Mornings With Barney by Dick Wolfsie (e book reader .TXT) 📕

last thing Dr. Sampson needed was an unmotivated owner. We each had our roles to play. That was contrary to Dr. Sampson’s mission, but he understood the situation.

Barney generated a lot of talk at the station and more than a few people stopped me in the grocery store and asked if my new dog had found a full-time job. Now that Barney was appearing almost every day, he was greasing the viewers’ early morning routine of getting up and going to work. But I still had no sense if the public had fully come to see us as a team.

Then one evening, the family attended an Indianapolis Indians game at Bush Stadium, the Triple A ballpark downtown. I was trying to encourage Brett to have a little interest in local sports and a night at the ballpark was fun even if you weren’t a big baseball fan.

At one point in the game, I retreated to the john and picked up a beer on the way back. As I edged my way through my aisle, I suddenly heard a group of guys who clearly had already downed a few Bud Lights themselves begin a chant: BAR-NEY ... BAR-NEY . . . BAR-NEY! Then they bellowed each letter in the name.

They almost spelled it correctly. These were serious fans.

My wife heard the chant and was impressed. “Wow, it’s too bad no one can spell Wolfsie,” she said. But I knew we had arrived. It’s amazing the lessons baseball can teach you.

Photo Ops

In my first ten years of television, prior to meeting Barney, I’m guessing that I signed maybe 100 photos of myself for fans. Most of these after a subtle suggestion: “Say, would you like a photo of me? Please?” But when Barney became my partner, I signed thousands.

Most on-air reporters have what is called an eight-by-ten glossy, usually a black-and-white head shot that they use to grant requests from viewers for pictures and autographs. Unless you’re a hot female meteorologist, most of us never use up the five hundred photos we are initially given (they are cheaper by the forty dozen). The poor quality of a mass-produced likeness initially made you look ten years older. But it would ultimately make you look ten years younger because the station wouldn’t replace them until you gave away the first five hundred. Which was never. I had about 475 left when I first teamed with up Barney. Then no one wanted a photo of just me, so I trashed them.

Barney’s first photos were courtesy of Ed Bowers of Tower Studio. Ed was an icon in central Indiana and had been taking high school graduation pictures for at least three decades. There was a pretty good chance that if you went to public school in Indianapolis, Ed had taken your yearbook picture. And if you were under thirty there was a better chance he took your mother and father’s pictures, as well.

He was also an early-morning TV fan and had been watching Barney emerge as a rising star. Ed wanted to do a full studio shoot with Barney—dozens of poses, different angles, sexy lighting, the works.

Ed was no dummy. Even with all the chemicals you inhaled developing photos in those days, he was clearheaded enough to know he wanted the photo shoot on TV as part of the morning news.

“But, Ed,” I pleaded, “it will be chaos. Barney won’t sit still; the result will be total pandemonium.”

“I know,” he said. “And people will talk about it forever.”

Then he shot me a cheesy grin, the kind he was so adept at getting from high school seniors. Ed knew the value of good PR.

The morning of the show I was not surprised to see the thought and preparation Ed put into the photo shoot. Ed had lugged in scenery and a small crew of assistants. He brought dog food and treats and a high-pitched whistle to get Barney’s attention. He even had a long ladder so he could shoot from above. Why? I had no idea. But I was impressed. At the time, quite frankly, I cared less about the quality of the photos than the fact that this was going to be a great show. I really couldn’t lose. Barney would probably dart around the studio, unwilling to sit for even a second, leaving poor Ed actually missing his decades of interaction with adolescents. If that’s possible.

The other possibility was that Barney would simply bask in the glow of the moment, lapping up every second of the spotlight, loving being the center of attention. He would be the perfect model. It would be one extreme or the other. There never was a middle ground. Not with Barney. And it never mattered. It was funny either way.

Barney opted for chaos. Every prop, every play toy, every wastebasket, every treat became a diversion. The few times we managed to get him settled, Ed decided it was a good time to shoot from the ladder, which required about thirty more seconds of waiting time while Ed, who was no spring chicken, managed to slowly—very slowly—hobble his way up the creaky steps. When he finally reached the top, he carefully twisted himself around and then seemed genuinely surprised—and mildly miffed—that Barney had not remained in the spot Ed had assigned to him. Much of this dance was seen on TV. The whole thing seemed choreographed like a Laurel and Hardy routine.

In the final on-air segment, Ed pulled out the heavy hardware. Not a new camera or fancy lens, but an artificial smoke-producing machine, the kind you might use in a movie to create a creepy scene or a steamy, sexy one. “This will make for some very artsy shots,” said Ed, beaming.

With Barney finally sitting in a big, comfy recliner, relaxed at last, Ed cranked up the machine and smoke spewed out of the device and into his studio. It also made an odd screeching sound. Ed wasn’t real hip on how to use the