Features

Editor’s Note

I may offend some people with what I’m about to say … luckily, I know I probably won’t be receiving any nasty emails from them.

I’ve noticed many people still do not use email. I’ve fielded a few more phone calls from that demographic than I normally would have since taking over this duty, and I have to say, I just don’t get it.

I do, however, understand being stuck in one’s ways. I never wanted a smartphone. I thought, I’m already paying for Wi-Fi in my house, I have a desktop and a laptop and a tablet and can access the Internet when I need to. I was all-in on the flip-phone for as long as it was going to last. Then, I broke down … well, my wife broke me down. So we took the plunge and I selected the cheapest smartphone the South Koreans have ever produced. Long story short, it’s been pretty damn handy.

I’ve used my smartphone to give me directions when driving somewhere new (I know, they have maps, but when you don’t have a co-pilot who is going to guide you?); I’ve used it to take pictures (I know, they already have cameras that use film, but can they be sent to my relatives in North Carolina in 5 seconds?); and I’ve used it to chat with my kids while I’m working evenings (I know, they already have phones that Alexander Graham Bell so painstakingly invented, but can I see the excitement in my son’s face when he lost his first tooth?).

I’m a bit jealous of my kids when it comes to this. I can’t envision them being in their 30s and having someone tell them “I don’t do email.” I’m sure, on a rare occasion, they’ll come across someone who doesn’t because they think it’s hip to be square but, by-and-large the majority of the human race will come to understand how simple, easy and effective it really can be.

I feel like I’m in a generational vortex of sorts. I know what a home phone used to sound like and I remember how frustrating it was to misdial a 1-800 number on a rotary; I remember when televisions were encased in wood and you had to get up to turn the channel; and I remember hand-writing letters and putting a postage stamp on an envelope to send them to their destination.

There are generations above me who only know these things and will die before ever signing up for a Facebook account. Then there is the generation my children will grow up in that will wonder how in the world people lived in the 1980s. And then there’s me, stuck in between two completely different mindsets. I understand and appreciate the simplicity that was my childhood and teenage years, but at the same time, I get excited thinking about what crazy things they’re going to come up with next. I may grimace at the thought of learning something new as I grow older, but I can’t picture myself ever saying “I don’t do that.”

Remember, Mikey hated everything … and then he tried it.

Features

Editor’s Note

Another year, another summer of “jeeze, this summer is flying by.”

Maybe it’s age – growing old seems to make everything fly by no matter what season it is; maybe it’s having three school-aged kids and a wife who teaches – the calendar always seems to revolve around their activities; or maybe it’s just how it’s supposed to be.

Western New Yorkers know the story – there’s summer and then there’s three other anything-can-happen seasons. We’ve had years where my Halloween costume never looked right because it was hidden under a winter coat and hat; and Christmases where I needed flip-flops and shorts rather than the wool sweater I had just unwrapped.

When summer approaches, it always feels like there’s going to be so much time to enjoy the warm rays from the sun, the green grass in your feet and the extended amount of daylight. And then you find yourself in the middle of August wondering where it went and how you’ve wasted it. I’m constantly reminded of how little I use my deck that faces the setting sun – it really is a beautiful backdrop. Working nights, I’m limited to the amount of evenings I can actually sit outside with a drink in my hand, able to enjoy the experience. I always wish I could make more time to for it.

It’s not to say we’ve spent our days loafing about the house – although there are some days that’s just all you can do – we’ve actually had a pretty fulfilling summer. No matter how busy or not busy we are, we’re always led back to uttering the same annual statement – “this summer is flying by.”

Maybe it’s hard to recall so quickly the projects we’ve accomplished around the house, the vacation we experienced and the extra time we’ve been able to spend together. Maybe it’s just a summer thing. The season seems to put me in a mode of always thinking about what’s next – where are we going today, what are we cooking on the grill tonight, whose pool can we invade, these kids are driving me nuts when do they start school?

The more I think about it, the more summer feels like a vacation. Most vacations I return from are the kind I need a vacation just to recover from. You spend each day trying to fill in as many activities as possible to get the most out of the venue and the most out of your money. During summer, I’m just trying to get the most out of the day.

For a season that’s well-known for seeming too short for Western New Yorkers, maybe it’s all we really need. I mean, all vacations come to an end, eventually.

Viewpoints

Editor’s Note

Ever see a car on the road and think “How in the world did that thing pass inspection!?”

I am now a not-so-proud owner of one of those vehicles. I haven’t reached the point of coat-hanger muffler clamp and plastic-bag windows, but it’s getting close.

When I bought my first vehicle – a classic ’96 Eagle Talon – I always took it to a garage. I didn’t know how to change my own oil or spark plugs. In my defense, I was 17 and my dad wasn’t really the let-me-show-you-how-this-is-done type.

Somewhere along the way I developed a do-it-yourself mentality. As a homeowner and father, something’s always breaking that needs to be fixed – usually fast and as cost-effective as possible. As far as dabbling in the automotive field, that’s thanks in part to my father-in-law – a former mechanic and a damn good one at that.

I worked my way up and started small. There’s only one way to really do them, but I think I’ve mastered oil changes and brake replacements. My father-in-law helped me with some of the bigger things that seemed daunting at first: shocks, struts and welding. I still haven’t tried my hand at the torch, not because I don’t think I can do it, but I think because my father-in-law has too much fun using it.

When I’ve needed to, I’d work on my car at my own house without the luxury of his lift. I’m getting light-headed just thinking about how I’d sometimes get light-headed from laying under my car. Either way, everything I’ve tried on my own seemed to turn out alright. Some of my greatest accomplishments were the serpentine belt replacement, tailight replacement and a valve cover gasket. Crazy stuff, right?

Recently, I had more lights lit on my dash than I cared to have, especially because my inspection was up at the end of the month. One at a time I tried to knock them out: oil light – low oil and needed an oil change – check; brake light – low on brake fluid – check; and lastly, the dreaded check engine light. I’ve had my ’02 Chevy for sometime now so I had an idea of what it might be. Sometimes oil finds itself in with the spark plugs and causes a misfire or my exhaust will have a new hole somewhere. Cleaning the spark plugs is easy, holes in the exhaust are a little more tricky.

Turned out to be holes, yes, multiple holes.

With my father-in-law out of town and my inspection looming I had to try some of my own torch-less tactics. First: duct tape. Not the standard stuff, but the high-heat kind you use for dryer vents. Well, it blew right off the muffler hole as I left for work one day. Next up, the most amazing invention ever created – metal epoxy putty.

At the time I tried this stuff I had only known about one hole in the exhaust – in the muffler. I wadded some up, spread it out and 30 minutes later the hole was repaired. Turned the key and the check engine light remained lit. It was time to get dirty. I drove my little 4-cylinder up on the ramps, laid on the driveway I’m still waiting to have sealed (hint-hint) and examined the exhaust. Found it, a second hole right near the catalytic converter. I came back from the store with two more magic tubes in-hand.

Here, I thought I’ve finally fixed all the holes. Fired the engine up again and … it mocks me. The check engine light remained lit. Back under again, waving my hands around trying to find the lovely burning sensation from yet another rust-induced cavity. Alas, I felt the burn, but I couldn’t see the hole. From what I could tell, it was in the exhaust manifold right before it connects with the long pipe (Don’t let my skills fool you, I’m still a layman).

I’d become a little antsy, spending hours on the car that day and was running late for work, so once the engine had cooled I wadded up some more magic putty and placed it where I believed the hole to be. Thirty minutes later I thought I’d be golden, so I left for work – light still lit. I hadn’t driven more than a mile and all of a sudden it smelled as if someone dropped an entire box of used fireworks in my passenger-side seat. Frantically, I turned around and pulled it into the driveway and popped the hood. It was smokin’ … and not the good smokin’.

It was in this moment – or while I was spraying my engine with the garden hose, I’m not sure – that I realized no matter how willing I am to try and tackle car repairs on my own, it won’t matter if I’m not knowledgeable, patient and working with my father-in-law.

Features

Editor’s Note

If you’re wondering where the lovely Katie Atkins’ column is this week, I’m sorry to say Katie has moved on to bigger and better things. Good for her, bad for those of you who have grown accustom to her general musings about life and food.

You’re stuck with me now!

I’ll try and make it as painless as possible – for the both of us.

If you don’t know who I am it’s because I’ve worked in the shadows here at The Post-Journal for about five years. If you’ve ever looked at one of our page layouts and thought – “Whoever they have designing these pages I hope they’re paying them well because they look fantastic” – that was probably my handiwork; if you’ve ever thought – “Who came up with such a stupid Question Of The Day!?” – that was probably my work as well. Sometimes it’s good to be in the shadows …

While I’ve enjoyed remaining somewhat anonymous these last few years, hiding behind my outdated Mac, I figured now would be a good time to step out and return to my roots.

You may remember seeing my name as a byline in The Post-Journal every now and then over the years; that’s because I worked as a reporter at the OBSERVER in Dunkirk from 2006-12. Recently, I’ve started to go back and catalog some of the articles I’ve written and I have to say some of them were pretty poorly written. I like to think, even thought it’s been four years since I wrote regularly, that I’ve grown as a writer. Hopefully no one is thinking I should have remained retired at this point in my column.

Positive or negative criticism aside, I really do miss writing. It’s more therapeutic than I like to believe it is … although brainstorming ideas may turn into a headache every now and then. As a reporter, material usually presented itself. You had meetings, events, ribbon-cutting ceremonies to attend and other people spoke. All I had to do was transcribe their words and organize them into what sounded like a coherent story. Easy.

I give columnists a lot of credit. Although social media has given everyone a “voice,” those opinions are usually given in circles of like-minded people – your Twitter followers, your Facebook friends, your blog subscribers. Newspaper columnists, they’re speaking to whoever takes the time to read. They’re putting their personal opinions and stories out there and giving people a chance to chime in. I’m not immune to criticism, but after 10 years in journalism my skin has grown rather thick. You can chime away.

Feedback will be one way I’ll gauge reader interest. Like I did when I was a reporter, I’d be glad to hear from readers who like, hate, love or loath my random thoughts. If you keep it clean, I’ll keep it clean.

So, here I am. Nice to meet you.