The Publisher's Page BY HAROLD T. BECK

SEPTEMBER 18 - SEPTEMBER 24, 1999

SEPTEMBER 24, 1999

So what did you expect?

Good morning. It is 47.8 degrees at 5:38 A.M.

Just like the other day, I read The Era on line. For those of you who missed it, you can find it at http://www.bradfordera.com.

Again, like I said the other day, I never buy The Era. I recommend this form over the printed version and you save fifty cents.

The headline today is: "St. Bernard Church and Tops Market reach tentative $1million deal," By MIKE SCHREIBER /Era Reporter.

Ironically, on Tuesday I had occasion to drive by the church and the rectory (and the back wall of Tops Market) and think to myself what a serene setting it was. The church grounds were well cared for. The buildings were old, but the red brick was very attractive and added that little something that is missing these days in Bradford.

As I turned the corner I paused a moment and looked from the parking lot and the back of the building to the rectory and imagined what would happen if Tops expanded like they wanted. I tried to imagine the new back wall only feet from the entrance of the church. As I did, setting aside the emotional ties to the past for so many, I imagined how truly unattractive and devastating the planned expansion would be.

Whether you attend St. Bernard's Church or not, you must admit that it is a magnificent structure from the outside. If you have ever been inside, you know how grand and awe inspiring that is. Immediately, you know that you are in the house of God and you are happy and at peace you feel just to be there. So many have taken comfort at the worst times in that very structure. Isn't that what churches and religions are all about?

That is what I was raised to believe. And, that is what I still believe.

But churches are run by men and men are imperfect creatures. Priests, Monsignors, Bishops, Archbishops, Cardinals, and even sometimes Popes, when they are faced with worldly decisions, make the wrong choice. Worldly decisions require worldly choices and when you talk worldly, you talk money.

The Catholic Church is no different from any other church in the respect that it needs money to keep its doors open. A Bishop is like a School Superintendent, or a Mayor, or even a County Commissioner. He is in the respect that he is in charge of paying for the diocese and keeping the affairs of the church operating. That costs money.

A hundred years ago when the immigrants were flooding into this country from southern and eastern Europe, they brought with them their faith. In this area a large group brought with them the Catholic faith. And they went to work and with their own sweat and their own money built parishes and churches. They gave and they gave generously and we see the results of what they and their children accomplished. St Bernard's is the end result of exactly that.

All things have a beginning and an end. Just as the churches began in very humble places and moved into the grand structures they have today, that will change with time. The rectory is just the beginning. The generation that built the church is old and the church management understands that. My generation will not be so vocal and will in fact be passive. A million dollars is a whole lot of money to the Catholic Diocese of Erie.

The bishop will wait an appropriate amount of time and then approve the deal. If you read the paper, it is already a done deal. Everything is there! All it takes is one man's signature.

So what does that say? Are we to change? Are we to modify our faith in God because a bishop, a man, sells off church property to a supermarket so they can put more fish in the displays and  more cans of sauerkraut on the shelves? We know better than that.

But, if you look at it, and I mean really look at it. If you look beyond the headlines and the emotion of it all, there is a message here.

It isn't a message coming from some man who has been made Bishop by some Pope. It isn't a message coming from the chairman of the finance committee of any church, either. It is a message that comes to us from ourselves. Those are the messages that we all too often miss.

Even though the plans call for a beautification project that include landscaping being put in place, earthen mounds, shadowbox fencing and 5 to 6 foot tall trees to block the view of the new brick building. And even though they say it will make it more aesthetically pleasing to look at from the church. And even though Tops will assume responsibility for and maintain the landscaping for one year. Even though all that is going to be done, the church will still be hidden by the supermarket.

The church will be tucked away on a dead end street and it will lose 8 parking spaces from the current lot. That will leave 65-70 vehicles to park, but in reality, that in itself is the message.

While the church was prominent in the lives of our grand parents and our parents, and even us when we were growing up, it isn't any more. We are willing to block it from our view with a supermarket. We are willing to allow that to happen because the supermarket will be more convenient than the church. It will have better parking. It will have better lighting. It will be air conditioned in the summer and well heated in the winter. In many ways, we will make the new supermarket our new church and that is a very sad commentary on us.

And the bishop knows that! He knows that just like he knows he really needs the million dollars and everything that goes with it. That includes a new rectory instead of an old, vacant convent. And the fact that the convent is vacant tells us that what has happened to the church is something that we knew all along. It tells us about how strong or how weak our faith really is. It tells us about ourselves.

And that leads to the next and final question. Really, what did you expect?

Your comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com.  

SEPTEMBER 23, 1999

THE FINAL WORD by TOM CLARK

Good morning. It is 38.2 degrees at 5:23 A.M. Tom Clark has a few more words about the phony Indiana Bat.

A few weeks ago, I was having my breakfast at the Downbeat and reading the USA Today. I was just catching up on the world and national events that The Era must deem to be of no importance. Run an article on global economy? Nah. Put that piece about Aunt Gertrude spotting the first blue jay of the season right on the front page.

The five month ban on logging in the Allegheny National Forest is finally over. Since April 1, the Shingle Mill timber project has been idle because a single Indiana bat was found in the forest.

Preservationist groups filed lawsuits to halt the logging. Another case of what these self-serving tree huggers will do to disrupt the forest industry.

When my concentration is focused on the newspaper and not my surroundings, I can only hope that I am sending a message to others that I prefer not to be disturbed. But, alas, there is always one pinhead that feels his meaningless babble should take precedence over the world news, Such was the case this particular morning.

I felt a slight tap on my shoulder and the human equivalent to the breath of a tapeworm-infested bison permeated the air around me. I glanced back to see who dared to interrupt my quiet time, only to discover it was this guy who has obviously pencilled me onto his Nemesis List since learning that I am pro-logging. This tunnel-visioned pea brain feels that, every time we meet, we should engage in some form of environmental debate.

It should be noted that, unless I am under-educated about a topic, I am fairly steadfast in my convictions and am not easily swayed. Tree huggers, like this clown, think that pro-logging people want to remove every last tree on Earth. The irony lies within the extremes of their movement, which is to never, ever cut down another tree on the planet. Bison Breath reaches over my shoulder

and flings one of his Hitleresque propaganda newsletters on top of the article I was reading.

"Take a look at that", he said, pointing at a headline referring to the Indiana bat and the horrors of logging.

"First off, it's printed on paper", I smugly replied.

"Yes, but it's recycled paper", he revealingly proclaimed.

"But, didn't a tree have to be cut down at one time or another to produce this paper?" I love

hitting these jerks with a line like that.

He responded with the typical "Well, er...yeah, I guess". I have him in my sights, it's time to pull the trigger.

"Tell me, Mr. Tree Lover, what do you wipe with? Oh, before you answer, hand me a toothpick." Game. Set. Match.

I'm sure he is one of the louder envirogeeks who are rocking the boat with this Indiana bat thing. We are all too familiar with the story of the logging halt in the Allegheny National Forest because someone found a bat. I, and many others, including McKean County Commissioner Harold T.

Beck, say the bat was planted there. Instead of generating monies for our schools through logging revenues and feeding the families of loggers and employees of related industries, timber harvesting was disrupted for a three inch bat that doesn't even belong here.

In fairness to the bat people, I did some research to see if these folks have a legitimate cause or are just blowing smoke up our butts. The Indiana bat (myotis sodalis) is, indeed, an endangered species that is native to the Central States region, mostly Indiana, Kentucky, Missouri, Michigan and Ohio.

Other than eating mosquitoes, I am stumped for writing anything of ecological value about this particular bat species.

Allegheny National Forest is one of many places where envirojerks have caused disarray over this rat with wings. In Vermont, logging is delayed in the White Mountain National Forest because one Indiana bat was found on the edge of the forest. One. Uno. Not even enough to mate.

Closer to here, the I-99 road project through Blair and Centre Counties in Pennsylvania is on hold because of Indiana bats. Allow me rephrase that, since no one has actually seen any bats in that area. The envirodicks think, yes, think, that the bats live in a cave some 20 miles from the road

project and may roost in trees slated for removal for the road grade. Color me a realist, but I am quite certain that these ugly little aerovarmints would find other trees to loiter in if the trees are cut

for the road. The project is delayed for one year at a cost of $8 million, taxpayer's money, all for a bat that no one has actually seen.

I was surprised, during my research, to not see any mention of PETA in any of the articles I read about the bats. Are you familiar with these boneheads?

People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.

I give the animals far more credit for intelligence than this group. A few years ago, these anti-fur advocates snuck into a mink ranch and freed the little critters from their cages. Run, minks, run like the wind! Thousands of minks escaped, yet none survived. The minks that weren't hit by cars on the adjoining Interstate died of exposure and starvation. Smooth move, Alice.

PETA is the group who brought us dolphin-safe tuna, claiming that dolphins are second smartest living being on Earth, next to Man. If they are so freakin' smart, why do they keep getting caught

up in a net with a bunch of tunas? As my old pal, Mad Max, has said: "These PETA people should find animals worth saving. Go over to Africa and save some monkeys. At least you can train them to ride tricycles and smoke cigars."

Hopefully, this whole Indiana bat mess will blow over and the enviropricks will move on to their next disruptive cause. The plan that is being considered for the I-99 project is to cut the trees

down in the winter when the bats, if there are any, are hibernating. If they need help, I'll be there, chainsaw in hand.

Your comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com.

SEPTEMBER 22, 1999

There's no place like home

Good morning. It is 33.3 degrees at 6:09 A.M.

When I start every morning I read my e-mail first and then I go to The Bradford Era on line http://www.bradfordera.com.   I like the sneak preview before my stolen newspaper arrives. (I really don't pay for The Era and neither should you!) They have a long way to go for an on line publication, but it is a good first effort. Many of the local stories never make it on line. I guess the decision for the two that do are selected through some process, but that escapes me.

Anyway, the story today that did catch my eyes was: Doctor's patients referred to Olean By SANDRA RHODES/ Era Reporter.

Doctor Jung, a longtime Bradford gynecologist, died Sept. 2nd at Hamot Medical Center. He had a severe heart attack while working at Bradford Regional Medical Center, and the proximity to treatment was the only reason why he survived into the next month. Then something curious happened. His widow sold his practice to the Olean Medical Group.That floored me. I asked Sharyn why she would have done such a thing? Sharyn didn't have a clue.

Bradford Regional Medical Center is a fine facility. In the past ten years it has made remarkable strides to keep up with an industry that is in a state of constant flux.While other facilities, Olean Medical Center included, have had massive layoffs and wage cuts for its workers, BRMC has been able to keep its head above water and even manage to give modest raises to its 650 employees. That is very admirable and says a whole lot for the management and the Board of Directors.

According to The Era story , "John Weir, executive director of the Olean Medical Group, said Jung's family contacted him after his
death to see if they would accept Jung's patients.

"They (his family) indicated he had expressed his wishes in regards to his practice," Weir said. "They wanted to know if our physicians would be available to his patients."

"Weir did not specify why Jung's patients are being referred to that facility, however, two full-page advertisements in The Bradford Era stressed the physicians at Olean Medical Group are board certified."

No one has said whether BRMC had a shot at the practice, and if they didn't, why not?

I saw the full page ads in The Era. I was forced to ask myself what was wrong. I am sure many of you have asked the same thing. What was wrong? If BRMC was good enough for Doctor Jung to earn his living when he was alive, why wasn't it good enough to continue his work after he was gone?

Sandra Rhodes properly pointed out through statements made by Kim Maben that two very excellent doctors, Dr. Barry Richter and Dr.Manhot Lau remain in Bradford. Doctor Lau recently delivered my grandson, Sam, on September 1st. Both my daughter and my wife were very pleased with Doctor Lau, especially the way in which he included the entire family in the wonderful event.

That still doesn't answer the question of why BRMC was dealt such an obvious slap in the face.

There are a million horror stories that float around about hospitals and events that take place in them. BRMC has its share of those stories, but so does the Olean Medical Center and I am sure, so does the Olean Medical Group. No one is ever satisfied 100% of the time. However, in an emergency, say you have accidentally cut off your finger and you are bleeding to death, would you, if you were in Bradford, take the extra time to go to Olean? Would you do that, or would you go to our local hospital?

That answer is obvious.

In a snow storm, and we do have a few here, would we want our wife or daughter driving, pregnant, to Olean. Would we want that, or would we want them as close to home as possible?

That answer is obvious, too.

Still, Doctor Jung's widow, in her actions, has placed a cloud over a fine facility and two fine doctors. I am truly sorry that she did that. I would not attempt to intrude on her at this time, but the many patients that her husband treated do deserve some sort of explanation. The facility that he earned his living in deserves and explanation, also.

I doubt that there will be a mass exodus to Olean. Most of us know and still appreciate the fine people who make up BRMC. Helen Pantuso, now retired, comes to mind when I was there in 1993. And, there are so many more who continue in the same spirit of Helen.

I doubt that BRMC or the two docs will even notice a difference. Still, as we strive for excellence here at home, it is a note just a bit off key. As that note fades, we all need to sit back and click our heels. There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home.

Your comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com..  

SEPTEMBER 21, 1999

So what did they accomplish?

Good morning. It is 43.5 degrees outside at 6 A.M. Logging resumes in the Allegheny National Forest and I am forced to ask a very simple question. What was accomplished by stopping it?

Preservationists, tree huggers, Green People, naturalists - whatever you call them or whatever they call themselves, managed, using our ridiculous court system, to stop most logging in the forest for nearly a full year. How did they do that? They found a bat!

The bat, the Indiana bat, is an endangered species. I wrote about this when it started. I called the article B S about bats. Yesterday, in the weekly commissioners meeting, I called the whole thing a hoax. As I did, one visitor to the meeting held up a publication that as a headline proudly announced that logging in national forests from Vermont to North Carolina has come to a halt on pretty much the same thesis.

I scanned the article. In five other national forests the story was pretty much the same as what went on here. A single bat was netted and a law suit was filed suing to protect this flying rat that eats bugs.

I found it particularly interesting that in each case it was always a single bat. Nowhere did they net three or four of them. Is that why they are endangered? Can it be that the Indiana bat is so detestable that they can't even stand themselves? Is that why they travel alone? Is it that, or is it that these biologists who are for the most part financed by public money, are serving only one segment of the population? Can it be that these biologists have their own agendas?

We have all been taught, through the movies, that scientists are to be trusted and revered. Afterall, scientists have taken us into space, created the Atom Bomb, and given us cable television. If one of them comes forward and tells us that an endangered bat is found in our forest, then we all automatically believe that person has done a scientific study and their findings are above reproach.

But is that the case? How can it be when the same thing has happened in national forests across such a wide section of the nation? Am I right? Is this Indiana Bat thing nothing but a hoax designed to accomplish the ends of a few who are serving their own purposes? Are we the victims of a fraud?

The Indiana Bat scenario has caused some real damages to real people. The Interstate 99 project, because of delays, is already $8 million more expensive this year than what it would have been last year. Thousands of loggers and their families have suffered untold hardship and economic disaster because of this affair. Our school districts depend on revenues that are earned through the logging. Those revenues evaporated this year because of the moratorium on logging.

If you or I would call up and tell someone that there was a time bomb in a building where a major event was about to take place, and we were caught, we would go to jail. What is different between doing that and planting an endangered species in a national forest? What if you and your accomplices do that in several forests? Would that be called a criminal conspiracy?

Beyond the cost to the school districts and the logging industry, what about the cost to the system? What about the cost to do additional studies? Were additional biologists hired to do these studies? Did they benefit while other people without the fancy educations suffered?

What about the cost of going to court? Just because the Department of Agriculture has its own legal staff to handle these matters, it still costs us, the taxpayers, money. They do not work for nothing, and while they were handling this hoax, think of the real work that went undone.

This was someone's idea. Someone found the initial bat. That bat was supposedly released. Was it? Could it be that bat was used in other forests for the exact same purpose?

These, and other questions, are questions that have not been asked to this point. Perpetrating a hoax on the Federal Government and the people of the United States of America is a Federal Crime. Why isn't the FBI investigating these people to determine if a hoax in fact has not been perpetrated?

One way or another, whether logging has resumed or not, we need to get some answers. These people cannot be allowed to ride off into the sunset and be left to dream up some new reason for destroying an entire industry. What has gone on for over a year is wrong and the people who did it just may be criminals in their own right. We have the right to know one way or another.

Your comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com.  

SEPTEMBER 20, 1999

Happy Birthday Pat Bailey

Good morning. It is a warm one today. It's 51.4 degrees here and 62 in Buffalo. Doesn't fall start today or tomorrow? This is pretty nice weather, everything taken into consideration.

I don't know about you, but dates have always meant something to me. Sometimes I will see a date and it will ring in my head that I should remember that one. September 19th is one of those dates. When I thought about it, I couldn't for the life of me figure out what significance it had for me.

I know that June 23rd, actually June 23, 1966 was the date I enlisted in the Air Force. I enlisted and left right away. I was embarrassed that I had flunked out of college and didn't want to take the expected flack from my parents. The service and the possibility of war seemed a whole lot more acceptable to me than having to face the people that I had let down.

October 6th is another date tied to my military experience. October 6, 1972 was the date I was discharged. I was an instructor at the Weather School and my answer was the same when my students asked me what I was going to do when I got out?

"Run for the damn gate," I would say.  "Six years and almost four months of active duty was enough for me."

But for the most part, I've never dwelled on those dates. I have just acknowledged them as they came around. The date would occur and I would say this is the date I did such and such. Yesterday was different.

September 19th. That one threw me. I thought about it all morning and could not put an event with the date.

At first I thought I had it. Margie Roberts, I said to myself. It was Margie Roberts birthday. Margie was 52, I told myself.

Somehow, that just didn't do it. Margie was the girl next door on Highview Road in Baldwin Township. Margie and I used to play together and her parents, Eleanor and Fred were great people. I still have a cute picture of Margie and me in my backyard one summer in one of those little inflatable swimming pools.

But that was the extent of it. Once we hit High School and Margie immediately grew up and I was still throwing baseballs, that was the end of everything until I more or less, mostly less, grew up. Home on leave in the fall of 1966 I hitchhiked to Athens, Ohio where she was in school and got drunk with her and some of her sorority sisters. Then she got married and went on with her life. Oh well. I hope Margie had a nice 52nd birthday and a wonderful day.

No, it just wasn't what I was looking for. September 19th meant something else. It was an equivalent of April 3rd to me. It had to be, yet I couldn't decide how.

Have you ever had that happen to you?

I wondered if it wasn't a date when I started college or something like that? I thought about it but back then California State College always started at the end of September or the beginning of October because we were on trimesters. September 19th was too early. It just wasn't it.

I asked Sharyn if September 19th had any special meaning to her. She said no. I asked Geoff and Aunt Rose. They couldn't think of any, either. I went to the Rainbow Inn and asked Anita if September 19th meant anything to her. She said no, too. I was racking my brain trying to figure it out.

The day came and went. I never arrived at a satisfactory answer. There was nothing I could put together with the date. Nothing.

Even as I woke at 2:38 this morning and began to move figures around on the County Budget for the year 2000 the date continued to play on my mind. What was September 19th?

My anniversary is March 14th. My birthday is June 14th. Sharyn's is February 11th. Geoff's November 11th. Kimberly's November 20th, and Jason's February 10th. Gateser's is November 2nd and so on and so on, but no September 19th. What could it be?

I napped for an hour between four and five. When I woke to the smell of the coffee Sharyn had just started I still didn't have it. It really wasn't until I sat down to write that it more or less dawned on me. And as it did, I still wasn't completely sure. How could I be?

September 19th was Pat Bailey's birthday. Who is Pat Bailey? She is Ava Gardner's niece from Fountain, North Carolina. She was 52 yesterday just like Margie Roberts. And, you ask, what is that to me? Nothing really, not any more, anyway. But it was her birthday and for whatever it is worth, where ever she might be, I hope she had a Happy Birthday along with Margie Roberts. They are the same age!

And with that I will close the book on September 19th. But really, I still am not all that sure that was what I was looking for. It seems to me that sometimes it is just better to move on rather than to dwell on the past. Kind of like Pat Bailey, so to speak.

Your comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com.

SEPTEMBER 19, 1999

There was no story

SEPTEMBER 18, 1999

It's Saturday again and time for Tom Clark, our Saturday Columnist.

Seven Minutes of Road Rage

Today I thought back to one of my final days as a Virginia resident
when my friend, Randy Hicks, and I were slowly creeping along with the rush hour traffic in downtown Roanoke.

"You know, T.C., you're gonna miss living in the city", he stated sarcastically as we drove two blocks in ten minutes.

Urban living has its share of pitfalls, including major traffic jams. There were times that I noticed pedestrians were making better progress than I was in my vehicle. However, I usually accepted the situations as unavoidable and rarely let it bother me, unlike the horn honking, finger waiving morons who think that their gestures will magically clear away the traffic in front of them.

Randy was right about missing city life, but certainly not because I have fond memories of the evening rush hours. I'm slowly adjusting to the culture change, some say shock, of small town life and am resigned to the fact that, if I want urban amenities, I must drive to Buffalo.

My first full day as a moved-again Bradfordian was smooth sailing, literally. As I toured around town, checking out the changes and non-changes, I thought about how nice it was to not have to contend with traffic. It was a Tuesday afternoon and, as I drove up Main Street, I thought it was odd that I was one of the few vehicles on the road. Noticing the empty storefronts that dominated the thoroughfare, I quickly figured out why I had the street to myself.

I turned onto Congress Street, on my way to see my old friend, Clayt Troutman, at his shop in South Bradford. I remember that it was 3:29pm when I checked my vehicle's clock at the Thompson
Avenue intersection. I would soon find out the clock was two minutes
slow. I briefly glanced out my left window at the Zippo/Case Museum
(yes, the one that is closed on the busiest shopping day of the year).
When I returned my attention to the road, I was startled to see a line
of brake lights extending from Culligan Water to South Avenue. I was
heading into the Zippo factory traffic jam and there was no way out of
it.

It seemed like an eternity, but I finally made it through the gridlock of autos and to my destination. All for naught, though, as Clayt wasn't there. I thought about those poor souls toiling for eight hours at redundant factory jobs, only to be treated to stop and go traffic on their way home at shift's end. Not like Roanoke's rush hour, but, in scale, every bit as frustrating.

The following day, I stopped to see Mary Jo Allen at her dog grooming shop, then located near the Comfort Inn site on Chestnut Street. We were yacking away when I noticed the time was 3:28pm. "Holy, @#$%, M.J., I have to get outta here", I said as I rushed to the door. She asked me why the sudden hurry and I told her I didn't want to get stuck in the Zippo traffic.

"Relax", she said. "It only lasts seven minutes."

That gal was right on the money. By 3:38pm, the congested side street was cleared of vehicles, except for a trickle of lagers. I started thinking about the rush hours in Roanoke, which start around 3:00pm and filter out by 6:00pm, and all of the irate drivers who make the trek unpleasant and dangerous for everyone else.

As I watched the seven minute deluge of autos that day from her window, the most notable act of aggression I saw was a middle aged man picking his nose, just passing the time until the traffic cleared. Many times, in Roanoke, I would stay put until the rush hours were over, almost like my hibernia at Mary Jo's shop, except that was could mean hours of idleness, not seven minutes.

One of my early childhood memories is when I would go with Mom to pick up my father from work at Dresser. At that time, I'm sure, Dresser had a bigger workforce than Zippo does today. She would position the family car in the parking lot for a quick getaway, then slide into the passenger seat. I would watch out the back window, anticipating the 3:30pm whistle.

Then, like the raging waters from the rains a few weeks ago, the whistle would blow and a stampeding herd of freed workers would inundate the parking lot. Pot-bellied men would run like Thurman Thomas to their cars and maneuver through the lot with such speed and precision that one of those inbred NASCAR drivers would be in awe of them. My dad wouldn't even have his butt on the seat and would already be slamming the car into gear. I used to think that the first guy out of the lot everyday won a prize.

Nowadays, I am careful to avoid Chestnut and Congress Streets and South Bradford between 3:28pm ( I haven't adjusted my clock) and 3:38pm on work days. The Zippo employees may have those streets to themselves and don't need another vehicle, namely mine, adding to the congestion.

Someday, though, I'm going to park along Congress Street at that time of day, just to see if the shift-ending parking lot scene at Zippo
parallels the daily onslaught of workers fleeing the plant at quitting
time during my father's days at Dresser. A late 50's / early 60"s to
90's comparison, if you will.

Sure, we live in different times and the creature comforts in vehicles now, cell phones, CD players and climate control, make the ride home more bearable. Things Dad and his mill buddies were never privileged to during the Eisenhower administration But, judging by the seven minute traffic snarl that occurs every day when Zippo lets out, I'm sure their parking lot at quitting time will look like it did at Dresser in my toddler days. The factory doors fly open and the race is on! Some things never change.

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