Support your small businesses! Tin Lizzy kitchen open Friday for takeout/delivery!

(522 words)

Welcome evidence of human activity stared me right in the face today as I made my solitary trudge to the front door of the Tin Lizzy.

They’re opening Friday 11 a.m. to 6 p.m. for take-out or delivery!

The modified menu includes your typical Lenten specials for … for … reasonable, I’m sure, mystery prices to come.

I like that Rick and Lisa chose not to include the price. After all, one of the most popular features in the building is a wheel of chance where lucky participants can win a can of Spam (yay!) and unlucky ones are required to buy the bartender a drink (boo).

You’d be amazed at the bar-wide drama that plays out on that wheel of Spam fortune as it clicks down to victory or despair.

We’re into about Week 4 of the building being on lock down. 

It’ll be five years in July since I began celebrating the Tin Lizzy in books and here on the blog. It’s just the coolest place. I love it here.

But I’m used to loving it so much more than I do now that I’m here all alone.

I still come in almost every day for at least three hours in the morning, and a couple in the afternoon.

I try to be discreet. I don’t want anyone to get the impression there’s any party going on and they weren’t invited. I wonder what people think when they see me going in the door.

They probably think, “There goes that writer guy again. I’ll bet he spends his whole day drinking and talking to himself. I’d like to see what would happen if for even one day he had to work a real job.”

So at least passing strangers are thinking the same thing my family thinks when they see me go out the door.

It’s odd being all alone in a place so renown for liveliness.

It wasn’t that long ago when people were always popping in to say hello and I was always trying to think of ways to make their visit memorable or gossip worthy.

I’ve thought of sitting at my desk buck naked and telling visitors I write better in the nude. It’d be fun to see how rapidly the story’d spread.

Hell, these days I could roam the building nude and no one would see.

Well, maybe the owner. He still pops in. But I’d be afraid to be up here buck naked with him.

What if he’d call the cops? What if he threw my ass out on the street?

Worse, what if he thought it was a new custom and began removing his clothes?

There are some types of “Buck naked” with which I want nothing to do.

So stop in tomorrow and order one of the specials. It’ll make me happy to hear noises again and you’ll be supporting a local business when your support has never meant more.

The Tin Lizzy is a cool building, but it’s just a building.

It’s probably similar to the building most of you are in right now. 

It’s the people in the building who make it truly cool.

Related …

I’m lovin’ Tin Lizzy cornhole!

A Tin Lizzy advertorial

My Tin Lizzy ghost story

I’m now hosting Tin Lizzy book talks

Someone stole Buck’s book

Return this decision to sender: Palmer stamp to be unveiled in Orlando, not Latrobe

(701 words)

I’m painfully aware of the personal and professional consequences of using this blog — named the 32nd most influential blog for Amish readers — to ruffle the feathers of the braintrust behind one of the world’s most beloved and iconic brands.

But when a company worth in the neighborhood $700 million gracelessly stumbles over a 55-cent postage stamp then feathers must be ruffled.

The U.S.P.S. is March 4 unveiling the Arnold Palmer commemorative stamp in Orlando, home to Mickey Mouse, rather than unveiling it in Latrobe, home to, well, Arnold Palmer.

Do I blame the post office? I do not. I suspect they’re merely doing the ill-considered bidding of Orlando-based Arnold Palmer Enterprises.

I contend it diminishes the legacy of Palmer every time something is done to put space between him and the iconic place he called home. And make no mistake, Latrobe was home to Palmer, a fact that was essential to his enduring appeal.

Palmer was raised in a home that was 320 yards from the one where he was living when they took him to the Pittsburgh hospital where he died September 25, 2016. He was 87.

Think about that. A man who could have been pampered in palaces around the planet never left the defiantly proud shot & a beer steel town that raised him. Hell, he never left the same street.

I have some authority in the matter. In the 18-months since the release of my Arnold Palmer book — the one Palmer confidant Jim Nantz says is, ahem, the best book anyone’s written on Palmer — I’ve been privileged to befriend many of the most ardent Palmer fans.

Most of them are eager to play Latrobe C.C., buy some merchandise, and have a drink or two at the Tin Lizzy. Many of them remind me of my father so I love them and their soulful motivations before we’ve even met.

Like my father, they knew all about Palmer the golfer. They didn’t need to hear about which club he’d use from the 150-marker when there was a stiff wind in his kisser.

No, they wanted to hear what it was like when you ran into him in the grocery store, the barber shop, or the local tavern.

Sure, there are those kinds of stories in Orlando, pop. 1,923,000, but they’re just more concentrated — more potent — in Latrobe, pop. 7,885

In Latrobe, Palmer was a fixture; in Orlando, a tourist.

So why is the postal ceremony there, not here?

I can only speculate but part of it seems partly pure laziness. The decision makers all live there and the ceremony will coincide with the opening of the Arnold Palmer Invitational at Bay Hill Club & Lodge. It’ll wind up as a 200-word items at the bottom of some notes column; NBC will daily run a 15-second spot.

That’s lazier than even the pampered golf writers they presume to woo. Guaranteed, they’d get more compelling and colorful stories if they at random chose a dozen golf writers and flew them to Arnold Palmer Regional Airport for an overnighter and a round of golf at LCC.

 The other part — and again I’m only speculating — is that the people who run Arnold Palmer Enterprises simply don’t believe in Latrobe. I think they’d like to shed some of the fiscal burdens of running what’s been called “sentimental aspects” of the Palmer legacy.

Who does believe in Latrobe? Palmer pal Gov. Tom Ridge who told me he envisions a day when people come to Latrobe to pay homage to Palmer the way they do in Orlando with Mickey whazisname.

“People are always going to want to see the town where Arnold Palmer grew up, see his workshop, his office, his memorabilia and play the course where he learned to golf,” Ridge says.

Oh, and I can think of one other guy who believed in Latrobe. Many of Palmer's most iconic marketing campaigns hearkened back to ol’ Latrobe.

What this town has to offer are assets, not burdens. To think otherwise is short-sighted. 

I apologize for once again ruffling feathers, but when top decision makers keep on acting like turkeys then a few feathers are bound to be ruffled.

Related Feather Rufflers …

Banned from Latrobe C.C. … Me!

I get screwed by Bay Hill … again

The day Palmer’s people offered me a $70k-a-year job

Biblical sorts of praise for my Palmer book

Time to change town name from Youngstown to Palmerville

This blog named 32nd best Amish blog in the world

Contemplating crime while waiting to say goodbye to our friend Dave at the funeral home

(771 words)

I don’t know what it is about small town funerals that often leads me to think of committing crimes.

Happened yesterday at the visitation for our friend Dave Planinsek, 63. When someone like Dave dies — and there aren’t many like Dave — everyone stops what they’re doing and heads over to pay their respects. 

People stand in line for hours and think about what to say, how to comfort the family and if it’s too soon to call dibs on that fishing rod Dave’ll no longer be needing.

And while they’re thinking these mostly altruistic thoughts, I’m standing there thinking, “Man, now would be a dandy time to stick-up the bank.”

A bank heist would be a cinch when someone like Dave expires in a town like Latrobe. Everyone in town was there to mourn Dave so the rest of town was wide open.

I imagine me running into the empty bank, demanding money, and having the lone teller toss me the keys and saying, “Here you go. Lock up when you’re done,” as she runs out the door in the vain hopes of securing convenient parking.

Of course, there was no convenient parking at Dave’s visitation, thus fulfilling “Use All The Crayons!” colorful living tip no. 42:

“Try and do something each and every day that’ll ensure parking at your funeral will be a real bitch.”

That’s how Dave lived. A retired agent with the state Department of Environmental Protection Agency, he and his wife Cindy are renown for hosting a spring fishing derby on their sylvan property. 

I’d see him every couple days at The Tin Lizzy and was always pleased when he’d sit next to me. The conversation was always insightful, interesting and always circled back to having fun. He’s the only guy I know who could talk for 30 minutes about wild mushrooms native to the Chestnut Ridge and be enlightening instead of excruciating.

Another great thing about Dave: I have no idea about his political leanings. 

If he was a Trump fan, I don’t recall him beating me over the head about it. Likewise, I don’t remember him pulling out a rainbow wig and sashaying around the bar when Megan Rapinoe scored for either the US of A or the LBGQ of T or whatever. 

I do know this: he was a law-and-order guy.

He loved his family, country, the outdoors and people who rolled up their sleeves and worked hard to better his community. 

He was contemptuous of those who felt entitled, those who cut corners, those who felt the rules didn’t apply to them.

So on the day we said goodbye to Dave, Dave would have disdained me.

Because I did something worse than rob a bank.

I cut the line at the funeral home.

I know. It’s the kind of brazen act that could lead to a horizontal sort of visit to that very funeral home.

But the line was so, so, long and the smiling stranger had run out of flattering things to say to me. She’d overheard me talking to some friends and pieced together I’d written the Arnold Palmer book.

“It’s the best book I’ve ever read,” she said with sweet sincerity. I love to hear things like that and am always happy my wife’s not around to logically ask how many books she’s read, if that includes the Bible, and if I’d paid her to say the heresy out loud.

But the line wasn’t moving and the conversation lapsed. Plus, I had to pick up my daughter at the middle school. I’d stood in line for an hour and still had at least another 30 minutes to get to Dave and his grieving family.

I told my friend and he offered an illicit suggestion: Cheat.

“Just skip through that door, down the hall and into the main room.”

He said I could get essential family credit, by just popping in the casket room, signing the book and being seen by the family. From across the room, I could offer a reassuring smile and a solemn nod that says, “I’m here. It’s gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be fine. Did I mention, ‘I’m here?’”

So what did I do?

What do you think. I took the easy way out! Because the easy way isn’t always the right way, but it’s always easy and sometimes that’s all right.

I feel bad I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye to a good, kind man whose manner and ethic brightened so many of our lives.

But to be honest I don’t feel that bad.

I’ll instead treasure all those hellos.

Related …

Hire me to ensure a memorable funeral

Speaking ill of the dead for fun & profit

Crooked cop shows America needs honest obits

Our dear friend Sue is gone

RIP Dow Carnahan

Latrobe Bulletin announces my next book

(430/539 words)

Okay, the admission may lead you to conclude I’m a rube, but I still get a kick out of seeing my name and picture in the local newspaper. So thank you Steve Kittey and The Latrobe Bulletin for yesterday’s front page splash. 

The book is, "Growing Up in the REAL Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood: Stories from the Heart of Latrobe, Pennsylvania."

Of course my favorite part of the Bulletin story is the picture, one I don’t recall taking, haven’t ever seen before and haven’t the foggiest idea how it was secured fir usage by my Bulletin friends.

It’s a dandy. First, I’m smiling and you can tell I have a mouthful of teeth. I’d be disappointed had they selected one where I appear serious.

Here’s a tweet from two years ago this month: “One benefit about being carefree is serious people never look at you and say, "Hon, let's go sit next to that guy. He looks real serious, too.”

The picture is a perfect repellent to serious people.

The best part are the eyes. They appear to be gazing 20-feet above and past the unknown photographer. It’s like I’m gazing at either the resurrected Christ returned to Earth Biggie-sized or at a hovering UFO filled with love-starved women yearning to try earth sex and their malfunctioning computers have led them to believe I’m  the only man on the planet.

It’s just a very happy face.

And why wouldn’t it be?

I’m announcing my next book. It’s the one I never dreamed I’d write.

See, for a year I’ve been resisting pressure to write a book about Fred Rogers that’s just like the one I wrote about Arnold Palmer.

I didn’t want to do this because I didn’t know Rogers, certainly not the way I knew Palmer. And it just seemed too obvious.

My resistance is indicative about why I’m always moaning about being broke. After all, why would I want repeat something that made me a lot of money and so many people happy?

I mean, besides the producers of “Shrek 12,” who would want to do that?

But the commercial incentive is apparent; the Tom Hanks/Fred Rogers movie is likely to do gangbuster business and generate interest in what it’s like to live in Mr. Rogers Real Neighborhood, a place I’ve called home since 1992 and written about in my blog since 2019. 

That, for me, seemed like a good hook and an authentic reason for me to engage. 

I explain it all in this Bulletin story. Please get in touch if you have any Fred stories or are interest in sharing why his spirit still matters here in Latrobe and around the world.

Happy Mother’s Day!

—    <<  >>   —               —    <<  >>    —                 —    <<  >>   —

It was this week last year that Triumph Publishing released my book, “Arnold Palmer: Homespun Stories of The King.” In the year since, my editor has called repeatedly to gush that sales were exceeding expectations.

The satisfaction I feel over that news is surpassed only by my appreciation over how well it sold right here in Latrobe. I joke that it’s like everyone in town bought five copies. “They read one and they use the other four to stabilize wobbly furniture.”

That’s a silly exaggeration, but my gratitude is heartfelt. 

Why is it selling so well? I can think of two reasons. One of them, obviously, is Arnold Palmer, one of the most compelling men from the last 100 years. 

The other is you.

One of the best decisions I made upon landing the contract — maybe the best decision — was to reach out to readers of the Latrobe Bulletin and let you know I was eager to hear your stories about our famous neighbor. Those stories enriched my book the way our neighborly association with Arnold Palmer enriched our town.

A year later, I’m back to humbly repeat my request: Latrobe, please tell me your stories.

Not about Arnold Palmer.

No, I want to hear your stories about you. Well, you and Mr. Rogers.

I want to hear why you live here and if you or your loved ones are ever motivated by the benevolent spirit of Fred Rogers.

We’re just seven months until the release of the Tom Hanks/Fred movie, “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.” The movie — experts are predicting a blockbuster — is bound to have people around the world asking, “So what’s the real Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood really like?

The book I’m considering will not be a biography of Rogers or a history of Latrobe (although there will be elements of both). At this point I anticipate the book will rely heavily on my observations of what it’s like to live here, as my family and I have done since 1992.

See, I didn’t know Fred.

But I do know Latrobe. I hang out in its bars, patronize its businesses, attend its church services, its festivals and am chummy with both its community leaders as well as its happy rabble (some of them fit neatly in both categories).  

So if you know any great first person Fred stories (funny, heroic, generous), by all means, please get in touch.

But I’ll be just as pleased to hear any stories from men and women who decide to help a stranger change a tire because, gee, that’s what Fred would have done; stories of how some distant stranger treated you with extra care because they found out you were from Latrobe, birthplace of Fred Rogers, Mr. Rogers’ Real Neighborhood.

I can be reached at 724 961-2558; storyteller@chrisrodell.com.

I’m hoping this book will be a definitive answer to the question, “What’s Mr. Rogers’ Real Neighborhood really like?”

To me, it’s a special place. It’s full of boisterous characters, robust natures and so many kind hearts I sometimes wonder if it’s our chief export. But Latrobe is not a fantasy. It’s not a fable. It’s not a safe space. 

It’s a real town with real people. 

And with this book, I intend to keep it real.

Our dear friend Sue is gone; here's one way her memory will go on forever and ever

(743 words)

Being alive in a small town means you spend a substantial amount of time mourning those who suddenly or otherwise no longer are. You attend a lot of funerals. 

Each is compelling and sad in its own way so I’m often drawn to write about them.

This can be tricky. I don’t want to say anything rude or be less than honest memorializing, say, a beloved town drunk. 

And you don’t want to by omission snub someone by ignoring their passing, but I worry saluting so many would be unwise. The topic might become maudlin for Midwest readers who enjoy reading about things like the day the barnstorming troupe of gypsy strippers showed up at the Tin Lizzy (link below).

But the passing of Susan Sniezek, 69, is too momentous to ignore. I loved her very much. Everyone did. And we love Marty, her husband of 50 years, and their daughter, Jenn, and her wonderful family.

They’re just these incredibly warm and funny people, the kind when as soon as you walk away from seeing them you immediately begin looking forward to the next time you get to see them.

Now, none of us will ever see Sue again.

But, I swear, none of us will ever forget her. 

I could tell stories all day, but because of my stated fears of the blog becoming stale, I promise I’ll only mention her name once more and it won’t be until the very end. And instead of death, we’ll talk about life.

Because on the very day our friend died, a baby girl was born in the same hospital. Her parents named her Rachel. Here’s some rosy speculation of how Rachel’s life could go if she turns out blessed the way few are. 

Her parents will be wise and loving. She will be raised with a spirit of playful adventure. As a youth, she will travel to places like Norway where she will dance and sing so exuberantly on public transportation that even work-weary Norwegian commuters will be cheered by the youthful Yanks.

She will meet a young veteran who drives an ice cream truck and woos her with free treats. It will be the beginning of a more than 50-year romance so vivacious it will inspire countless young couples that a marriage like theirs is worthy of emulation.

There marriage will involve enduring joy that will brighten memories and unbidden heartbreak that will bestow soulful compassion for those who grieve.

She’ll be the kind of mother who lets expectant mothers see that raising a sweet, beautiful daughter — and every single daughter is somehow sweet and beautiful — is life’s greatest joy. 

Rachel will engage in an active and euphoric social life and when the bar door swings opens and people see her blond hair and smiling face walk in all will be more glad they decided to visit the club on that day.

Heck, all will be more glad to be alive. 

She’ll be the kind of parent who never misses her daughter’s activities and audibly cheers her on and only slightly less audibly cheers on all the other kids. 

From both teams.

Other people will throw fine seasonal parties. For Rachel and her dear husband, the parties will never end. They will turn their spacious basement into a lively saloon where all will be welcome.

Maybe they’ll call it, oh, the “Neon Moon.”

She’ll never outgrow her sweetly childish love for Christmas and will festoon her home with more than 600 Santa Claus holiday knick knacks. By doing so, she’ll let everyone know it’s okay to be a kid again at Christmas, and all year-round, really. 

And when news spreads around this small town that Rachel is sick, the whole town will say fervent prayers that God intervene because towns like this need our Rachels.

And, hallelujah, God will listen.

And one day many blessed years later some old men will be sitting on a park bench and maybe see Rachel pushing a stroller with her adored granddaughter.

“Well, here comes Rachel,” one might say to the other. “Isn’t she beautiful. Loved by men, admired by women, resented by none, hers is a light that illuminates the whole world, the kind that will never truly die.”

“Yep, she’s one of the kindest, most generous and sweetest people I’ve ever known. Truly, 1-in-a-million.”

“More like 1-in-100-million.”

“Reminds me of Sue Sniezek.”

Related … 

Marty & Sue at the Kecksburg alien parade

Small town funeral etiquette

Hire me to ensure a memorable funeral

A day for mourning: RIP Dow Carnahan

A hometown funeral & “The Art of Living Suddenly”

Barnstorming strippers seeking Tin Lizzy gig

• At the risk of appearing self-serving, here’s Sue and her granddaughter Martina at the 1:50 mark in a promotional video. She was a big supporter of my writing and a true friend.