Maybe it was right that for Father’s Day 2009 I got a wheelbarrow.

The barrow is the minor player in this story. The Father’s Day thing is what matters — for all fathers, past and present.

My son Bryan, who’s now living in Tennessee and doing his thing as a computer engineer, sent me a gift card to Home Depot and on it he scrawled, “Pretend this is a wheelbarrow.”

Duty-bound, I went to the store on Monday and found just the one I wanted – a bright, grass-green, hard-plastic job, with a pour spout on the end, perfect for hauling landscape rocks. “My wife can make good use of this while I’m in the lounger,” I thought.

My plan was to put the wheelbarrow in the car and haul it home, but try as we might, the Home Depot clerk and I could not make it work. There’s no way, it turns out, that a 2009 wheelbarrow fits in a 2006 Nissan.

The clerk agreed to babysit the hauler while I drove off looking for options.

It was then that I thought about borrowing my dad’s old pickup. I hadn’t thought about the truck in a long time.

My dad has long been gone, but his 1989 Dodge Dakota lives on. He bought the thing at Cassens and Sons dealership in Edwardsville, drove it about twice a week and had about 20,000 miles on it when he died in 1996. My mom sold it to me for a dollar. (She gloried in making a “profit.”)

I drove the truck for years until I thought I had exhausted it. Then I parked it and it sat, unused, for a couple of years until my brother-in-law, Dan Gray, decided to start his own painting business. I felt sorry for him and gave him the darn thing.

Today, Dan calls it “the most expensive free gift” he ever got. The truck still runs, but it’s needed a little financial prodding from time to time. The paint is peeling, the engine sounds like the F-15s revving at Boeing, and the air conditioning is long gone, but the old pickup gets people where they are going.

And Monday, it got my wheelbarrow home. Almost 13 years to the day that my dad died, and 20 years since he bought it, the Dodge came through again. I proudly drove it through town, knowing people were watching an antique whiz past. (The truck, not me.)

Father’s Day has been over a few weeks now but a whole series of events came together this week to make me feel a little nostalgic. Someday, the old truck will be gone, but I’ll still have the wheelbarrow — and all the memories that came before.

I’m not prone to hyperbole, so when I tell you the concert I saw Saturday night was among the best of my lifetime, believe it. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir is that good.

The 360-voice choir, after years of planning, appeared in St. Louis at the Scottrade Center. One-hundred-eighty women stood alongside 180 men, on a series of risers built at one end of the arena.  Every person was clearly in view to the audience and the large Temple Square Orchestra was placed in front.

I was invited to a reception before the event, where a couple of hundred people gathered in anticipation. Among them were some of St. Louis’ best-known dignitaries — past and present mayors, the lieutenant governor, a congressman, business leaders and TV anchors.

It was all quite humbling for a Southern Illinois boy and his wife who don’t get to hob-nob that much. My thanks to Newel and Marita Jensen, who played personal “hosts” during the evening. Two nicer people I have yet to meet.  Newel, who is general manager of USA Today’s Midwestern operations, is a Mormon and was among those who coordinated the local appearance. His newspaper background provided the centerpiece for some excellent conversation during the evening.

I said concert of a lifetime, and I suppose that could be in the figurative and literal sense both. It had been 51 years since the choir appeared in St. Louis. Members go on tour every two years and generally appear in much larger cities. On this particular tour, they began in Cincinnati, came to St. Louis and were heading to Des Moines and Omaha from there, eventually making their way west to their base in Salt Lake City, Utah.

I looked out over the audience and could tell by the look on some men’s faces that they wondered why they came — until they actually heard the choir perform. The voices were at once soothing and entertaining, rising and falling in crescendo in such synchronicity that it was simply hard to believe. Occasionally, the members would clap their hands and gyrate their bodies in gospel-choir fashion, with the movements so perfectly timed that the look was as regaling as the song itself.

The history of the choir is an interesting one, far too long to repeat here. Basically it was formed in 1847 by the Church of  Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Today, it is completely self-funded and produces music to support the organization.  It participates in a weekly radio broadcast, “Music and the Spoken Word,” that has gone on some 80 years.

Surprisingly, the choir is all-volunteer, as are most of the people connected with the performances. Members sing from the heart, not for personal profit, out of respect for their faith. You must be a church member of good standing, but once you’re in the choir you can remain there for up to 20 years or until the age of 60. About 15 to 20 people leave the choir each year and some 300 others audition for the prized roles. It is all very family oriented. At one point the narrator asked for the husband-wife members of the choir and orchestra to stand and dozens of people did so. “If you counted quickly that should have been an even number,” he jokingly told the audience.

The songs presented on Saturday were a rich blend of spirituals, American classics, foreign songs and symphonic melodies. I remember hearing “God Bless America,” “Swing Low Sweet Chariot,” “Morning has Broken,” and many others.

But the one that brought the house down was, oddly enough, a Nigerian chant, the name of which I could not hope to remember. Choir members sang and clapped their hands and in one stunning, final moment, just as the music stopped dead, threw their hands up in unison and yelled, “Hey!”

I will never forget that moment.

That’s what Ed McMahon said when he arrived at the Pearly Gates on Tuesday.

Every election, Telegraph reporters have to remember a new list of names, and every couple of years there is a ringer in the bunch that takes at least a four-year term to learn how to spell.

Take Tom Hoechst, for instance. Or is it Hoescht? Or Heochst?

I’ll bet the new Alton mayor is seeing it spelled all kinds of ways because in the last couple of years I’ve seen it spelled all kinds of ways myself, including in a couple of things that I typed.  I apologize for that, mayor.

For the record the spelling is H-O-E-C-H-S-T, and if you have trouble remembering it, keep in mind that the last four letters are in alphabetical order. (And if you can’t remember how to spell the first three, then you better at least know how to spell M-A-Y-O-R.)

With a last name like my own, I can poke fun at this kind of thing. I’ve lived with it all my life, the fact that no one can spell my name. At one point  in my career I kept a box full of letters that had my moniker so garbled that even my own mother wouldn’t recognize it. The winner of that competition was the reader who (either in exasperation or tongue in cheek) addressed the mail to “Dennis What’s-His-Name.” The mailman brought it right to me.

And so I say, take heart, Mayor Hoechst in Alton, Mayor Ufert in Wood River, Mayor Spann in Hartford, Mayor Seniker in Brighton and Mayor Niebur in Edwardsville. Spelling your name right isn’t nearly so important as being able to find it on a ballot. And, in that regard, you can all breathe a four-year sigh of relief.

I struck a deer on the way to work Wednesday.

Where he worked I’ll never know.

With apologies to Groucho Marx (“I once shot an elephant in my pajamas, how he got there I’ll never know …”), I must confess that I really did strike a deer Wednesday morning, just before dawn. Or, I should say, he struck me, springing out from the river side of the Berm Highway, crossing multiple lanes of traffic and slamming me right in the driver’s side door.

The car got the worst of it, with the side mirror ripped off and the door handle sheared and dangling. The deer was last seen running into the woods, just east of the EnviroTech Park in Wood River.

To be honest, I’m not sure the deer was a “he.” I didn’t get a close enough look at his rear, and I was too worried about my own at the time. All I know, he was big enough that we were suddenly face to face as I was driving along, minding my own business. And I have the snout prints on my window to prove it.

I pulled the car into the entrance to the business park and got out to survey the damage, holding open the driver’s door while I looked at this giant Bambi dent. Frustrated, I let go of the door and it slowly clicked shut.

I realized a split second later my day had just gotten worst. The doors were all locked. The keys were in the ignition. And the engine was still running.

I looked around to see if anybody else was watching me make a fool of myself. About 50 yards away, located further back in the business park, was a group of deer friends, all intently studying my situation. I knew what they were thinking. After all, I’d nearly killed one of their own.

“Don’t mess with Mother Nature,” one of them said.

“Yeah, and don’t mess with Zohan,” another said.

“Or Bambi,” said the third.

I quickly called 911.

Wood River Police patrolman Jeremiah Buerke showed up about five minutes later, before the herd descended on me. He was packing heat, and I immediately felt safer.

“Don’t mess with me or I’ll have your hide,” I glared back at the deer group.

The officer used some kind of a gadget to open my door, and I was quickly, again, heading to work, with the mirror wires hanging down, the car handle banging away on the side and the body-sized imprint of a Deerus Significus stamped in the door.

I really did look like a scene from Ford Fusion hell.

As for my deer pal, I’m not sure where he is today. Maybe heading to work. But there’s going to be real trouble if I ever find him in my pajamas.

Let me say, first off, that I don’t think Illinois needs a motorcycle helmet law. If a guy and gal want to jump aboard a bike and sail up the River Road, wind blowing through their hair, that’s fine by me.

But I think there is a pretty convincing argument for headgear, and most riders already know it, though some choose to ignore it. If your head hits the ground at 50 mph, you’re a lot more likely to live through it with adequate protection covering it.

I think the best argument is the stories themselves. I long ago lost track of the number of motorcycle deaths I’ve reported. At two or three a year, it’s very close to 50 by now. And most of them weren’t caused by the guy on the motorcycle, but by other drivers, running into or pulling out in front of the victim. A motorcycle is often no more than a speck on the horizon, hard to see, and it can get on you in a hurry. The scenario has caused many a near miss - and occasionally a hit - for people in cars and trucks.

A couple of Illinois State Police media pals, Ralph Timmins and Doug Francis, have sent me all kinds of motorcycle warning stuff the last couple of weeks. I tend to believe them more than my own memory when it comes to deaths on the highway. Whereas I only write about the cases, they’ve been present to help pick up the bodies.

Doug said a study in California showed head injuries as the cause of death in 42 percent of  motorcycle fatalities. When the state enacted a motorcycle rider helmet law in 1992 motorcycle fatalities fell 36 percent.

In 1997 Arkansas and Texas repealed their helmet laws, and deaths jumped - 31 percent in Texas and 21 percent in Arkansas. Maryland experienced a 30 percent decline in motorcycle fatalities after it enacted a helmet law.

Those are convincing arguments, but I simply don’t like laws that legislate people’s noncriminal, personal conduct. Illinois legislators apparently agree: A number of bills have been proposed and defeated through the years, and I expect more such attempts in the future.

Personally, I think anyone who climbs aboard a motorcyle without a helmet is asking for trouble. I can put myself in that same category. Back in college I rode a motorcycle a couple of times, but quickly questioned my ability and never rode again. My youngest son took up the practice for a couple of years but he, too, gave it up. (That was a happy day for his mother, I can tell ya.)

Ralph Timmins says a banner warning drivers to watch out for motorcyclists is moving around the region this year. It was out on the River Road for a couple of weeks, serving as a reminder.

If you are responsible enough, smart enough, to wear a helmet, make sure you’ve got the right kind.

Doug Francis sent me this note:

“When choosing a helmet make sure it has the Department of Transportation sticker that shows it meets federal standards for helmet safety.  All helmets for on-road use must meet DOT standards.  National Highway Transportation Safety Administration tested several popular ‘novelty’ helmets that do not meet DOT standards.  All of these novelty helmets transmitted over twice the energy from a blow as helmets that meet DOT standards. Also during testing, the striker penetrated the shell of these helmets in every case and in all but one case the helmet straps stretched or broke.  When buying a helmet ask yourself how much is your head worth.”

Statistics and personal stories included, I think there is a pretty hard-headed case for helmet use.

Around the newsroom, people are fond of telling me that every time I go on vacation something falls apart. Never was it more true than on Thursday when things were quite literally tumbling along Broadway.

And I slept through it all.

I was off for a funeral Thursday and pretty much out of touch with news, but the funeral was long over and I was in bed when the big news of the day finally broke — the massive windstorm that swept through Downtown Alton, toppling the building next door to the newspaper.

Newsmen look for conveniences when covering a story, and never does it get more convenient than this one — go out the front door and turn right. That is, except for the fact that only one person was left on the news side at 10:30 p.m. Assistant City Editor Steve Whitworth, God love him, was still aboard, working on longer-term projects. The day’s paper had, for all intents, been put to bed, with the press set to roll as soon as sports was wrapped up.

Steve said he was prepared to write a short story about the collapse so that we could still get it in the paper and make deadline, when the power went out. At that point he found a working phone and called Executive Editor Dan Brannan who, like yours truly, was fast asleep.  Catastrophe was pending on too many fronts for one lone night editor to handle, and Dan raced back to the paper.

One by one, other news professionals returned to the newsroom to cover the big story, this time with the advantage of a longer deadline. We couldn’t roll a press without power, but we could still cover the story. By the time the lights were back on we were prepared to remake the front section and the end result was the best scoop in a long time.

But of course, nobody told me. I rested peacefully, dreaming of white sandy beaches and girls in bikinis.

I rise early and Friday morning I followed tradition, grabbing up the newspaper from the front lawn and jumping in the car, turning on KMOX as soon as I could get a news report. The first broadcast, of course, was all about the storm that hit Alton, which caused my heart to skip a beat. Hands shaking and sweat forming on my brow, I grabbed for my cellphone and called photo chief John Badman at home, pleading that he already had heard the police calls and been to the scene.

“Dennis,” he said, groggily. “We’ve been on this all night. We’ve got it all in the paper.”

The paper he referred to, of course, was the edition sitting next to me on the seat, the one that I had yet to open.

The final 10 minutes of commute time I sat pretty much stunned, unable to comprehend how so many people came together on a big story, long after deadline and while the city editor slept. After all, I’m usually the guy in the command center, barking orders. Generals can’t sleep through battle.

As everyone told me Friday, there wasn’t much need to rouse me since they needed somebody fresh to tackle the story at sunrise. I’m not sure that made me feel better, but I did get a good night’s sleep.

Several readers took The Telegraph to task recently over our Web site Poll of the Week.

The question we’d asked was multiple choice.

“What do you think Barack Obama has done best as president?”

The choices were, essentially, “improved the economy,” “improved foreign relations,” or
“improved the image of the presidency.”

Several readers wanted to know why we didn’t have a fourth choice, “None of the above.”

“Your poll should have a fourth category indicating that he has done nothing the ‘best’ in his first 100 days,” one reader wrote me. “It might surprise you, but not all of us agree with the direction he and his administration is taking us.” – John G.

I understood the sentiment, but I disagreed with the logic, and I wrote John a response.

“John: The question was phrased in such a way so that people were forced to respond to it. Our belief is people had to have an opinion, even if they think he’s failing as president in general. It’s like giving you the names of three ballplayers on a bad club. Everybody will have an opinion of which player is best among the three, even if they are all poor players.

“Remember,” my response letter said, “‘none of the above’ is not an option on a ballot.”

I advised him to look at this week’s reader poll, which I thought would be more to his liking. It asks readers to grade President Obama on the job he has done so far. John wrote back and promised to take a peek. (You’ll find that poll on the lower right of www.thetelegraph.com

Since I’m the guy who coordinates this poll each week, I put a lot of thought into the questions, in order to elicit the most response. Most of them have been pretty provocative, judging from the number of people who participate (several hundred each week).

Sometimes the questions are hard to come by, especially on a slow news week. I’m thinking in the near future of having readers vote on their favorite among the Three Stooges. That should get some response.

If you’ve got a question you think readers would like to see on the Web site, feel free to send me a note.

Some great Internet mind came up with all this, but only one great mind was smart enough to send it to me. That would be my pal Jim Shaul, from Edwardsville.

I saw this somewhere in the past and got a real chuckle out of it.  It’s worth sharing.  If somebody can tell me where it originated I’d gladly give credit where it’s due.

It’s called, “A Summary of Life.”

GREAT TRUTHS THAT LITTLE CHILDREN HAVE LEARNED:

1)  No matter how hard you try, you can’t baptize cats.

2)  When your Mom is mad at your Dad, don’t let her brush your hair.

3)  If your sister hits you, don’t hit her back. They always catch the second person.

4)  Never ask your 3-year old brother to hold a tomato.

5)  You can’t trust dogs to watch your food.

6)  Don’t sneeze when someone is cutting your hair.

7)  Never hold a Dust-Buster and a cat at the same time.

8)  You can’t hide a piece of broccoli in a glass of milk.

9)  Don’t wear polka-dot underwear under white shorts.

10)  The best place to be when you’re sad is Grandpa’s lap.

GREAT TRUTHS THAT ADULTS HAVE LEARNED:

1)  Raising teenagers is like nailing jelly to a tree.

2)  Wrinkles don’t hurt.

3)  Families are like fudge ….. mostly sweet, with a few nuts

4)  Today’s mighty oak is just yesterday’s nut that held its ground.

5)  Laughing is good exercise. It’s like jogging on the inside.

6)  Middle age is when you choose your cereal for the fiber, not the toy.

GREAT TRUTHS ABOUT GROWING OLD

1)  Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional..

2)  Forget the health food. I need all the preservatives I can get.

3)  When you fall down, you wonder what else you can do while you’re down there.

4)  You’re getting old when you get the same sensation from a rocking chair that you once got from a roller coaster.

5)  It’s frustrating when you know all the answers but nobody bothers to ask you the questions.

6)  Time may be a great healer, but it’s a lousy beautician

7)  Wisdom comes with age, but sometimes age comes alone.

THE FOUR STAGES OF LIFE:

1)  You believe in Santa Claus.

2)  You don’t believe in Santa Claus.

3)  You are Santa Claus.

4)  You look like Santa Claus.

SUCCESS:

At age 4 success is  . . .   not wetting your pants.

At age 12 success is . . .  having friends.

At age 17 success is . ..  having a driver’s license.

At age 35 success is . . . having money.

At age 50 success is …   having money.

At age 70 success is … having a driver’s license.

At age 75 success is . . .  having friends.

At age 80 success is . . . not wetting your pants.

“Rod, Rod, Rod of the Jungle,
… Watch out for that tree.”

My life would have been so much easier had our former governor simply gotten his wish to go to Costa Rica. I’d have had punch lines for months.

Now, I’ll have to rely on real reality, not TV reality for my humor, but the governor’s upcoming trial should suffice. Every line he’s uttered in the last three months has been pause for chuckles among skeptics. Count me in that group.

A federal judge this week nixed Blagojevich’s request to leave the U.S. to participate in an NBC “Survivor”-type celebrity reality show. While I can think of few people I’d more care to ship south, I simply have to agree with the judge: If Rod really wants to survive, he better first think about staying out of prison.

It really is a jungle out there, in our court system, and Rod of the Jungle is going to test it severely. He’s pleaded not guilty to racketeering, fraud and other charges that allege he schemed to sell or trade President Barack Obama’s former U.S. Senate seat and tried to pressure companies for campaign money. The Lion of the State Capitol (who rarely stepped foot outside of Chicago) is going to be lucky to escape with his mane intact.

I now return you to your regular programming.

“Rod, Rod, Rod of the Jungle,

Friend to you and me!”