Natalie Whatley

With the new year still fresh and folks aiming to form new habits for a few more weeks before giving up a little saying came my way that made me think it was something we all could do: Learn something new every day.

Since I have held myself up as a vast receptacle of mostly useless knowledge, a few of you delight in sending things my way and no doubt get tickled when I reply, “I had not heard of that”.

Anyway, on just such an occasion this past week that happened and I got a, “learn something new every day” response.

It was meant as a statement, but having read an unlikely book (for me) recently, I decided that statement should be more of a challenge. That’s one I would gladly take on, and it would not be painful at all.

I’ll have to back up a bit and tell you that weeks ago I received in an e-mail a YouTube video of the record-setting, late, former UCLA men’s basketball coach, John Wooden.  Not something I’d typically spend time on, but I was assured he was a philosopher of sorts in addition to several other wonderful things.

So, I gave it a watch. WOW!

Sports guys, excluding The Sun’s sports writer Todd Hveem, who cracks me up and actually has me reading the sports section (I never used to do that), don’t usually garner my attention.  And I must admit that ignorance only begins to scratch the surface of describing me in the sports regard.

But in my never-ending quest to further enlighten myself, I see some of those sports guys have some great points that relate to life, not just on how to score a touchdown when the bases are loaded. Just kidding on that touchdown. Maybe. Fore!

Anyway, true to my form I looked Wooden up only to discover he had penned a few books about sports, but also ones about how to succeed in life. Wooden would probably chuckle over this, but I believe he must have been the inspiration for Star Wars’ Yoda.

Allow your brain to try on these excerpts, “Learn Forever, Die Tomorrow. Early on I came to believe that you should learn as if you were going to live forever, and live as if you were going to die tomorrow. What does this mean? In the simplest way, I would explain it like this.”

“Always be learning, acquiring knowledge, and seeking wisdom with a sense that you are immortal and that you will need much knowledge and wisdom for that long journey ahead. Know that when you are through learning, you are through.”

Given this information-at-our-fingertips age, learning something new each day is easy, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready to “be through” even though I see the wisdom in living like today might be my last.

So, am I talking about hours a day spent delving into something new? No.

Just take a few mere minutes outside your comfort zone, and you, too, will be amazed at what you see. I never knew a basketball coach could ever gain my rapt attention. Learn something new every day.

© 2012 Natalie Whatley

 I see lots of folks are “hitting” my site searching for Lavon Heintschel, probably in search of her obituary. She was a wonderful friend, and I regret not knowing her for many more years than I did. May she rest in peace. Click on the link below if you’re looking for service information:

http://obit.navarrefuneralhome.com/obitdisplay.html?id=1024418&listing=Current

When I saw this past week that The Baytown Sun was teaming up with Baytown Animal Services for a new “Pets of the Week” feature aiming to showcase adoptable pets, I knew I needed to share how good fortune and maybe fate had a hand (or maybe a paw) in an unlikely pairing of souls. Yes, it was that dramatic and then some.

In the fall of 2001 I was a young(er) mom with three children aged 2, 4, and 8 a shift-working husband who was also attending college classes. To say my plate was full and that I did not need anything else to take care of would be an understatement.

And yet, my then 4-year-old Jeremy wanted a pet.  He had discussed it with me many times and I was getting nowhere with my explanations about why pet ownership just wasn’t in the cards. He had no frame of reference for time, energy or monetary constraints. I didn’t stop taking care of him when baby sister came along, so what was one more?

Smart little devil that he was, he “adopted” a plastic fishing worm from his dad’s tackle box. It wasn’t even a complete specimen – had somehow lost a third of its body. No matter, Jeremy loved it, carried it around and told anybody who would listen all about his “pet”.

At first, I was elated. He had a “pet” he could take care of and he was thrilled. That was the best cared-for plastic worm in the history of mankind. For weeks Jeremy “fed” it and made sure it had a comfortable place to sleep. Thorny parenting issue averted and potentially forever bypassed . . . until the guilt set in.

Owning a real, live, breathing animal is a rite of childhood passage right? So, in November 2001 Jeff and I decided a dog would be great for the kids. Nothing fancy and cheap would be good, too.

We made our way over to “the pound”, which I know is probably no longer the politically correct term to use for what’s now Baytown Animal Services located at 705 Robert Lanier. If you’d like to visit they are open from noon to 6 p.m. Monday through Saturday and can be reached at 281-422-7600.

Anyway, out of I can’t remember how many pooches, one immediately garnered our attention. He was on Doggie Death Row and while looking sweet as all get out had been dubbed an “escape artist”.

According to workers he had been bailed out a couple of times before and the courts finally ordered he go live somewhere else or . . . 

He looked smallish – I have described him here before as being about the size of a Bassett Hound but spitting image of a long-haired Dachshund – standing in his prison cell, but as we loaded him in my lap for home transport we realized he was biggish. And that was right before he barfed in my lap.

In the days following I became even more ambivalent about my new charge as we went through the pains of acclimating him to our home.  At that time there was a “return policy” and I secretly suspected I might utilize it.

But something strange happened and that doggie, Scooter, figured out just who he needed to win over.

While I admit to being a tough nut to crack sometimes, that mutt dug his way into my heart and has not ever in over ten years tried to escape. He’s “my” dog and everyone knows he’s “Momma’s boy”.  He has been a great friend and companion.

At all times I positively know there is soul out there who would follow me to the ends of the Earth and off a cliff. We should all be so fortunate.

Check out the “Pets of the Week” on Tuesdays. Maybe you’ll find a love that will never escape, too.  

© 2012 Natalie Whatley

It’s an annual tradition for me to perform deeper-than-usual cleaning in tandem with packing away Christmas décor. This year I became June Cleaver, Good Housekeeping seal-of-approval scientist, and Jane Jetson . . . all rolled into one.  And I have the minty-fresh floors to prove it. Shoot, now all I need is one of those nifty Wonder Woman outfits.

Several years ago three young kids, their friends, and our household pets convinced me that carpet—especially of the light-colored variety—was not practical unless the lady of the house didn’t mind standing on constant guard and at the ready to clean potentially permanent stains.

At a not-so-small expense the lower floor of the Whatley Estate was transformed to something harder, darker, and multi-toned neutral.

I instantly fell in love. It’s the perfect camouflage for tracked in dirt and pet hair. Life and my general sense of well-being were greatly improved. Oh, and I nagged less.

However, my feet don’t like to be shoed. Nor do they like walking around on the fine grit that’s perfect for gathering the dog’s hair into a dust Sasquatch. (My accumulations are too large to just be “bunnies”.)

Those are most attractive stuck to the bottoms of my feet, but even worse they feel —let me scan my brain for a scientific term—yucky. For that reason I became the proud owner of roughly 40 pairs of flip flops. 

Life went on and my pseudo shoes bore the yuckiness while my soles lost all hope of being bare in the downstairs of their own home. Queue the sad violin music.

But then Christmas 2011 came and my grandmother, the lovely Ruby Watson, generously gifted me with the Mint Plus Automatic Floor Cleaner which sweeps and wet mops all by itself.

 I’m almost certain the lady who spent years as an Air Force wife —always at the ready for a white-glove inspection—was not making any sort of statement about my housekeeping prowess.

And recall that I was born in the wrong era and that technology is often the bane of my existence. I have a love/hate relationship with it. We tolerate each other on good days. So, I was skeptical of Mint as I’ve never personally known a robot or been a fan of gadgets.

Jeff removed him (why my mind assigned a gender is a question without an answer) from the box and plugged him into the electrical juice for charging.

For days I eyeballed Mint, who was sitting in the corner ready, willing, and able to make my life easier if only I’d allow him. (There’s a much broader statement made there. The males in my life are chortling, rolling their eyes and thinking, “how true!”, but that’s a story for another day.)

 Not one member of my household failed to ask, “When are we gonna use that thing?”

When I was good and ready. That was when.

Finally school was back in session and our routine back in place.

Mint and I were left all alone to get to know each other. I read his manual and learned exactly what buttons to push. By the way, I’m superb at button pushing.

Using North Star Navigation GPS technology Mint super quietly went all through my house doing his work. Much to my surprise he did it quite well.

For the first time in ages I meandered around barefooted.  Heavenly music played in my head  . . . to the hymn tune “It Is Well With My Soul”. It is well with my soles.  You’re an angel, Grandmother.

© 2012 Natalie Whatley

Happy 2012 to you all!

I see by some red, puffy eyes a few of you decided to stay up and burn the midnight oil to usher in the new year.

I have found staying awake increasingly difficult over recent New Years’ Eves. That probably speaks volumes about my social life or lack thereof. I hit a wall around 11:30 p.m. and crabby would be an understatement in describing my late-night aura. But I really don’t like discussing my less-than-desirable traits so we’ll move along.

Since this is a special day I thought about the whole “looking back” and “recapping” times gone by, but others have already done a fine job of that. So let’s see what we have to look forward to. Onward, ho!

First, 2012 can’t be discussed without mention of the Mayan Calendar Prophecy which predicts doomsday very late in the year. Despite curiosity unmatched by most of mankind, I couldn’t give a rat’s patootie about this even if Apple has an “app” for “surviving” it complete with a countdown clock, time capsule and note-to-self feature designed to remind you of what’s important during your last days. Y2K, anyone?  Next . . .

Mayan mania not to be outdone, in your spare time check out Schumann Resonance and zero point whereby some believe in this year . . . well, I can’t find the words to explain it, but I assure you it’s not good. Supposedly, electromagnetic waves from Earth have been speeding up since the 80s and . . . oh, I don’t get it, but time will stop when we reach zero point . . . in 2012. But wait, it won’t be the end, just a new beginning with a smaller population in 2013. Read at your leisure. Or not.

This year will also bring us the Olympic Games in London. Oh, my. I’m going to come off as such a boor.  While I harbor tremendous respect for the athletes and what it takes to compete at that level, these events don’t light my torch, either.

And none of us here in the good-ole U.S. of A will be able to ignore that it’s a national election year. I haven’t quite decided between plunging my head deeply into the sand or making the tinfoil hat part of my everyday wardrobe. Oooh . . . maybe I’ll alternate and enjoy the benefits of both. But I do look better in silver versus beige. Decisions, decisions 2012.

On a brighter note, get ready for the big color of 2012: orange. I suppose it’s only fitting we try to infuse a little sunshine on all the doom and gloom. You’re going to see it glowing pretty much everywhere and in everything. My sunny disposition is a little jazzed over this one, but let’s show some restraint, people, and remember the old adage that less is more lest you want to be carved at Halloween.

Whatever it all brings, we’ll laugh, cry and be angry together, but I absolutely don’t want to hear any “I told you so” after the time-space continuum rips and expels us from the planet in a fiery debris-filled explosion.

Have a booming great year!

© 2012 Natalie Whatley

How amazing is this? You and I having a few quiet moments on Christmas morning to hang out in the comfort of our pajamas with a hot steaming beverage of choice in hand . . . and I bet you didn’t know I’m not a coffee drinker.  

I’m hopped up enough without throwing caffeine in on the mix, so it will be decaf green tea for me.  But please enjoy whatever you like steaming in your cup and sit with me for a few minutes because I have something for you.

 Go ahead, open it, the anticipation has been killing me.

Don’t look so puzzled. Yes, it’s a snowflake. Sparkly and eye-catching, just like you. I’m hoping you’ll remember how special you are every time you look at it.

We don’t get to see much of the real thing here in these parts, but I love them just the same.

One of my most treasured childhood memories comes from when little snow flurries came down one year when I was in elementary school – first or second grade. For the life of me I can’t remember which it was or which teacher was so brilliant, but she quickly (knew it wouldn’t last long) lined us up at the door, passed out black construction paper and magnifying glasses and cut us loose within the vast confines of the playground.

It was pure magic to my little mind, and I never forgot the many examples of one-of-a-kind beauty I saw that day. Never mind the minor miracle it was seeing snow in Seabrook, Texas.

I verified that it is true no two snowflakes are the same. Ever. It gets into some pretty extreme physics that you know I studied and understood solely for your benefit (the sacrifices I make), but I’ll spare you the technicalities. I can, however, guarantee that if you want to take a little scientific jaunt on your own, seeing the science behind this cool phenomenon takes nothing away—only makes it more wondrous.

So, the snowflake from me to you is my symbolic gesture of how special you are to me and how I truly treasure the unique friendship we’ve formed here in my little corner of the newspaper. Thank you for being you and for putting up with me being me.

Some of you e-mail, some call, and others have even enlisted the services of the United States Postal Service to get in touch and let me know you enjoyed (or not) my harebrained ramblings.

Then there are those who eye me suspiciously around town, not quite sure why I look familiar. The brave ones (even though I’ve mentioned being quite docile-looking) approach, and I’m always glad they did.  

And I’m sure there are plenty who I’ve never had the pleasure of knowing at all. I have snowflakes for you, too.

Thank you for your encouragement and kind words, but most of all thank you for your friendship. I’m honored to have such a beautiful flurry floating around me. Merry Christmas!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Tinkering with this old classic and sharing it with you has sort of become an annual holiday ritual. So enjoy as you make final preparations for the big day. Somebody wake me when it’s over, the mess is cleaned up, the decorations put away and everyone has completed their store returns. Thanks, you’re the best.

Twas the week before Christmas, when all through the land preparations were being made, everything planned. The house was all decorated, gifts purchased and wrapped, the route to a fine feast perfectly mapped.

The children were excited school was finally out, parents were feeling unnerved and on the verge of a shout.  Pappa with his impatience and me near insane, how about a dose of Novocain?

Because throughout the house there’s all this noise, isn’t this time supposed to be full of joys? Away for some peace my mind tries to travel to a place where just maybe I won’t unravel.

The room in my head’s not quite far enough away, but it harbors sweet memories I like to replay. Then what to my hungering eyes should appear, but miniature teenagers, and wait, shiny good cheer.

With younger fresh parents, so alive and not boring, I knew in an instant this was worth not ignoring. More rapid than lightening the visions they came, how quickly it went, things never stay the same.

Now Grumpy! Now, Dopey! Now Sleepy and Hormonal! On Difficult! On, Belligerent! On Testy and Bemoanal! To the top of the stairs! To your room down the hall! Smash away! Crash away! Gnash away, all!

It was with dry eyes before the real craziness started that I couldn’t see how rapidly childhood parted. Flashes of the past came one after the other, back then I didn’t really understand being a mother.

And then through the chaos I heard a soft voice, “Gotta learn to roll with it, there’s no other choice.” As I drew in a breath and slowly turned around, down the stairs cherubs came looking profound.

They were dressed in their pajamas only without the feet, but the bigger clothes didn’t matter, seeing them together’s a treat. They had some gifts of their own to give, big smiles and “Thanks, Mom”. For this, I live.

My eyes how they watered! My soul how content! They knew all along of my good intent. My quivering mouth drew up in a smile, for we had all traveled many a bumpy mile.

Memories of years past lingered in my mind, how much of them had my actions defined? I did my very best and tried to do them right and so many times I stayed awake at night.

Lost in thought and being truly insightful, I realized life with imperfections is most delightful. Because with the blink of an eye it’s all said and done. Not one of us gets a trial run.

So I spoke not a word and got straight back to work, teaching cherubs how to deal with life’s little quirks. And laying my heart at the edge of my sleeve, I tried to prepare them for the one day they’d leave.

I sprang back to the present, opened my eyes to the light and looked forward to the target in sight. And I heard them whisper as they walked back up the stairs, “She will always be with us, she really does care.”

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Last week I relayed how the exterior of The Whatley Estate was decked out for Christmas. Please know that Jeff enjoys the notoriety involved in my making his outdoor-decorating antics known. I think I’m one public, “so, you been fallin’ out of trees?” away from having myself and my belongings moved to the unlit storage shed in the backyard. Y’all were supposed to keep that tale a secret.

While I still have access to electricity, I’ll continue my holiday whining over the fact that I came to enjoy a minimalist approach to decking the halls, but was asked to step it back up a bit by a young man who sees his family Christmases as numbered. 

He even got to his little sister; we girls are such sentimental suckers. She was jazzed up and offering me all sorts of indoor help while the guys handled the dangerous outdoors.

“You get that fancy gold ribbon laced around the tree and I’ll do the rest,” beamed my sweet tinsel-mouthed angel, Erin.

With the whole clan in on the task, why the entire house would be aglow in no time and with less effort than I’d ever expended. Ah, the upside of not eating my young had finally been unwrapped.

Do I even have to mention the “ah” moment was fleeting? Of course I’m not going to eat them because I have seen a glimpse of what I’m told will become more frequent in the coming years, but the prospect is tempting.

About a third of the way through tree decorating, you-know-who grew weary of the task. She didn’t recall it taking so long. I reminded her that it didn’t when an entire enthusiastic family participated. She and I both stood for a moment and tried to remember when that last occurred. Neither of us could recall. Then she pronounced she was done.

In her own way, she had followed my “advice” (probably sounded more like instructions or a directive) on spreading the ornaments all over the tree. (I was trying to avoid that task of going-behind and moving ornaments like I had to do when they were all little and hung everything on the same lower branch.) One third of the tree was fully ornamented – the other two thirds barren. She was going to get to those before exhaustion set in.

I considered leaving it exactly as it was. In my older age I’m learning to embrace and admire unfinished imperfection and especially in things that in the grand scheme don’t mean a hoot.

I picked through ornaments and pulled out the ones that personify all the Christmases past – those made by tiny, unsteady hands during a time when the season was pure magic. Some were falling apart, so I fired up the glue gun, made repairs, and put them on the tree.

Days later, an about-to-move-me-to-the-shed Jeff took great delight in noting a rather large undecorated section of the tree.  It was my turn to have my methods and work critiqued. And lest I wanted to make that move on out to the shed, I had to confess to you folks how I had not risen to the occasion. (Mostly because I’m smart enough in my older age not to climb that high and risk having my ladder come out from under me.) I know, shame on me.

Decades of accumulated Christmas décor has been placed all about the interior and exterior of our dwelling. And guess what? Said young man is never home to see and/or enjoy it. Love is blind, but how did I not see that coming?

 O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, you’re sort-of unfinished, and that’s fine with me!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Here at the Whatley Estate, we’ve been decking the halls with boughs of holly because ‘tis the season to be jolly. Oh, what the heck, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la! Wow. I sing so much more beautifully in print.

As you all know, I quite purposely became a slacker in the holiday-decorating regard after many years of going way overboard both inside and out. And it was without cheer in my heart that I spent weeks after the big day carefully packing and putting away.

Did my home’s occupants even notice how it all went up and then back down, or have a clue why I wore a frown? I thought not.

Two scaled-back, far-easier-on-me seasons passed and truth be told, I was fine with it. Pleased as holiday punch. Life in the new, less-is-more era was good.

BUT. You knew there was going to be a “but”, didn’t you? Parental guilt. It makes us do nostalgic and other insane things.

How were Jeff and I to refuse when faced with, “You know this could be one of my last Christmases at home.” (That same cherub used similar logic last spring break to score a week-long family trip to sunny Orlando, Florida. I think he just wanted to check out the Minnie Mice, but I digress.) Anyway, my spine slipped completely from my body.

So, out from the deep recesses of the Whatley Estate’s belly came boxes left undisturbed for nearly three years.

I did have some backbone and told darling cherubs and their daddy that I would not touch, or hang, a single strand of outdoor Christmas lights. Sounds harsh (bah humbug!), I know, but you must understand that Jeff can’t (finds it physically impossible) hang a few lights . . . more to the tune of about 10,000. You know I wouldn’t exaggerate.

I have awakened some nights to the sounds of hovering aircraft mistaking it all for a place to land. And then there’s the minor detail of not being able to run a hairdryer upstairs while the “display” is lit . . .  trips the breaker. Get the picture? 

My thinking was that if I left cherubs to put in the hard outdoor labor, they’d determine it was all too much work. Not for the first time, I was wrong. Guess who will not go outside and direct air traffic with wet hair?

For the most part I ignored my outdoor workers, refused to be sucked into that bit of madness I’d easily given up. Oblivion to non-working strings of lights, blown fuses, and the disposition of the individual tending to same is a beautiful thing.

 Wearing blinders, I’d occasionally step out and at least offer food and drink – wanted them to remain strong enough to finish what they’d started.

But the highlight came when after hearing oldest cherub’s name called by an excited-sounding, way- up-in-the-air Jeff. 

“Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutter and threw up the sash!”

“When what to my wondering eyes should appear” but a man whose ladder had fallen, he was bear-hugging a tree, holding on to life and unbroken limbs (tree and body) so dear.

And oldest cherub so lively and quick ran to the scene . . . it was pure slapstick.

After a fleeting moment of horror and then the viewing of things quickly turning out OK, I lost it in a fit of hysterical laughter.

I even acted surprised when the story was later relayed with great fanfare.

“Dad fell out of the tree, but had the presence of mind to grab the trunk on the way down? You don’t say.”

I think they were disappointed over eliciting only a slight giggle from me.

I never told them I saw it all go down and laughed myself to tears and stomach cramps.

Yule keep this between us, right?

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

First, I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving and that those of you who braved Black Friday made it home in one piece with your booty.

By the time this meets up with your eyeballs, I will have face-planted—hopefully somewhere soft.

My bed would be ideal. And if I could get away with pulling the covers over my head and staying there until December 26, I would.

I’m not sure how I made it nearly 41 years without cooking and playing hostess with the mostest for Thanksgiving, but my turn in the oven finally arrived.

I’m writing to you under more than slight duress and a mere 48 hours away from T-Day (my kitchen and cookbooks are holding me hostage) as I think of everything that needs doing and how most of it can’t be done until the last minute.

My apron goes off to all you ladies (and gents) who have pulled turkey and fixings out of the hat year after year.

I was ready to throw in the dish-drying towel after the shopping alone.

Who knew this genteel lady would unleash some not-so-nice feistiness over the last-on-the shelf bag of pecan halves? Just kidding. Maybe.

 Instead of rudeness and outwardly pointed elbows I used stealth and cunning—took advantage of females who decided center-aisle was the place to discuss the finer points of pecan pies. They never saw me, but one was certain she saw a bag on the shelf.

 “Where did it go?”

I snickered as me, pecan halves, and my ninja-like ways strolled away to the tune of Andy Williams’ “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year”.

Then, true to form, I giggled some more and started tinkering with Andy’s lyrics . . .  right inside the local Wal-Mart where holiday cheer is on ample display—if not in human behavior, at least in décor and merchandise.

Be forewarned: I’m the Grinch and Ebenezer Scrooge all rolled into one when it comes to the consumer madness the holidays have become. In the great words of Cindy Lou Who (of “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas” fame), “Everyone seems too kerbabbled. Isn’t this just a little superfluous?” Smart girl. Bah humbug!

It’s the most plunderful time of the year/ With kids single yelling and everyone telling you not to sneer/ It’s the most plunderful time on this sphere!

It’s the snap – snappiest treason to enthrall/ With those night and day bleatings/ And way sappy meetings with friends at the mall/It’s the snap snappiest treason to enthrall!

There be parties for boasting/Some bellows for hosting/ And too much too and fro/ There be nary proper glory to the long ago story/ Because we gave it the heave-ho . . .

It’s the most plunderful time of the year/There be much overflowing/And smarts not a showing/ When pocketbooks are steered/ It’s the most plunderful time on this sphere!

I hope you got a chuckle out of my rendition. It’s all in jest. Maybe.  

You all go ahead and stop center-aisle and catch up on the past five years. If your item disappears from one glance to the next know that stealthy ninjas are most plunderful. And if you hear the whistling of a catchy Christmas tune, it’s not me. Maybe.  

© 2011 Natalie Whatley