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Six. Five. Four.Eight. Nine. Eight. Five.That’s Dick Cosgrove’s home

phone number. I have it onspeed dial. Not in my Black-berry though. In my mind. Or,better put, in my heart.I cannot count how many

times I’ve called Dick Cosgroveduring the 45 years I’ve knownhim. I was 17 when I met Dickon my first day at the SundayDispatch as the new part-timesports writer. Doing the math, Inow know he was 42 then. Tome he seemed old. And wise.Looking back, I was wrong onmy first assumption and under-estimated him on my second.Calling Dick Cosgrove for a

solution to a problem becamesuch a part of my routine thatlate Friday night when I did notknow the name of one person ina photo in which Dick, himself,appeared, my first inclinationwas to pick up the phone andcall him.But I couldn’t.Not Friday. Not ever again.The reason I was working on

the photo in the first place isthat Dick Cosgrove died lastSaturday. The photo is part oftoday’s tribute.The tribute to him is exten-

sive, perhaps too much. Somemay say that’s because DickCosgrove used to work here.They’d be wrong.It’s because I now work here.

And, at least for the present, Iget to call the shots.I’d love to list all the things

Dick Cosgrove taught me aboutthis business but it’s impossible.I look at me as a journalist andcan’t filter out what part is meand what part is Dick Cos-grove, or my other early men-tors, William Watson Sr., hisson, Pidge, and a handful ofothers. In a way, I’m more themthan I am me. I’m proud ofthat.I do know that much of what

Dick taught me involved littlethings.“In this business,” he’d say,

“little things are big things.”One of those little things I

applied Saturday to his very

obituary. When Dick was teach-ing me to write obits he told meto be careful about writing thatthe deceased was “the” son ofhis parents. If there are anybrothers listed as preceded indeath or survivors, then thedeceased was not “the” son, hewas “a” son.As it appeared in every other

paper last week, Dick Cos-grove’s obituary listed him as“the” son of the late Georgeand Elizabeth Cosgrove. ButDick had three brothers whopreceded him in death and onewho survives. In our paper,Dick is listed as “a” son. I fixedit myself. Hope he noticed. I’msure he did.Dick was a stickler when it

came to class reunion photos,too. If we write that a class iscelebrating its 30th reunion, hetaught me, we’re implying theyhave had a reunion every yearfor 30 years. What they arereally doing, he stressed, isreuniting on the 30th anni-versary of their graduation. Sothat’s how we write it.

Dick Cosgrove and I also hada lot of fun together. He had adry but fabulous sense of hu-mor. When at 40 my hairlinebegan to recede, Dick pointedto my forehead one day andsaid, “I know how you feel,Eddie. You begin to realize youare washing more and moreface every day.”As I assumed additional

responsibilities at the paper onejob I never lost was taking thelunch order. When I’d come toDick, he’d always say “the usu-al.” The usual was nothing.Dick was not a fan of food.

The last time I had lunch withhim – the day he taught me howto tie a bow tie – he ordered acheese sandwich, plain. Andleft half of it on the plate.Dick was not a joke-teller,

per se, but he told one thatspawned a Dispatch mantra. Aguy got a flat tire in the middleof the night on a deserted coun-try road. When he opened thetrunk there was no jack. Off inthe distance was a farm house,all in darkness. He started

walking toward it. As he did, hesaid to himself, “That poorfarmer is probably soundasleep. But what can I do, he’smy only hope.” As he got clos-er, he said, “I’ll bet he’s goingto be mad that I woke him up.But, hey, it’s not my fault I haveno jack.” As he got closer still,he said, “Mad? He’ll probablybe furious. And just because Ineed a jack? What a jerk.”When he finally arrives at the

house and knocks on the door,a sleepy-eyed farmer opens itand asks, “What can I do forya, buddy?”To which the guy blurts out,

“Stick the jack up your ass!”and storms off.From then on, if any of us

were angry with someone, Dickwould calm us in a second justby saying, “Careful now. Youdon’t want to be like the guywith the jack.”I think what I liked best

about Dick Cosgrove, though,is that in his presence I wasalways 17 years old. I’ll neverget to enjoy that feeling again.

Ed Ackerman, optimisteackerman@psdispatch.com

He taught me all the little things

Cefalo speaks ....................................................3Cosgrove in photos ..........................................4Cosgrove funeral ..............................................5Local Chatter ....................................................8Matters of faith................................................10

Editorial.............................................................14John Watson comment..................................14Peeking into the past .....................................16Nutrition ...........................................................18Patriot football banquet ........................28, 29

Town News ......................................................34Sports ..............................................................40Obituaries .........................................................51Weddings.................................................Social 1Birthdays................................................Social 3IN

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Life was a pain for MichaelSherrill. Literally. Mostly aheadache, sometimes a back-ache, but always a pain.Michael was born in pain and

when, at a few weeks old, doc-tors diagnosed him with hydro-cephalus, everyone knew why.The literal translation of

hydrocephalus is “water in thehead.” It’s caused by a build upof cerebrospinal fluid. Thatbuild up can do a lot of nastythings to a body, but mostly itjust plain hurts.I met Michael when he was

18 years old and a brand newstudent at Luzerne CountyCommunity College. I don’tremember exactly when I firstlearned about his headaches butI know it was not on the firstday of class. He simply wasn’t acomplainer.The first time we sat down

and talked about his pain wasthe first time he had to tell mehe’d be missing a week or so ofschool due to surgery. That’swhen I found out that surgerywas away of life for him – he

had had dozens of operations,mostly on his head, always totry to relieve the pressure – andthat, I suppose, is when I foundout he had to put up with aheadache every single day ofhis life. And every minute ofevery day.Michael wanted to be a jour-

nalist and he would have been adarned good one. He had all thequalities: a natural curiosity, agenuine concern for people, alove of the English language,and a willingness to learn. Inever saw a student more com-fortable in an interview sit-uation. Michael would thinknothing of sitting down with thecollege president and firing onetough question after another.But the one quality that made

me think “this kid’s a journal-ist” was his sense of humor.You must have one of those –and in good measure – to workin this business.When Michael returned to

school following his 57th oper-ation, he told us all, “You canstart calling me ‘Heinz’ now,

I’m at 57.”And in the summer of 2006,

before consenting to his 91stsurgery – the one that would behis last – he was still joking.After the 90th operation,

Michael had made a pronoun-cement: no more surgeries.He’d had enough.So he had to be talked into

the next one. His doctor toldhim the choice was his but if hedid not have it, he could windup a vegetable.“I can’t be a vegetable,” Mi-

chael said. “I can’t.”“I understand,” the doctor

said. “I couldn’t either.”“No, you don’t understand,”

Michael said. “You’ve neverseen my mother’s garden. If Iwas a vegetable, she’d forget towater me.”Michael’s mom told that

story on the day he died. Sheenjoyed telling it because shewanted everyone to know thather son kept his sense of humorright to the end. In his finalhours, he asked his mom tohave a private viewing. “I don’t

want a bunch of strangersstanding by my coffin tellingyou how good I look,” he toldher.That spoke to another quality

we journalists seem to have:cynicism.Mrs. Sherrill honored her

son’s request.Michael Sherrill was more

than just an LCCC student. Hewas part of the family. He hadtaken classes for nine years. Hishealth situation kept him fromever taking a full load, andoften he’d need to ask for agrade of ‘incomplete’ becauseof an emergency surgery.But he never stopped going

to school, never lost his love oflearning, never gave up on hisdream to earn a college degree.When Tom Leary, now

LCCC president but then vicepresident of student devel-opment, learned that Michaelmight be near death, he wentover his transcripts and discov-ered that Michael – although hedid not realize it – was eligibleto graduate. He had indeed

earned his degree.It was mid-summer. Leary

had an official LCCC diplomashipped overnight and on arainy Friday afternoon, he,along with Michael’s counselorDeb Boyson, department chairTom McHugh, and professorsRon Reino, Andy Petonak andI, arranged to gather at Mi-chael’s home in Larksville for aprivate graduation ceremony.We arrived two hours after

Michael had died. He was 27.“Don’t say you’re sorry,” his

mom interrupted each of us aswe tried to express our condo-lences. “This is a happy day forMichael. He is finally free, freefrom pain. He was alert ‘til theend and he was so happy toknow that he was finally a col-lege graduate. You know whatthat meant to him. LCC was hislife. He loved going to school.”Mrs. Sherrill said Michael’s

diploma would be placed in thecoffin with him. Even thoughhe never got to see it or hold it,she said it was his most prizedpossession.

Ed Ackerman, optimisteackerman@psdispatch.com

For those who hate school

Arline Phillips Award........................................3Flood photo exhibit..........................................4Felittese Festival ...............................................6Local Chatter ....................................................8Peeking into the Past .....................................10

Editorial /Cartoon ...........................................14Maria Heck........................................................15Nutrition............................................................15Avoca reunion.............................................16, 17Maria remembers ............................................31

Town News ......................................................39Sports ..............................................................46Obituaries........................................................59School menus.................................................B2Religion ........................................................B4-7IN

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I lived in Clarks Summitfrom 1989 to 1995 and my fa-vorite way to get there fromPittston was via Coxton Roadand the scenic Newton-RansomBoulevard. Any current driveon that two-lane stretch makesme think of rolling along withmy nine or ten year old daugh-ter sitting next to me and hersix or seven year old brother ona booster seat in the back.

I was lost in that reverie oneday last summer when I drovepast the little miniature golfcourse at Red Barn Village. Itwas my son’s favorite place inthe world. On the way back, Istopped, took a photo with mysmart phone and emailed it toMichael with this message:

Janis Joplin sang in the songMe and Bobby McGee, “I’dtrade all my tomorrows for onesingle yesterday.” That’s a pre-posterous notion, Mike. But ona beautiful summer’s day,standing here at Red BarnVillage, it gets me to thinking.

That little tyke with the golfclub turns 26 on Thursday. He

lives and works in Chicagonow, and I can’t remember thelast time we played miniaturegolf. On the other hand, if yougive me a minute, I probablycan. There’s very little about hisyouth I do not remember andthis time of year conjures upone of the best recollections.

The street department policyin Clarks Summit was to rakeyour leaves to the curb in frontof your property and the munic-ipality would come along andvacuum them. It not only madea beautiful sight around townbut was also a pretty sweetarrangement for homeowners.

Except me.At our house, the trees, and

therefore the leaves, were in theback yard.

Acting on the advice of aneighbor, I addressed the prob-lem with the help of a bedsheet.

I’d spread the sheet on thegrass and rake as many leavesas I thought it would hold intothe center. Then I’d gather eachof the four corners in my hands,

give them a twist or two, andsling the whole thing over myback like Santa’s sack. Outfront at the curb, I’d release mygrip and, voila, leaves ready forthe vacuum.

The kids, of course, always“helped.”

The first time we did this, itwasn’t long before Michaelfigured out the role he wantedto play in the operation. Out ofthe corner of my eye, I watchedhim creep into the center of thesheet.

I, the unknowing dad, playedmy part perfectly.

I just kept raking leaves,ostensibly unaware of his pres-ence, until he was covered com-pletely.

All the while I kept askingGreta, “Now, where did thatbrother of yours get to? He wasjust here a minute ago.”

This prompted giggles fromunder the pile of leaves, but Iknew my character in this dra-ma was not only supposed to beblind but also deaf.

Greta played along, too.

“Maybe he ran into the housefor something,” she said, afinger to her lips while pointingto the pile of leaves, just in caseI was that stupid.

By then, I was ready to hoistthe sack.

“My goodness,” I groaned,pretending to strain under theload, “this is the heaviest bag ofleaves yet. I must have rakedtoo many.”

The struggle to the front waspunctuated by more groans andgrunts and comments like:

“Am I getting weaker?”“Did someone put a cinder

block in this sack?”Giggles from within – again,

apparently inaudible to me –filled the crisp air.

But my best performance wasreserved for the emptying ofthe sack and the shocking dis-covery of the surprise inside. Iplayed it to the hilt.

The crazy part is that weimmediately went to the backyard and did the whole thing allover again, right down to the“Where’s that brother?” and the

feigned surprise at the unveil-ing.

And then again and againuntil all the leaves were depos-ited out front.

The other day my son wastelling me about the game heplays in his apartment with hisdog and cat. “Truman,” he’llsay, “find Gizmo.” And the doggoes scurrying off until helocates the cat.

At times like these I tell Mi-chael the thing about him thatpleases me most is that heknows how to love. That’s moreimportant to me that any careersuccesses.

The reason he knows how tolove might be because he’s beenloved. Gratifying as that notionmay be, I deserve no credit.Loving him – and his sister – isthe easiest thing I’ve ever done.

And it keeps getting easier.Which means I suppose Iwouldn’t trade any tomorrows,after all. They hold too muchpromise.

Besides, all the yesterdays areright there in them.

Ed Ackerman, optimisteackerman@psdispatch.com

Autumn leaves memories

City council ........................................................3Main St. picketing.............................................5PA school board ...............................................6Local Chatter ....................................................8Friendly Sons ..............................................12, 13

Editorial /Cartoon ...........................................14Jack Smiles ......................................................15Nutrition............................................................15Peeking into the Past....................................20Clowns at library .....................................28, 29

Town News ......................................................34Sports ..............................................................40Obituaries........................................................49Birthdays .........................................................B3Faith .............................................................B6, 7IN

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