Paul Harvey was part of the soundtrack of my young life. I remember my grandfather, in his 60s shutting down his one-man operation saw mill just before noon and walking back to his wood shop behind the house to meet my grandmother who brought him a sandwich (usually his favorite liverwurst and limburger cheese – typical Scandi, he always loved food that stinks) and a glass of milk in the weather-worn shed so he could listen to Paul Harvey read the news to him. In his seventies, of course he couldn’t run the saw mill anymore, but his daily Paul Harvey routine continued. <\/p>\n
I remember staying at my Great-aunt Edith’s farm with her and Uncle Barney. At noon, Barney would stop doing chores and head back to the house for lunch with Paul Harvey and Edith. <\/p>\n
My other grandfather would stop doing chores on his dairy farm in time to hear the Paul Harvey-delivered news of the day wit hall of his pregnant pauses and strange inflections. <\/p>\n
It was reasonable that when I got to a point in my life when I had the opportunity to listen to Harvey on a regular basis, the sound of his voice brought back the smells of farms and saw mills and Grandma’s kitchen, liverwurst and limburger sandwiches.<\/p>\n
When Harvey’s son started doing the news a few years back, I lost interest because it just wasn’t the same. But today, Mr. Harvey is with his greatest fans. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"