -- to wit, "I'm goin' to da Jewels to pick up some sassage." As in most Chicago pluralizations, the "S" is pronounced with a hissing sound, rather than the usual "Z" sound of American pluralizations.

6. "Field's." Marshall Field is a prominent Chicago department store. Also Carson Pririe Scott, a major department store chain, is called "Carson's," etc.

7. "Tree." The number between two and four. "We were lucky dat we only got tree inches of snow da udder night."

8. "Prairie." A vacant lot, especially one on which weeds are growing.

9. "Over by dere." i.e. "over by there," a prolix way of emphasizing a site presumed familiar to the listener. As in, "I got the sassage at da Jewels down on Kedzie, over by dere."

10. "Kaminski Park." Perhaps the high concentration of ethnic Poles makes people want the White Sox to be playing in this mythical ballpark, rather than in their true home, Comiskey Park. Now they've given it an electronic name that no one uses.

11. "Frunchroom" as in, "Getottada frunchroom wit dose muddy shoes.'' It's not the "parlor." It's not the "living room." In the land of the bungalow, it's the "frunchroom," a named derived, linguists believe, from "front room.

12. "Uze." Not the verb but the plural pronoun "you." "Where uze goin'?"

13. "Downtown." Anywhere south of the zoo and nord of Soldier Field down by da lake.

14. "Braht" is short for Bratwurst. "Gimme a braht wit kraut."

15. "Cashbox." Traffic reporter slang for tollbooths. "Dere's a delay at da cashbox on da Skyway."

16. "Goes." Past or present tense of the verb "say." For example, "Then he goes, 'I like dis place!'"

17. "Guys." Used when addressing two or more people, regardless of each individual's gender and usually preceeded by a defining word, "youse."

18. "Pop." A soft drink. Don't say "soda" in this town. "What kinda pop you got?" A soda is made with ice cream and flavored carbonated water.

19. "Sliders." Nickname for hamburgers from White Castle, a popular Midwestern burger chain similar to Krystal in the Southeast. The individual hamburgers are smaller than others and just slide down without chewing. "Dose sliders I had last night gave me da runs."

20. "The Taste" The annual Taste of Chicago Festival, a huge extravaganza in Grant Park featuring samples of Chicagoland's fine cuisine. Takes place around and before the Fourth of July holiday.

21. "Ji-eetyet?" This is the word you use when you want to express the phrase, "Did you eat yet?"

But RISKS must be taken because the greatest hazzard in life is to risk nothing. You see, the person who risks nothing -- does nothing -- has nothing -- and is nothing.

One who avoids taking RISKS may avoid suffering and sorrow but they cannot learn, feel change, grow, love, and live.

Chained to their securities and bound by thier certitudes, they are a slave and have forfeited their freedom.

ONLY THE PERSON WHO RISKS LIFE IS TRULY FREE!

Norman and ChrisPlunkett

God is good -- ALWAYS!

And especially as He floods you with all the grace you need no matter what the situation. As you trust Him, God's grace is always just enough and always on time.