Life With Father

I learned at an early age that being John Stoffa’s son would mean I would be different from everyone else. When I was a kid at Asa Packer Elementary School in the 70s, my teacher once asked, “Who here has a daddy who works for Bethlehem Steel?” Practically the entire class raised their hand. Damn! Why does my Dad have to be a social worker? What is a social worker anyway?

I gazed at all my friends and thought of their fancy aluminum sided homes situated on streets named after developers’ children like Ashley Lane and Bradley Court. Me? I lived in a dilapidated 19th century farmhouse called Melody Ranch - painted pink in the 50s - with poison ivy growing up to my second floor bedroom window. This is all because my Dad wanted to save an old farm and restore it himself.

My friends spent weekends at the pool of the Steel Club. Me? I helped Dad move manure piles, planted sweet corn, bought peacocks in Amish country, got thrown off my disagreeable pony Dixie into an electric fence and fed my pet beef steer, Sir Loin. It was like Little House on the Prairie minus the residuals.

“Jeffrey Stoffa, what does YOUR Daddy do?” I look at the Martin Towers mob surrounding me with their arched right eyebrows waiting to hear if I can top them. “My dad works in drugs and alcohol!” I announce defiantly. Heck, maybe if they think my Dad was a drug dealer at least I’ll add some excitement. But it was no use, they knew he was the Northampton County Drug and Alcohol Director. Everyone knew my Dad. Ever since I was born it seemed everyone knew my Dad. My gravestone will say, “Yes, I’m John Stoffa’s son.”

“Jeffrey, come on. We’re going to get some peacocks. Get in the station wagon.” Could I roll my eyes in the back of my head any farther? Upon arriving in Lancaster, Dad says, “Stay here. I’ll be back,” plopping my six-year-old body on the side bench of an enormous oak dining table with about 22 people dressed in 18th century neutral-colored clothing and speaking German. Just as quickly, these 22 people jump up and find some excuse to flee the strange 6-year-old Auslander from Northampton County.

“Don’t be afraid. These are Amish people. They’re neat. You’ll see,” Dad says as I watch him walk away in his tattered baseball cap, ripped shirt, stained jeans, and boots. Neat? Where’s the television? How do they watch Sonny and Cher? I wasn’t afraid of the Amish. They were afraid of me! I had my 1970s Garanimals multi-colored striped and crisscrossed shirt with the green pants and red sneakers. If that weren’t enough, my Donny & Marie lunch pail also made a major contrast to the huge Holy Bible in German sitting on the table next to me. I was all colors and metals and Donnie and Marie, an unsettling visitor from the 20th Century with singing Mormons on my lunch pail no less.

Where is Dad? Why are we here? No one is speaking English and they’re all staring at me. Out the window I could see my father choosing peacocks. They all look the same, Dad, just pick some. Let’s go. If I were smarter I would have run right then and there and given myself up for adoption to a nice Republican couple. But instead I waited patiently for my father to return and we drove home in a station wagon full of peacocks screeching their mating calls while he whistled, “Goodbye, My Coney Island Baby.”

Even my parents’ vacations weren’t like other parents.’ In 1976, the year of the Bicentennial, my parents went to the Soviet Union with another couple who were also fascinated by Russian architecture and history. My father took Hershey bars to Moscow and snuck them to little kids in Red Square when the soldiers weren’t looking. Mom slipped a Vogue magazine to her female tour guide when the trip was over, causing her to hug my mother, “You don’t know what this means to me and my sisters,” she gushed. When they got back to the States and presented me with nesting dolls, Russian lapel pins, and really nasty wrapped candy that resembled some kind of caramel, my mother remarked to my grandmother, “I’ll never complain about paying taxes in this country again.”

My school bordered our farm. So out of one whole side of the school you gazed out at our shabby grey Upper Barn with the fading words of “Melody Ranch” painted on the side in 1950s pink. One day in Creative Writing, the teacher had all the kids stare out the window at my barn and write what we felt. She then read our compositions. I got to spend a whole class hearing my friends pontificate on the beautiful and exotic wreck of a property that my Dad bought. Sigh. A little girl next to me leans over and whispers, “What happened? Did your parents get poor?”, turning her head toward the barn.

Just as the readings were wrapping up, my pet steer Sir Loin walked by the window. He had apparently gotten loose while grazing in the pasture by pulling his own stake out. He was wandering around dragging his huge chain and stake behind him. Since steer are as dumb as peacocks, he never realized he was free; he just kept grazing on the school lawn. (Run Sir Loin! Run!)

“Look at that big dog!” my friend Samantha Case said. I looked and groaned. “Isn’t that from your farm?” Nope. Not mine; must be someone else’s steer. Maybe if I look away no one else will see him. It was too late. Within minutes, Asa Packer Elementary School was experiencing something that would still be talked about at my 20th high school reunion. The male teachers surrounded him, the female teachers shielded the children in the playground, the children inside pressed up against the window screaming and chattering. Everyone’s faces, expressions, body English, and level of hysteria resembled Medieval depictions of the Sack of Rome. I just shrugged my shoulders like, “I don’t know. Never saw that dog before in my life.”

I finally admitted it was my Sir Loin and my father was called by the Principal. Dad rushed from the Government Center in Easton, apologized, and led my steer home through the neighboring field in his three piece suit and wing tips.

My father spends nothing on himself. It’s a battle to get him to buy new clothes. I once threw away sweaters in high school and he fished them out of the garbage and still wears those sweaters. He’s probably the only grown man in the Lehigh Valley ever to wear teenage fashions from The Merry Go Round circa 1985 ... twenty years later.

Dad actually tithed when I was a kid, which amazed me. He was the one who taught me that you put money in the collection plate, not take it out…and I was 15 at the time.

Because my father loved being a weekend farmer and loves the “everyman,” we always had interesting visitors. It wasn’t unusual to have the doorbell ring many times a day. Sometimes it would be one of my mother’s friends popping over to have tea and discuss the latest episode of Masterpiece Theatre’s Upstairs Downstairs, or a big shot politician wanting Dad’s support or advice. But in line between the Upstairs Downstairs woman and the politician would be another character waiting to ring the bell, someone like Jake the Grinder who came to grind the corn that Dad grew. Or as he introduced himself, “Chake da Grinter who come ta grindt da corn.”

My favorite conversation with Jake was when I asked him directions to Emmaus and he referred to Emmaus Ave. as the “Road to Emmaus.” I said, “Oh, like in the Bible…”

“BIBLE? Whatcha mean Bible? E-moss iz namedt fer de Indians, da E-moss Indians.”

“Really? I thought it was named for the New Testament, the road to Emmaus, Jesus’ resurrection.” Jake the Grinder looked at me, his eyes squinting,

“Vot’s dat? Some kinda Catholic thing?” he barked. But whether it was Jake the Grinder or the Queen of England, my mother always treated everyone with the same respect, “Oh, Jake, what a pleasure to see you. John’s somewhere on the property. Would you like something to drink?” I think if my tombstone says, “Yes, he’s my father.” Then Mom’s tombstone should say, “John’s somewhere on the property” because that’s what she is always saying when he’s home. Being buried in the same graveyard gives it an ironic double meaning.

Sometimes my father’s eccentricities could make for a lot of fun. During the 80s and 90s, Dad had successfully redone most of the farmhouse and it was no longer pink and had no poison ivy growing up to my window, we had many parties, with tents outside, lots of family and friends and neighbors, kind of like a Hanover Township version of the Twelve Oaks barbecue. Mom even would walk around with a real antique white parasol.

There was always that point during the day when the quiet afternoon filled with laughing and the barking of dogs, and suddenly the chatter would be pierced with the sound of my father reving up one of his many tractors pulling a huge hay wagon that probably was older than the house. “Hay ride!” someone would yell. My mother would dart into the house grabbing whoever was closest to help her get the hats. She had started the tradition that on all Stoffa hayrides, you had to wear a hat. Because my parents don’t throw away anything and had inherited all kinds of goodies from Al Crawford, who had sold us the farm with contents included, we had a real Chinese coolie hat, a real PA State Troopers hat, a Russian colonel’s bear fur hat, all kinds of hats. Everyone’d pile in and drive away from the party. But where to go?

We couldn’t enjoy a tree-lined empty field. Hanover Township was all built up with a residential street plan based on 19th Century English garden mazes. We did the next best thing. Our hay ride would wind in and out of Hanover Farms, Stafore Estates, Macada Rd., down Bradley Lane, Ashley Court, Katharine Circle, and Billy Bob Terrace. But my father would deliberately drive to their friends’ houses, especially the ones that had perfectly manicured lawns, and instruct all the partygoers to throw hay all over their front lawns as we hooted and hollered with our best fake redneck accents. That was fun.

Even in their retirement, their unusual lifestyle patterned by Dad, hasn’t changed. A few years ago, I came home from South Beach, where I was living, to visit my parents. I had met Michelle Pfeiffer at the supermarket in the deli aisle and Russell Crowe and Meg Ryan had stopped their car in front of my apartment so Meg could brush crumbs off her lap. I was so excited to tell my mom this news, but when I arrived home she was busy helping him birth some goats. They were standing in the barn, knee deep in fluids and goats emitting moans and groans. I heard my father yelling, “Come on…push!” He thinks the goat mother speaks English? Meg Ryan and Michelle Pfeiffer went right out of my head.

But as exciting as it was to stand next to an emaciated Michelle Pfeiffer in a South Beach deli and be able to say, “Excuse me, are you going to take that corned beef?” I don’t think those are the memories I’ll remember when I’m on the third floor of Gracedale looking forward to jello night. Instead, I’m sure I’ll remember my steer, Sir Loin, my pink 19th century farmhouse where I grew up, the Amish family I frightened with my loud Garanimals rainbow colored outfit bought at a Hess’s Cleanup Sale on Hamilton St., the hayrides, and the many other great memories that were created thanks to life with Father.

Stoffa Talks Turkey About Taxes

Why Diane Fosco Will Vote For John Stoffa

"He gets the job done. ... We're in the biggest economic war this country has ever experienced. Not the time to change leaders."

Great Things About Northampton County

Let's have some fun. We all like to complain, but there really are lots of great things about Northampton County. I've decided to list some of them, but am sure I missed some. Feel free to add anything that makes Northampton County a destination. I've relaxed the comment settings to make it easy for you. Here's my list.

Fresh trout still swimming through the Monocacy Creek in Downtown Bethlehem.

The mahogany Victorian bar in Bangor's Colonial Hotel.

That Moravian widows still live in the Sisters House on Church St. in Bethlehem.

That Jayne Mansfield expressly desired to be buried in Pen Argyl and not Hollywood, that she described Pen Argyl as the setting of her happiest memories, that she was buried in a slate casket, and that people still put pennies on her grave after 41 years.

That the Whitfield House in Nazareth was originally built as a school for black children in the 1740s.

18th Century German crooked German graves with stars, hearts and flowers carved on them in Pennsville.

That people still put flowers on Jane Horner’s grave, a woman who was massacred by Indians on Oct. 8, 1763 when on the way to buy some fire for her hearth.

That the Roxy in Northampton hasn’t changed sine 1928 and still shows silent movies accompanied by an organ on special occasions.

That the valets at the Hotel Bethlehem wear uniforms again.

That we have the oldest book store in the world, Moravian Book Store.

That the Sands knew the only way they’d get a casino in Bethlehem was if they made it involve the historical abandoned Bethlehem Steel plant.

Preserved farmland in the country and protected historic districts in the cities of Bethlehem and Easton.

Abandoned limestone quarries and abandoned slate quarry piles.

The Bangor Public Library.

That Bethlehem named their two public schools Freedom and Liberty and dress their bands as patriots and grenadiers.

Restored old German stone farmhouses in Saucon Valley.

The Herman Simon Mansion (Third Street Alliance) on 3d St. in Easton.

Baklava and coffee at the diners.

The 1905 church on 611 in Raubsville.

How the County Courthouse looks on the hill as you complete Cemetery Curve.

The golden image of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania emblem on top of the bridge as you enter Easton from New Jersey.

Crystal Cave in Hellertown.
That Larry Holmes came back.

Slave and Indian graves in God’s Acre Cemetery in Historic Bethlehem.

The fact that more people are moving in than moving out.

The turret on the Mount Vernon Inn on Northampton St. in Easton.

Spring Garden St. in Easton and Market St. in Bethlehem.

Blue and gold onion domes on Slavic churches in Northampton.

The mansions on College Hill and Fountain Hill.

Musikfest and Heritage Day.

Lehigh Lafayette Games.

That Eugene Grace’s ballroom - where Bing Crosby used to sing - is now a chapel to St. Anne.

That so many of my friends who graduated with me moved away to big cities but came back.

The celebration queens at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Festival in Roseto.

The Steckel House B&B in Bath.

John Stoffa's Reaction to Party Snub

Jeff Stoffa: Reflections From a Son

What kind of a father was John Stoffa?

I’m not going to say he was a great father just to help him get elected. My Dad had three kids. I was born in 1970; my brother in 1976; and before us, in the mid 60s, was born his community. One of my earliest memories was when we lived in Hanover Township, next to Pharo Park, and a municipal jazz band was playing a free concert one afternoon on the basketball field. All my friends were there with their families. The band started playing the theme to the Harlem Globetrotters. That's a song my Dad loved, played on his trumpet and whistled all the time. I ran back to the house to get him to join me, but he was at the head of the dining room table with these stoic looking people sitting all around the table. He told me he had an important meeting and couldn’t see the band. That was in his Shade Tree Commission days in the mid 70s.

Fast forward to 2009 and a lot of people in Hanover Township enjoy more trees, parks, open spaces and the resulting higher property values at the expense of this kid who sat alone at the band concert on a Saturday afternoon. The true irony of it all is that our neighborhood, the farmettes around Asa Packer School, all got gobbled up by the pressures of the expanding development along Schoenersville Rd. So my little grave I made for our cat, Foxy Lady, when I was 10 is buried beneath a Holiday Inn Express now. But those freakin’ shade trees are still there.

My father always put his community and the County first. There were many many nights having dinner with his seat empty because of Board meetings, panels, Church council, various events, but never political. They always revolved around improving the community or drug and alcohol rehab or vocational rehab or something of that ilk. Just take a look at his resume and you know there’s no way he could have been home every night with his kids.

So you’re saying he was absent?

Yes, except on weekends. Then of course he made my childhood a challenge too on Saturday and Sunday. It was tough keeping up with the Joneses’ of Hanover Township when your dad made you move manure piles on Saturday and presented you with a pet steer named Sir Loin and you lived in a run down farmhouse complete with a sign that said, “Melody Ranch.” We were far from conventional. But overall, he was a good father by virtue of his example. The way he treated people, the way he cared about his community, the way he tithed and always stuck up for the underdog. No matter how far he rises, he’ll always be that 8 year old with missing fingers - living on a farm with no indoor plumbing - wondering how he’ll keep from pumping gas for the rest of his life. He never forgets where he came from.

What did you think of your first County Council meeting?

I think they should be televised or at least shown on webcam. I lived in Florida for eight years and there the city and county council meetings are televised. I once spent two hours watching the Coral Gables City Council discuss whether or not to force someone to cut down a huge tree on the side of the road; they had pointers and slide shows and everything. People don’t know enough about what the County does and I think more people might get involved if they could watch local government sessions on television. With our County Council’s reputation for being one Southern accent away from the Harper Valley PTA, it could be quite entertaining for the public. But as incompetent as the public accuses them of being during opening comments, Council seems to really love their communities and care about the County. I mean, they’re not there for the money certainly. If Lehigh County attacked us, I’m sure Ron Angle and Ann McHale would grab their pitchforks and rifles and defend Norco side by side against the invaders, no doubt about it.

What do you think when you read criticisms of your father on LV Ramblings?

Some make me laugh out loud. Some I agree with --- like my Dad is slow and moves slowly and “old Stoffa” looks old. He always looked and acted old even when he was young and he never moves fast. My father never runs. I saw him run once in my life when he was chasing a groundhog out of his field corn crib. The house could be on fire and he wouldn’t run. But just because he moves slowly doesn’t mean his mind moves slowly. I’d rather a slow moving person with a quick mind than a fast moving person with a slow mind. FDR didn’t move very fast and he was pretty good at his job.

What criticisms make you laugh?

Well, there are 260,000 people in Northampton County and you can’t please them all. When I was 15, a couple moved in next to my best friend’s house in Hanover Township. She wanted to welcome them so we got some sweet corn my Dad had grown and rang their doorbell. When I introduced myself, the guy told me that my Dad had fired him six months ago. I was like, “Well, I guess you won’t be needing the corn then.” How many frustrated vendors are out there that lost a bid because my father wanted to save the taxpayers money? If you’re a person that does pay for play, takes donations from special interests, cherishes having your own special monogrammed parking space, and then this Susan Boyle crawls out of Kreidersville and does the opposite, you will feel judged. When you feel judged, you attack and you feel relief by heckling someone anonymously on a blog. So there you go. I also love how everyone’s “in the tank” for my father. What does that mean? I guess you win an election and thousands of people are “in the tank” for you.

Does it bother your Dad?

Who knows? He’d never say an unkind word about anyone. Someone could spit on him one night or give him a medal the next and he’ll still come home, check his emails, whistle to himself, and mow the lawn after he reads every newspaper printed in the Lehigh Valley. It can be kind of aggravating when he doesn’t fight back right away. When the McHale signs showed up suddenly, long after ours, and they had copied our colors, our fonts, and our word placements, and then hundreds of our signs disappeared or were destroyed and ripped up or replaced by hers in the middle of the night, or blocked by hers so no one could see ours anymore, I and the rest of the sign volunteers were livid. I’m half Irish so some shanty Irish screaming banshee from the Potato Famine in my blood rose up and wanted to at least move the signs that were blocking ours. But Dad wouldn’t. He didn’t want to stoop down to a Hatfield and McCoy mudfight. My father hates it when people call us Pensyltucky even when others’ actions warrant the moniker.

Now that you have a blog, are you prepared for criticism?

I love it. I haven’t gotten many. Someone called me the Paris Hilton of Northampton County and someone else called me Prince Harry. I guess that insinuates I’m vapid and riding on my last name, but physically attractive. Someone else called me Little Stoffa too which is funny because I’m 6’4.”

What’s the most significant thing you’ve inherited from your father?

The first thing that comes to mind is my leg. My father and I both have a left leg exactly 3/8” shorter than the right leg. We buy rubber heel lifts off the Internet and I never have any so he gives me some from his stash. A great Christmas present for me are rubber heel lifts. My brother is a Republican and has legs of equal length. I sometimes question his legitimacy. I WISH I inherited his frugality. If I had my father’s frugality and ability to handle money, I’d be a lot better off financially right now. He rather pull some sweater of mine that I didn’t want out of the garbage than buy himself something new. He’s very careful with a dollar and I wasn’t surprised at all to find out that he was able to spare Northampton County any tax increases during the four years while increasing services at the same time. I think in these difficult economic times that’s the main reason people will vote for him.

What did you think when he first ran for County Executive?

I thought he was crazy. I knew when he retired he wouldn’t be happy. He likes to be involved and there were so many people still calling him for advice and keeping him in the loop about the County. Goats and peacocks and sunflower fields can occupy a mind like his for only so long. When he lost the County Council run, I didn’t understand why he would go for County Executive. I was in Miami and I’d hear reports about him running around all by himself with his signs and getting chased out of Redner’s parking lot when he was asking for petition signatures. I really didn’t think he’d be able to do it with such a small team. But some really good people came out of the woodwork volunteering to help him, people he didn’t know until that point and I think people underestimated him. No one took him seriously, especially the Establishment Democrats. I was proud when he won and I recall vividly the Morning Call article someone mailed to me in Florida that showed Boscola and Reibman watching the returns. Their expressions were classic. He really pulled it off but I said to himself, “Oh boy, he just made some enemies.“ I wish I still had that picture. Boscola and Riebman look like Simon Cowell and that pretty blonde British lady watching Susan Boyle belt out her first notes on Britain’s Got Talent.

What did you think when he wanted to run for re-election?

Well, that was a different story. He had had a back and hip operation in the same month and I wasn’t sure if he was up for it physically. But then one day he popped out of bed, put a suit on and went back to work. My grandfather Stoffa was diagnosed with black lung when he was 45 and was given months to live, and he lived to 85. His father, my great-grandfather Stoffa, lived to 100. Slovaks are hearty. I think it’s ironic that both Ann McHale and my Dad are Slovak and are running against each other. I wonder who’s a better chadash or polka dancer.

What do you wish people knew about John Stoffa that they don’t?

I wish people could see all the things he does for people that never get recognized. He has clients from Drug and Alcohol and Vocational Rehab that he met in the 60s who still call him for advice. The other day I was looking for pictures for this site and I found a letter from a woman in Northampton. Her husband and little boy were in line at the Carmike in front of my parents when the father realized he had forgotten his wallet so they couldn’t see the movie, which made the boy cry. My father gave the boy $20 and his address, telling him to mail back the money to him someday. Of course the mother did, thanking my father for teaching her son “that there still are good people in this world.” Now my father, didn’t save that letter. He never would have. My mother did. That’s just how he is.

What’s the most important thing your parents taught you?

They taught me to respect everyone, that no one is better than anyone else. There but for the Grace of God go I, you know? They could have been getting ready to go to the Governor’s Ball in Harrisburg, with a Congressman calling on the phone, but if Jake the Grinder who “come ta grind da corn” rang the doorbell, Jake would get just the same attention and the Congressman might have to wait a minute until Jake is greeted. That’s how they are. My mother’s family came from a lot of money and lost it all in the Depression. They had a chauffeur and maids and a ballroom and billiard room one minute, and then ’29 comes and they’re bartering with silver and selling blood to buy hot dogs to eat. You never know what the future holds. You might be in a great 3 bedroom colonial out in the townships with a perfect family, but you never know what can happen to your grandkids when they’re older, or the people they marry, and it’s always good to have good County services. I’ve known many people who complained about paying taxes for health and human services until their daughter suddenly gives birth to a child with Down’s Syndrome.

Why will you vote for your father?

Because he’s a nice guy, in the true sense of the word. I say that as an English major. When I heard he was referred to as a nice guy in a derogatory manner in public, I picked up my Merriam Webster dictionary, being the English major that I am and reacquainted myself with the word to see if I agreed.

Nice: “pleasing, agreeable, respectable, well-mannered, showing or requiring great accuracy, precision or skill, having or showing accurate perception, virtuous, suitable, proper, requiring tact or care."

Antonyms: "unpleasant, unkind, careless, improper, bad, disagreeable, horrible, nasty, repulsive, unlikable, unpleasant, disordered, imprecise, unmannerly, and unrefined."

A respectful person with great accuracy, precision, skill, and perception is much better than a careless disagreeable , imprecise, disordered and unrefined one. I’ll vote for a nice guy any day...

John Stoffa's Childhood: The Short and Simple Annals of the Poor

George Stoffa, John's brother, describes their childhood. As Abraham Lincoln summed up his own childhood, it could be described as "the short and simple annals of the poor."

Meet My Mom, the First Lady of Northampton County!

Name: Barbara Gallagher Stoffa

Place of Birth: Pottsville, PA

Education: Hazleton High School, Wilkes University, B.A.., Chestnut Hill College MSW

Retired as Director of Lehigh County Childrens’ Mental Health

Currently President of the Board of the Child Advocacy Center of Lehigh County

Hobbies: Reading, traveling, history, playing Free Cell on her laptop while watching Netflix movies

Children: 2

JS: What’s it like being married to John Stoffa?

BGS: (long pause) …an adventure. It’s, um, always something new. Life with him has been full of offbeat unlikely interests and activities. I grew up in the suburbs and downtown residential areas of small towns. I had no farm background at all and so my husband having a beef steer, us buying a property with a barn and other outbuildings on it, having ducks and other kinds of farm animals was absolutely mind bending to me. I became very comfortable with it. I love animals. I loved it when we stabled horses on our property; I got a kick out of all of John’s interests in animal husbandry, but you can’t say I shared these interests. John and I were very much a “Green Acres” couple if you remember that old TV show.

JS: You were Zsa Zsa Gabor?

BGS: Yes, I was Zsa Zsa, or Eva. I think it was Eva Gabor. People ask me ‘Do you help John planting the corn?’ I usually answer “No, I don’t want to wreck my manicure.”

JS: Has he ever made you a birdhouse?

BGS: No, he hasn’t.

JS: If he did, what do you think it would look like?

BGS: I’m sure it would be extravagant, expensive, and colorful.

JS: It’s obvious the Stoffas are more private and less social than other political couples in the Lehigh Valley. Why is that?

BGS: That really isn’t by design. That just sort of evolved because John and I are definitely homebodies and John has always, well… yes, I’d say from very early on in his career he has served on Boards and had evening meetings, always had a full time job, and so when weekends came, we both wanted to be at home. We never talked about it or decided, we just preferred being in our own home. We would entertain, of course, but usually it was family, very close friends, visiting in each others’ homes, going to the movies. We really did not feel drawn to large social gatherings.

JS: What’s the biggest misconception about your husband?

BGS: That he is a serious, dour person. You have to spend some time with him in a small group to be able to see that he can be very silly and I’m sure most people can’t picture John Stoffa being silly, but believe me he has great capability in that direction.

JS: How has he changed politically in the last 40 years? …if he’s changed at all.

BGS: I think the most noticeable thing to me is the growth of his political interest. When we met and in the early days of our marriage, he didn’t have any more interest in politics than the average person in the street. It was when he began to work at the County level where he interacted with County Council and the County Executive that I saw his political interests really crystallize. I think that before that, politics was academic. But when he worked for the County and could actually see decisions being made and how they were being made and who had what part in making decisions, it became very real for him and he developed a very substantial interest in local politics at that time. Of course , he has a substantial interest in state and national politics, but he definitely believes all politics is local, as some famous politician once said.

JS: You like to say, “The things you don’t know at the altar.” What things did you not know?

BGS: Certainly, I never thought that one day I would be in a barn in February helping John help a ewe deliver her twins. Additionally, I didn’t know that he would develop such a huge interest in politics. I didn’t realize that he would develop such an interest in his community. I grew up in a home where neither parent was active in any community-building or community service organizations. They both played golf and that’s how they spent the bulk of their free time, and so this was a very new world to me: something I don’t think I ever could have anticipated unless perhaps I had been very analytic about his family . Looking back now I see that his father was very active in his community. So now it all seems very logical but as it developed it was all very surprising to me.

JS: What’s your favorite John Stoffa story?

BGS: I don’t know my favorite favorite but certainly one of the top five is a good example of how John can use humor to deal with things and be a little outrageous. He was serving as Director of Human Services and every year he had to present his budget to county council. He knew his budget was going to be controversial and raise some possibly angry discussion, so he went to a friend of his who was a Bethlehem policeman and borrowed a bullet proof jacket, the real thing. He showed up at the County Council meeting wearing it on top of his suit and made some silly remarks about “I’m ready to present my budget” and of course he looked goofy. He had a suit and a tie and shirt on. The bullet proof vest crushed the suit, and the shoulders looked goofy. The whole thing looked goofy yet he sat there in the meeting like that the whole time.

JS: Going back to the silly side of Dad, can you tell the salamander story?

BGS: Oh…. Puff the magic dragon? Well, when John and I were dating, there was a bar in Hazleton where I lived that we went to a lot called “The Anywhere.” It was one of those dark bars and I learned the hard way I think that one of the reasons they kept it so dark was so you couldn’t see how dirty the place was. At any rate, there were a bunch of us there and one of my friends is a fellow who was very easily affected by alcohol. We used to tell him that if he just read a beer label, he’d drop over. Well, John, out at State College had bought a pet at a pet store. It was a small salamander and he named it Puff the Magic Dragon. He was in Hazleton for the weekend to see me…

JS: What year is this?

BGS: This is somewhere between ’62 and’65. And so he had Puff the Magic Dragon in his sportcoat pocket, and of course didn’t tell anyone. So we’re at the “Anywhere” talking and drinking, and John very stealthily took Puff the Magic Dragon out of his coatpocket and just put him on the table that we were sitting at, and he, you know, all of us, except the friend who was so easily affected by alcohol, noticed it. John put his finger to his lips like, “Don’t say anything” and then of course we all caught on and so we just let Puff walk around the table until finally our friend Bruce noticed him and “Oh my God! What’s that?” and we all said, “What are you talking about?” and he said, “What? Oh my God? Is that a lizard or what is that thing?” And of course Puff is walking all over the table and we’re saying, “Bruce, I don’t see anything. You really have to slow down with your beer.” And so this went on and on until very unexpectedly, Bruce, getting more and more alarmed, swatted it off the table like it was a bug or something. So poor Puff goes flying off the table and lands on the floor. Then we were all up on our feet,“Oh my God, where’s Puff?” He had landed under the next table, which was occupied. John was on his feet like a fireman to the rescue, and he and I each got on the floor among these people’s feet and legs , telling them to be careful that there was a lizard here. They were screaming and finally John found him. Poor Puff was covered with dust balls that were stuck to his skin from being on this filthy floor of the bar. When John picked him up and put him back on our table, he really did look like Puff the Magic Dragon, he looked like a puff ball of dust. ..and of course Bruce said, “ I’ll never touch another drop. “

JS: Which of course didn’t happen.

BGS: No, it didn’t.

JS: To end this interview, is there anything you’d like to add or say yourself?

BGS: Um.…(pause) ….yes. I’d like to say… describe something about my husband that I’m proud of, and there are a lot of things, but this in particular in his political life: John is not the kind of a politician who’s real hot to have cornerstones laid and have his name engraved on things. In fact, I’d really say he isn’t a politician, but the best way to describe him in public office is that he’s an administrator, a manager. He sits down at his desk, looks at what work needs to be done and starts to do the work. He goes to very few political events, we don’t entertain, uh ... any differently than when we were first married, few close friends, family. So he sees the office he holds as his job. He goes there every day. He focuses on what needs to be done. The first year I’d say he focused very much on things that had already begun, needed to be finished, things that had deadlines. I think probably a year went by before he could get down to some of the things he wanted to. He is focused on the County and its needs. He has no ambitions for further office, which is of course a large part why he doesn’t go to the political things that anyone would who wanted to have further office. Certainly, he sees nothing wrong with those events, but they just doesn’t apply to him. He goes to work and does the things that aren’t glamorous . They’re not exciting, there’s no fanfare necessarily, but they are the things that need to be done, no more than cutting the grass, doing the food shopping, cleaning the house, or changing the oil in your car. He is engaged in the maintenance of this County in the most cost-efficient and fair minded way. He is not going to build buildings and lay cornerstones. That is not him. I am very proud of him that he doesn’t have a need to do things like that and he can focus on the non-glamorous, but necessary things.

JS: Are you going to vote for him?

BGS: Yes.

What Do The Neighbors Think?

Before deciding an issue, I always consider what impact it will have on good people like the Strassers.

My Father's Fingers

As a young boy, I experienced a dreaded family ritual that I expected every time I brought a new friend home for dinner. I knew it was coming as soon as I saw my father at the head of the table begin to raise his fingers in the form of a Churchill/Nixon V for Victory sign.

"You kids had better eat your vegetables or else Mrs. Stoffa will do this to you!" he'd say smiling and laughing and nodding towards his hand. My friends would shriek in horror, fascination and delight as their eyes darted from his fingers to my mother scooping out applesauce. If anyone had been looking at me, which they never were at this point, they would have seen my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

"John, stop that. Kids, don't pay any attention to him," my mother would say to my friends as they viewed and touched the famed fingers up close, asking questions about how they got that way.

My father often pokes fun at his fingers in social and even professional situations, but few people know the backstory of how they got that way, (with the exception of a number of 40 year old friends of mine that had the pleasure of eating at our home back in the mid 70s.)

In 1947 when John Stoffa was eight years old, he and his older brother George were working a tripod cornstalk cutter that wielded a sharp blade that came down on the stalks that the operator pushed towards the blade. My grandfather let his 8 and 10 year old sons work this machine unsupervised while he was doing other farmwork.

Somehow my father pushed a cornstalk too far and down came the blade. Just little boys, they panicked and the fingers were lost somewhere in a nearby pig pen and never found again. My dad was rushed to Coaldale Hospital, but the real trauma was that in his childish ignorance, he did not realize that he had any hopes of surviving. While his older sisters wrapped the bleeding fingers in cloth and my grandfather drove through red lights, my father calmly waited to die, not saying anything to anybody. It wasn't until he was in the hospital being prepared for a operation on his hand that he realized that you don't automatically die from severed fingers.

As a child I thought he was torturing my friends with his dinner joke. Now as an adult I realize he was actually a lot smarter than I thought. The kids were bound to notice the fingers sooner or later and might have been uncomfortable, distracted, or scared had he said nothing or talked about the fingers in a serious tone. What better way to put them at ease than to use humor and let them ask questions to learn more?

John Stoffa embraced his physical imperfection using humor. The "Mrs. Stoffa will cut your fingers off if you don't eat your vegetables" joke that made my friends shriek and laugh in horror and glee back in the 70s is only one of many finger jokes in his repetoire. He's got a million of 'em.

Will You Help Me?

My father is running for re-election as County Executive of Northampton County and faces the Democratic Primary on May 19. Under his administration there have been no tax increases, Republicans and Democrats have served together in his Cabinet in a bi-partisan spirit, and he refuses to accept campaign contributions to keep his loyalty to the people and not special interests.

Because he doesn't accept campaign contributions, he manages his campaign all by himself. Will you help us with lawn signs? We're looking for people who are willing to place a lawn sign in their yard. Or if you have friends or family in Northampton County that would be open to it, please submit their information. I will come and deliver the lawnsign personally! (Hide your valuables.)

Who wants a lawn sign? Who has a loved one in Northampton County that will let us place one in their yard? Please write me at JeffStoffa@gmail.com.

Why John Stoffa Builds Birdhouses

Wanna' Send a "Dear John" Letter?

If you have any questions about the county and would like an answer, just post a comment or send an email to JohnStoffa@gmail.com. My Dad tells me he's received many "Dear John" letters in his time.

Greetings

Hi, everyone. My Dad, John Stoffa, is seeking your vote for Northampton County Executive. He refuses to raise money like other politicians and won't blow his own horn, so we're going to toot it for him.

This is a blog by the family, friends and supporters of John Stoffa. He has restored integrity to county government. He's kept your taxes low. He has started our first ever organized open space plan to preserve our beautiful farmlands and precious streams. He has helped make the county's citizens safer with innovations like reverse 911, which allows the government to call you in the event of an emergency.

He's not finished. He'd like four more years, and that's up to you. From time to time, my dad will weigh in on important issues. But this blog will tell you a little bit more about John Stoffa the man.

I hope you all enjoy the time you spend visiting with us. The picture you see is my brother and me at our dad's swearing-in ceremony.

Addition: I'm the one pictured on the right. On the left is my brother, Greg.