Last week I had the chance to attend the Philadelphia Auto Show, one of those “put it on the calendar” events that help get me through the winter and usher in the spring.

After having attended almost every year since the mid-80s, this may have been the last one.

No, the auto show isn’t going anywhere — at least not yet — but Dad is. A big part of going to the show is to spend the time with him. It was always a bit of a “homecoming” for me, a jam-packed weekend of experiencing as much as I could of the world where I grew up, but Dad was always the draw.

When I was a kid, back when the show was at the old Civic Center, heading into the city with him was almost as exciting as seeing the cars on the floor. He grew up in Philadelphia. He knew where to park, where to eat and how to avoid the sports traffic. It was one of those blueprint opportunities for a young kid to look up to Dad, and the old man did not disappoint.

That first year, I’m fairly certain my Mom went along as well, as the family was in the market for a new car. In later years, many shared with school friends with whom I’d jump into any and every unlocked car in the hall, it morphed into the father and son event we do know. 

One of the biggest changes was the location, as the city built a magnificent convention center in the downtown across from the landmark Reading Terminal Market.

In the early days we’d grab a bagel for breakfast in that giant public market that was once a train shed for the Reading Railroad, as my senses were bombarded with the sights and smells of the region — meat and produce from Lancaster County, seafood from the Jersey shore, Italian bakeries and Philadelphia delicacies.

In those days, after the show, we’d head to Chinatown for dim sum, before making our way back home to “the sticks.”

Fast forward 20 years, the bagel has been replaced by sitting down at a diner in the market, and dim sum with an Italian dinner, but it’s still something I look forward to all year long.

Then there’s the show itself. Back in my youth, it was billed as an “international” auto show, ad due to the large nature of the city and region, drew manufacturers you might not see at more “regional” shows. As a kid, I was amazed to sit in something exotic like a Jaguar.

These days, auto shows are becoming more remarkable for who doesn’t come. In recent years, that has included Cadillac, Mercedes, BMW and MINI, just to name a few. I’m sure they have plenty of statistics to justify those decisions, but as someone who loves cars but hates facing the sales pressure at a car dealership and looks at an auto show as a way to avoid that, they lost me.

Also of note is what they don’t bring, as manufacturers phase out more coupes and sedans for SUVs. Don’t get me wrong — SUVs have their uses and we have one in our driveway — but one is enough. I long for the days of boulevard cruisers or well-appointed sports sedans I can throw into a corner and drive. I have a hard time believing an SUV is ever going to provide me with that kind of driving experience. And don’t get me started on finding a standard-cab pickup!

All of which makes me a little cranky, but then, I’m a lot closer to 50 than that wide-eyed kid of 15, so I guess it comes with the territory. That kid had a Corvette taste and a Chevette budget, and not much has changed. Dad and I both spent a healthy amount of time around that brand new mid-engine Stingray.

Seems like the perfect ride for this trip down memory lane.

Spring is here! Well, nearly.

I’m not saying that simply because Pennsylvania’s most famous prognosticator, Punxsutawney Phil, predicted an early spring — and before you start, I know Ohio has their own rodent, but I’m a Pennsylvania man. 

I have a far more proven method for noting the change of seasons. Pitchers and catchers are reporting for spring training, and the rest of the team isn’t far behind.

As a Phillies fan, that means Clearwater, Florida. Before long, I’ll have baseball on the radio and television again, and even though they are meaningless spring training games, they will be water for my parched winter soul.

My mother had no time for sports, but even her heart leapt a little when I’d announce the equipment truck had left Philly for the trip down I-95. She could finally see an end to her long winter of discontent, and believe me, winter left her severely discontented.

More recently, the opening of spring training coincides with a trip back to the place where I grew up so Dad and I can go to the Philadelphia Auto Show. This year was no different, though it will likely be the last time, as Dad is planning to sell the old homestead and head south for the warmth.

In addition to looking at the 2020 auto lineup, the trip into the city provides a few other flavors of the city, including a ride in on the regional rail system, and breakfast at the famous Reading Terminal Market. 

Walking around that city and riding the train in always brings back a flood of memories, both of visits to my grandparents as a kid and of one of my early jobs for a publisher located just off Independence Mall.

Even though much has changed, the trip home always bombards me with its feeling of familiarity — the sights, sounds and taste of home — even though I haven’t lived in that house for almost 30 years. It will be a strange feeling knowing it is no longer up there for me to take a quick step back into time.

But I was talking about spring, and another sign it’s just around the corner — last week I was able to break out the sticks for the first time in 2020 — twice!

Monday provided an abnormally spring-like day with temperatures in the upper 50s/lower 60s, and my significant and I escaped for the afternoon to a local golf course’s driving range to split a bucket of balls.

Then, while in Pennsylvania, I had the opportunity to squeeze in a quick nine with two of my oldest and closest friends. We may have pushed the season a bit — temps were in the low 40s — but the sun was shining, we were laughing and we didn’t notice the chill one bit as we chased the little white ball.

I know many people would look at people bundled up in cold weather gear on a golf course in the beginning of February and think, “those guys are nuts.” 

Maybe they are right. If I weren’t out there, maybe I’d be one of them. But as my buddy pointed out, growing older, with our lives are changing and pulling us in different directions, we have less bringing us back home. 

Opportunities like that shouldn’t be squandered.

I’m not sure exactly when I fell in love with the music of Frank Sinatra. I came of age when Mr. S was well into “the autumn of the year” — well after the swinging affairs of the 1950s or even the ring-a-ding-ding 1960s — but it has been a long romance, for certain.

In a way, it was natural. I’m a singer, with a love of jazz, particularly the big band variety. It was only a matter of time before I’d get around to one of the greatest interpreters of song in recorded sound, backed by some of the best musicians and arrangers in the business.

Musically, in the 80s, I was right there with my classmates listening to the hits on the radio, but I also harbored a secret interest in jazz, from the early days through modern. Dad would always be introducing me to his favorites, and spending time with my grandparents in Philadelphia, I would also have the opportunity to hear the great standards station in the city at the time, WPEN.

As I went to sleep, I’d listen to the legendary DJ Joe Niagara, who got himself into the Guinness Book of World Records for playing more than 500 different versions of "Stardust" every day to close his show. Should I even wonder why it’s my favorite song? I’m sure I picked up my share of Sinatra in that setting.

That’s one of the things about living in the Philadelphia area, and by that I mean anywhere the television and radio stations reached — we are all about traditions. One of the longest running traditions in the market is another DJ, Sid Mark, and his Sinatra-centric radio shows.

His programs go back half a century — “Friday with Frank,” “Sunday with Sinatra” — he’s even syndicated across the country. And, it was through Sid that my enjoyment of Mr. Sinatra’s music became a full-blown love affair. (FYI — I don’t often call people I don’t know by their first name out of respect, but for many of us, Sid is one of the family).

Few can tell the history and the stories of Mr. Sinatra’s life like Sid, and why not? He knew the man. Sid Mark’s devotion to his music led to a warm friendship that extended to the Sinatra family. Sid’s interviews with Frank Jr. are priceless.

My Sunday mornings have meant Sid and Sinatra for a long time. I’ve followed Sid through station changes, from FM to AM, and through the wonders of the internet, I have even been able to keep that tradition alive nearly 20 years after leaving the Philadelphia area.

Of course, we lost Mr. Sinatra in 1998, and sadly, we lost Frank Jr. far too soon in 2016. Sid is now in his mid-80s, and reality tells me it can’t go on forever. He says he will continue doing it as long as he is able, but with the new year he trimmed a couple of hours off the show.

All of which is a reminder to me to enjoy what I have while I have it. I plan to enjoy as many Sunday mornings as I can with Sid and Sinatra, because Sid has given me a wonderful gift — a better appreciation of “A Man and His Music.”

Thank you, Sid.