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

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

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

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

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

Here we are about a year out from National Election Day. I know, already? But it is high time for us to do some massive cleaning out.

I’m a little shaky on whether or not I’m up to the task and especially given we’ll have a full year of non-stop media coverage wherein we’ll dissect prenatal conditions, penmanship, and even the bathroom habits of each potential candidate.

Something very uncharacteristic happened to me after the 2008 elections, and I was hoping to be over it by now. It has been three long years since we had to consider our plight and choose leaders on a national level. What can I say? This girl can hold a grudge if she’s so inclined. I’m not proud of it, just stating a fact.

I must also point out that I’m not suffering from sour grapes even though I did not vote for the man currently occupying the Oval Office.

It goes far beyond my lesser-of-two-evils candidate and party losing. It’s rather some deeply-rooted (I accidentally spelled rotted on the first attempt . . . it fits, too) supposed fruit-bearing trees not coming to fruition, i.e. people who want the job but can’t or won’t produce anything beyond childish bickering. And even that’s on a good day.

In the great words of my maternal figure, Linda Rowe, and as I hold my hand just above my eyebrows, “I’ve had it up to here!” (Yes, the lovely Mrs. Rowe would pronounce that red faced and quite loudly when she’d had enough of us heathens not pulling our load around the house.)

And because I no longer have the stomach for the non-stop political finger pointing, what’s surely coming in the next twelve months is causing me anticipatory illness. I’m already exhausted. I’d call it sick and tired but that’s a bit too cliché.

I used to brag about being a political junkie—prided myself on my habit and knowing all the issues and players along with the various arguments. I was the life of the party and way too much fun to argue with. My family can attest. I’ll send them your condolences.

 And it was delightful in a weird kind of way to be in a public place—say waiting for my oil to be changed—and have people around me start in on politics. Local, state, or national, didn’t matter.  I would let it go for about as long as I could stand before I let my own firebrand roll across my pearly whites—in a sweet, volume-appropriate voice, of course.  Shocked a few people.  Apparently I’m very docile looking.

But something changed and I’m almost embarrassed to admit I quit caring about the whole lot of it. I tuned out. Ignorance has been more than slightly blissful when I can manage to ignore the consequences of apathy. If only I could ignore my conscience, too.

So, I suppose I’ll have to get over myself because in the end I know all too well that it would be ignorant to ignore Decision 2012.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

While scraping out the innards of pumpkins— saving the seeds for toasting— is good, squishy, and I’d even wager therapeutic fun, the legend of one Jack O’Lantern is a little devilish.

We can thank the Irish for bringing the tradition to America and for the story that goes back hundreds of years in Irish history. There are a few variations, but they’re similar enough.

Stingy Jack was a miserable, old drunk who played tricks on anyone and everyone. No family member or friend escaped his meanness. It’s said he even got one over on the Devil himself.

One day, Jack tricked the Devil into climbing up an apple tree. Once the Devil was well off the ground, Jack placed crosses around the trunk of the tree. Of course the Devil didn’t want to come down and deal with the likes of that.

See, Jack knew where he was headed in the afterlife, so laughing at the Evil One’s predicament he made the Devil promise not to take his soul when he died.  The Devil promised (he’s trustworthy?) and Stingy Jack removed the crosses thus allowing a climb down.

Years later when Jack met his demise he arrived at the pearly gates and was quickly led away by Saint Peter for he had, “been too mean and too cruel, and had led a miserable and worthless life on earth.”

Confounded, Stingy Jack took a trip way south of Heaven only to learn the Devil was going to make good on his promise and wouldn‘t allow entry there, either.

Stingy Jack was scared and had nowhere to go but to wander about for eternity in the darkness. He asked the Devil how he could leave him there with no light. The Devil tossed him an ember from the fires surrounding him and Jack placed it in a hollowed out turnip.

From that day onward, Stingy Jack roamed the earth without a resting place, lighting his way with his “Jack O’Lantern”.

On All Hallows Eve, the Irish hollowed out turnips, rutabagas, gourds, potatoes and beets. They placed a light in them to ward off evil spirits and keep Stingy Jack away. (I had to wonder here if Stingy Jack wasn’t afraid of the Devil, how this would deter him, but  . . . that’s the legend.) These were the original jack-o-lanterns.

In the 1800s waves of Irish immigrants arrived in America and discovered that pumpkins were bigger and easier to carve out. And we’ve been doing just that ever since.

Seems at some point I’d heard the jack-o-lantern tradition was loosely based around warding off evil spirits, but of course over time it just morphed into something fun to do.

Maybe Stingy Jack wasn’t so stingy after all. Not that I believe the legend surrounding him is anything but an unverified story passed down from much earlier times, but he aided in giving us modern humans something we can use to blow off steam. And if it also involves going costumed from house-to-house gathering delicious, calorie-laden, cavity-causing goodies, all the better.

I’ll light a few lanterns for you, Jack.

Take a page from the tale of Mr. O’Lantern and be a blessing in disguise. Have a Happy and safe Halloween everyone.

 © 2011 Natalie Whatley

Tomorrow, October 24, Britain’s Channel 4 will be airing Mummifying Alan: Egypt’s Last Secret. 

Sixty-one-year-old British taxi driver and lung cancer victim Alan Billis, who dubbed himself “Tutanalan”, answered an ad asking for a volunteer to be mummified King Tut style upon death. On top of that a documentary would be made chronicling the same three-month, five-part process used in ancient civilizations thousands of years ago. Then the mummified remains would be studied . . . until.

Chemist, research fellow at York University and man in charge, Dr. Stephen Buckley, says after mummification Billis’ remains could last several millennia. Of course he won’t be around to say, “I told you so”.

Mummifying Alan promises to show it all.

I was fascinated just watching the interviews where Mr. Billis, who passed away on January 14, 2011, discussed participating in such a project. He said it gave him something other than his terminal illness and impending demise to focus on as he spent his last days.

A documentary lover, Billis jumped at the opportunity saying, “If it doesn’t work it’s not the end of the world, is it? Don’t make any difference to me, I’m not going to feel it. It’s still bloody interesting.” I agree on the bloody interesting.

In the same interview, Billis and wife, Jan, even have a laugh when he says he hopes to be in a museum some day.

 Jan believes people find her support of the project strange.

In later interviews after the process is complete, but before the wrapping is done, she remarks on how much her husband still looks like himself.  

If this programme (that’s how they spell it over on the other side of the pond) was making its debut here, why Halloween night would be perfect. We’d have watch parties, be dressed as mummies and enjoy far too much food and beverage . . . all while staring wide-eyed at an honest-to-goodness dead body.

But apparently Halloween is not such a big deal over in Britain. I learned that fact while trying to figure out why I was the only marketing genius that would have held onto this potential television gem for a Halloween-night showing.

Mummies and Halloween have gone hand-in-hand since an obscure book simply titled The Mummy was published in 1821. Before that, no one ever really imagined a reanimated mummy or the curses on their tombs being a problem. But Hollywood picked up on the notion and made it a staple in modern horror writing and movies.

My satellite provider’s listings don’t include the program or British channels, but I’m giving the heads up for any of you more technologically sophisticated who may have paid extra for international programming.

If you watch, let me know if it lives up to all the hoopla because I tend to occasionally enjoy some horror that makes me run screaming, I want my mummy!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Of course we all learned in elementary school that “In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue” and in many circles was credited with “discovering” the Americas. 

With tomorrow being Columbus Day, I decided my brain and eyeballs would take a little voyage of their own—see what still garnered government closure amidst what has been growing opposition to the holiday for the past thirty years.

Thought it would be a quick in-and-out. Wrong. The answer wasn’t easily forthcoming.

Searching for one thing, I discovered something entirely different. Happens to the best of us. Columbus and I are now bonded that way. Bet I’ll be called an idiot, too.

Even if I turned such research into a full-time gig for the remainder of my earthly years, I’m not sure I could ever get to the unadulterated truth. 1492 was a long time ago. And like everything else I seem to sink my teeth into: folks don’t agree. Fact and fiction are easily blended. I don’t have the time or patience to determine which is which.

Where are H.G. Wells and his time machine when a girl needs them? With so much dissension, I’d rather pop back to pay Chris and crew a visit—see it all with my own peepers. 

Accepting what is probably our skewed historical record, I see strong arguments on both sides of the celebrate-or-not Columbus coin.

Initially I was swayed and ideologically pitched my tent in the camp that argued one couldn’t discover land that was already there and occupied by people.

Plus, some argued the whole thing was an accident as Chris was headed to China for gold and got lost. He stayed for a while and it’s said wreaked general havoc on a people and their homeland from that point forward.   

Those arguments held water with me, and as I searched I found the same sentiments echoed over and over. 

So why, then, on this not-flat Earth do we still recognize and even celebrate what is apparently blighted and far removed from us today?

I wasn’t the first the pose the question.

The comments of some anonymous soul brought it all full-circle, reminded me of the bigger picture, caused me to reconsider the above arguments, and pack up my tent.

“Well, there are really two salient reasons: One, a lot of different groups and people discovered the Americas before Columbus reached their outer islands, true; all of these led to exactly nothing except footnotes in forgotten musty archives. The voyages of Columbus were massively consequential (for good and ill) which cannot be said of any of the others who went before.”

“Two, despite failing to reach China, the entire enterprise is a glowing illustration of a man with a dream, using the best technical knowledge of his day to overcome resistance and superstition to achieve something, even if what he achieved was not what he originally set out to do, and so it strikes a special chord in the American spirit and speaks to us in a way the ultimate long-term failure to matter of all the predecessor enterprises does not.”

That’s it. That’s why it’s still important. It’s who we are as a nation, and no, it’s not always pretty.

I fully understand the reasons against celebrating the day. It was a new beginning for some, and a horrible end for others.

To follow in the footsteps of a few states and change “Columbus Day” to “Indigenous People Day” or “Native American Day” does nothing to right any real or perceived wrongs.

Failure and success go hand-in-hand. No one succeeds without daring to try.

Without ignoring atrocities and a sometimes troubled past, we should still pay homage to the dreamers who dared take a chance. Where would we be without them?

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Having already heard of the first plane “accidentally” hitting on the drive over, I suppose I knew at precisely the same time every other American did: We were under attack. The first one was no accident.

It was a beautiful September morning, much like the ones we’ve enjoyed this past week. The day had promise as I embarked on a shopping excursion in preparation for my son Jeremy’s fifth birthday party scheduled that weekend.

I was on a mission to snag a radio shown in the sales flyer for the birthday boy and gather up party supplies to boot.

My usual modus operandi would have been to make a beeline to secure the on-sale radio first, but for some reason I attended to the other items on my shopping list instead. That turned out to be a wise move.

Watching the fiery explosion and smoke billowing out of the high rises, knowing the horrific fate of the air passengers and building inhabitants, I no more could have remembered what I was there for or even comprehended my own handwritten list.  

Something as important as celebrating the birth of one of my own children all of the sudden seemed trivial and selfish. (Of course it wasn’t, but that’s how I felt at the moment. And by the way, I got the radio. ) And as bad as it was; the nightmare wasn’t over.

Tearing my eyes away from the suffering of fellow Americans, I believe I floated up front to pay. The entire store was eerily quiet.

I vividly remember a whispered conversation with the older lady working behind the register. I can still see her shaken, angry face. She had been around far longer and experienced more than me. I’ll never forget how her immediate resolve assuaged my fear.

Upon arriving home I went straight in and turned on the TV. It didn’t matter what channel . . . the broadcast was the same on every network. I sat down and stared helplessly through teary eyes while trying to wrap my mind around the new news and images of The Pentagon having also been hit. Then came the crash of Flight 93 in a Pennsylvania field.

In George Bush’s book Decision Points, he talks about that day and what was going through his mind as the events unfolded: “The first plane could have been an accident. The second was definitely an attack. The third was a declaration of war.”

If there was any silver lining to be seen, it was a unified America in the days following.  

A mere two years later, singer Darryl Worley had a smash hit with the title “Have You Forgotten?”

Have you forgotten, how it felt that day? To see your homeland under fire and her people blown away. Have you forgotten, when those towers fell? We had neighbors still inside goin through a living hell.

You took all the footage off my TV. Said it’s too disturbin for you and me. It’ll just breed anger is what the experts say. If it was up to me I’d show it everyday.

Amen, brother.

God bless the families who lost a loved one that day, the President and his staff who steered us through some of our darkest hours, the first responders, and the soldiers who continue the fight for our freedom.

I’ll never forget.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley