Dad’s Christmas Story

My dad had a radio show for many years at WTBQ radio station in upstate New York. He would send me his transcripts in email and I saved them. My plan was to edit them and create a book for him. This turned out to be a larger project than I could handle. After he died in 2006, I was able to hire professional editors to edit the transcripts and I put together a book. I also put the writings online here.

While my dad was at WTBQ they recorded “A Hometown Christmas” show and they play it each year for the holidays.

Here is my dad’s piece:


I am not a fan of wiring. I greatly enjoy soldering, I like electrical tape, and have a little fascination with multi-meters, but I am missing one essential ingredient that is necessary to work with wiring issues: Patience.

I lack patience. I get frustrated and tunnel vision sets in. I lose the ability to logic out problems and my thought processes go fuzzy.


Perhaps one of these days I’ll cultivate some way to quiet my head and focus on the wires and the flow of electricity moving through them. It’s either that, or I will have to install pedals on my spikey bike and duct tape a Maglite to the forks.


I studied ballet for about six years when I was young. I loved it. I had a friend, Molly, who was older than me who took me under her wing and encouraged me. My level had to wear leotards and standard tu-tus. Her level wore beautiful sheer mid-calf angled skirts. I thought those rayon skirts were so graceful and looked forward to when I earned wearing them too.

The ballet slippers were supple in my hands with a specific sweet tangy scent of the pink leather. There was a promise of beauty in those slippers – of grace and an orchestrated story waiting to unfold.

There are photos of young me front and center in performances, and like any young ballerina, I dreamed of being Clara in The Nutcracker.

My mom and I moved to a different city, different state, mid-way through middle school. If I wanted to continue my lessons I had to ride my bicycle across two major streets into the neighboring city. This didn’t last long and thus my dancing days were over.

When I was 19 I tried taking lessons. I put on a leotard and felt awkward and clunky. After a few classes, I folded up the leotard and put it away.

Sometimes dreams don’t happen and if you revisit them the dream has changed enough to where it doesn’t exist anymore.