(Published March 6, 2020 in the Scranton Times-Tribune) My daughters hate the way I schmooze. “How come every time we go to a restaurant, Dad ends up knowing the server’s life story, or becoming best friends with the people at the table next to us?” one of them inevitably will say. My wife always gives the same answer: “Dad can’t help it. He’s from Scranton." Yes, I’m from Scranton. And in the “Friendly City” I grew up in, people talked to each other. You saw someone you knew

March 6, 2020 (published in the Scranton Times-Tribune) My daughters hate the way I schmooze. “How come every time we go to a restaurant, Dad ends up knowing the server’s life story, or becoming best friends with the people at the table next to us?” one of them inevitably will say. My wife always gives the same answer: “Dad can’t help it. He’s from Scranton." Yes, I’m from Scranton. And in the “Friendly City” I grew up in, people talked to each other. You saw someone you knew