Natalie Whatley

I got a harebrained idea and decided to get on the Easter Bunny’s trail and work backwards to see just where he came from. I backtracked and burrowed deep. My mind is now scrambled.  If any of you are experts and spot an error, feel free to set me straight and know I tried to get it right. I’m like a moth to a flame when it comes to topics where conflicting information abounds.

To start off I learned that the Easter Bunny started out as the Easter Hare. By strict definition a hare cannot be a bunny as a bunny is a baby rabbit. Rabbits are not hares; there are differences. If you want to chase your own cotton-picking tail on the subject and how it relates, have at it. It’s a little confusing, but most agree the change to “bunny” in our modern times probably occurred because that sounded cuter and most people don’t realize rabbits and hares are not one in the same. It’s all about slick marketing.

At first glance, it appears the egg-laying bunny (I’ll get to that) has nothing to do with the Biblically-based holiday. But like many other parts of our culture, it all dates back to pre-Christian mythology somewhat melding with Christian celebrations and then morphing into one of our heavily-marketed special days. I know I make that sound not so warm and bunny fuzzy; I’m a capitalist with a more than slight disdain for commercialization. Yes, it’s a conundrum being me.

The beginnings of what we now see as Easter festivities started in 13^th century Germany where feasts were held in honor of the Vernal Equinox – the beginning of spring. Of course rabbits were a great symbol of fertility and spring renewal. Plus, legend has it that German mythological goddess Ostara (Anglo-Saxon name Eostre) had a hare (Lepus) as a consort (just repeating what I read, folks). She became angry with Lepus and cast him into the heavens . . . where he became the constellation Lepus the Hare at the feet of Orion.

At some point Ostara’s anger dimmed and she gave Lepus the gift of laying eggs once a year. (Ok, I can be creative, but even I couldn’t make this stuff up!) Eventually, Christianity adopted this same time of year to celebrate the Resurrection of Christ where renewal and new life were also central themes. Traditions that had been in place prior became part of the Resurrection celebration.   

In 1680 the first published story appeared about a rabbit laying eggs and hiding them in a garden. And then, all of this lore was brought to what is now the United States by German immigrants settled in Pennsylvania Dutch areas in the 1800s. Those children had a firmly held tradition of making nests  out of bonnets and caps hidden in their homes and gardens for the “Osterhas” (that’s German for Easter Hare) to lay his colorful eggs.

As you can surely imagine, those “nests” morphed into our modern-day Easter baskets where generally children leave their own colored eggs atop plastic grass to be swapped for candy, treats, and other small gifts.  

No matter from which angle any of it is traced back, it’s all celebratory of new life and new beginnings. And that’s eggstra special!  Happy Easter!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Because I aim to provide some service through my silliness and knowing some guys have forgotten or procrastinated until now: Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. The mere mention makes males the world over shudder. I imagine that’s especially worse here in our Western culture where “goods” are held in high regard. Anyway, you’ve been notified. In writing. Happy shopping.

In light of the heartfelt holiday, I thought I’d share something that’s unknown about me. I’m sure it’s hard for you to believe after all I’ve shared in this little corner of the newspaper that I’d have any secrets left. It’s hard work maintaining an air of mystery in such a situation, but somehow I’ve managed.

Anyway, what you don’t know because I keep it well hidden is that at my very core I’m a mushy, gushy romantic. (Please keep this between us; I can’t have everyone knowing about my soft underbelly.) And I chose the eve of what’s “supposed” to be the most romantic day of the year to make this confession because tomorrow is just another day to me. All the commercial, frilly, frou-frou fluff: silly. A seeming contradiction? Maybe.  I’m full of them. But that, you already knew.

Before you start thinking that I forgot to pack my inner Scrooge away with the Christmas decorations, allow me to submit that I have paid (with the giver’s hard-earned money, of course) the credit card bills containing costly Valentine’s flowers and waited ridiculously long times in restaurants to “properly” celebrate.  Call me strange, but not exactly my definition of a good or romantic time. And I want to know I’m loved and love others on any old ordinary day . . . not just because we felt obliged to express it on yet another over-commercialized date on the calendar.

Because feelings at my house would be hurt if I totally ignored the festivities (I’m sensitive to those who don’t share my views), I do my part in helping the economy by purchasing some of the day’s accoutrements. However, I don’t expect it in return and honest to goodness don’t get my nose out of joint over it. It’s really not important to me. I know, men have been warned to be VERY suspicious of my kind . . . “It’s a trick!” No, I like to think it’s a treat for those who love me. And of course they are free to shower me with gifts and/or loving sentiments the other 364 days of the year.

Do I begrudge those who place high importance on the day? Absolutely not.  The sweetest thing about love is knowing what makes your beloved’s heart beat (or not) and specifically aiming Cupid’s arrow. Some of us are good shots while others miss the mark.  And maybe that’s how all of this got started: A day to spray shoot all our arrows and pray one hits the bull’s-eye.

There’s an easier, and I’d wager cheaper, way. It can be a win-win and we are all equipped with the proper investigative tools: eyes, ears, and a mouth. (Remember we were given two ears and one mouth . . . listen twice as much as you speak.) Know the object of your affection and every day will be Valentine’s Day.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I’ll confess from the outset that my mind is all over the place this week. For starters, I’m cohabitating with kids full time while school is out. That on top of messed-up sleep patterns and a recent patch of watching too much television caused my disorientation. But I’ll get to that in a moment.

 On this second day of the brand-new year I sit contemplating that 2011 is a Rabbit year under the Chinese zodiac. No, I’m not “up” on the subject, nor do I dwell upon this type of thing, but I frequently immerse myself in Asian culture while dining at the Hibachi Buffet. 

Being so cultured, my ears perked when I heard a news story about the approaching Rabbit. Supposedly, this will be a more peaceful, fun, relaxing year as the ferocious 2010 Tiger leaves.  Be patient, though, the change won’t be official until February 2; calmness may not settle over us until then. I’ll take serenity whenever I can get it.

Anyway, I know you’d expect no less from me, so I have derived my own little system of prognosticating. 2011 will likely be the Twilight Zone for me. I got the notion from an annual tradition that causes me to glue myself to the TV overnight and for hours longer than I will watch combined for the remainder of the year: watching the SyFy —used to be Sci-Fi— channel’s “Twilight Zone” New Years marathon. (Should you ever need a cure for insomnia look up that name change and the resulting whimpering and gnashing of the teeth. Some people really need to get a life. Seriously, is that all you have to be upset about?) Yes, I’m aware I could own them all on DVD and view at my leisure. That takes all the fun out of it.

In spite of the fact that the series started a decade before I was even born, I love it. So what if it’s black and white with now laughable special effects. The stories are classic—written by the likes of Ray Bradbury among others.  Episodes deliver a mix of fantasy, science fiction, suspense, and horror often concluding with an unexpected twist.  Most were weaved into what could have been real life upping the ante and causing the viewer to feel a little (or a lot) unnerved.

Even better, writers were using science fiction for social comment and going uncensored because television networks at the time were ignorant of such a delivery method. Brilliant. What stark contrast to where we are now: We let it all hang out, heck, spoon-feed it, no need for any thought process. Sad.

Long before the popular TV show took the name, twilight zone simply meant “gray area”. And that’s precisely what I’m feeling for 2011. Tough for a girl who spent most her 40 years categorizing life events black, white, or other colors of the rainbow. Gray was never an option, and I certainly shied away from unexpected endings – gave me some silly sense of control. (Insert maniacal laugh here.)

Armed with a nice span of powerful ideas brought forth through cautionary tales more about human behavior than aliens and/or monsters, I’ll enter this “dimension of imagination” and do my best not to appear cheesy with dramatic flair. It will be a journey of sight, sound, and mind, for I have now entered The Twilight Zone.

© Natalie Whatley 2011

Greetings everyone! I hope this finds you all basking in the afterglow of a beautiful Christmas. Because this time of year gets so busy, I enlisted some help with my column. I’d love to give credit where credit is due, but as is my luck there’s controversy buried in something as simple as determining who penned the famous “‘Twas the Night before Christmas”.

To avoid potential problems, I’ll say thanks to Clement Clarke Moore OR Henry Livingston for providing inspiration way back in the 1820s. I’ll let those two hash it out.  And without further ado, on with the show!

(Disclaimer: In no way do I advocate the use of a Taser on cute little sugar-plummed-up human beings, but who among us hasn’t at least thought about it? Don’t implicate yourself out loud. I, of course, make my inner-most t ruminations known for your amusement.  That I might be arrested, or locked in a rubber room for doing so is a job hazard I accept; money and fame have a way of negating such things.)

‘Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the town, parents lying passed out, drooling, face down. The stockings are emptied all over the floor, sweet-candy contents consumed, hyperactivity hard to ignore. The children are crazed darting to and fro, with so much that is new, which way to go?

Mamma in her robe and Papa with his new razor, decided they should have asked for a Taser! Because all through the house there’s nothing but noise, whose idea was it to bring all these toys?

Up from the floor they arose feeling numb, remembering it all came with a rather large sum. The smiles seemed worth it leading up to the day, who imagined there would be such a fray? When what to their haggard eyes should appear, youthful energy waning, relief may be near!

Small little people beginning to yawn, they’ve not slept a wink since yesterday’s dawn. More rapid than the effects of sugar, energy tumbled. One tripped over strewn packaging and wearily stumbled. “Now, sleep! Now, Slumber, Now, Nap! Now, Doze! On Dream! On Hibernation”, sleepy parents propose. Don’t worry about a bed, right there is fine. Relax little darlings it’s all by design.

Like a litter of pups nestled in a papered box, they curl up wearing pajamas, feet covered by new socks. Silence reigns and a sweet sigh released, for all the mayhem has finally ceased. And then in the silence, the feeling, it grew. It really was worth it, what an incredible view. The moment, it sparkled.  The minutes began to pass. I wanted to freeze it, stop the hourglass!

Beginning the clean-up, trying not to disturb, the trash was cleared and hauled to the curb. Tired, but feeling renewed, my heart swelled, began to protrude. For it was all over, at least for a year. I leapt through the air and yelled a loud cheer.

Returning to ground and zipping across the drive, I rejoiced as I realized I’d made it through alive! And with that it was done, over, the end. At least until next year I mused as I grinned.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

In keeping with my word I set aside my semi-Grinchy ways, armed myself with some holiday spirit, plastered on a smile, and mostly worked my way through the holiday shopping list. Incidentally, that list gets harder and more stressful to make each year because the people in my life already have everything within my monetary grasp.

Wearily returning home and without missing a beat I became determined to put additional unpleasantness behind me by embarking on a marathon wrapping session.  For good measure, I taped my grinning-while-bearing-it mouth shut to avoid verbally spoiling the outward appearance that I was enjoying the task.  I know, what is wrong with me?  It’s the most wonderful time of the year! (And, ladies, Scotch tape does a fairly decent job of moustache removal.)

Somewhere along the line I picked up that finding a special, meaningful gift and packaging it in a way that incites anxiousness and intrigue on the recipient’s part is supposed to be one of the highlights of life. ‘Tis better to give than receive, right? Absolutely.  I’m just so much better at giving, well, not material stuff. I partially blame it on having far too many options — a nightmare for those of us who aim for “just right” in the gift department.

Anyway, the wrapping made me think about outward appearances and how it really is possible to dress up practically anything and have it look fabulous on the outside. But isn’t what’s on the inside what really counts?

I suppose there is something magic about the possibilities of what might be inside . . . right up until the contents are found to be a disappointment after lavish packaging built lofty expectations. Precisely why I avoid elaborate wrap jobs. That explanation also doubles to conceal the fact that my skills in that department are lacking. Not much in life intimidates me more than fancy gift-wrap accessories. I do well to tie my shoes. Enough said.

Enter the gift bag.  Why didn’t someone think of it sooner? Even I was able to quickly master the art of fluffing the tissue with relative ease. I use them as much as I can and they have eased my gift-giving woes, but they’re not practical for family members prone to pre-presentation snooping.  (In case they are reading: I refer to those who rifle through my closet. And you thought I didn’t know. If you really want to pull it off, pay closer attention to putting things back the way you found them.)  

Deep down, I know I shouldn’t let the whole gift-giving frenzy spoil my good cheer, but as I near the big day I like to make sure all the present stress is wrapped up so that I might enjoy the future holiday. And when it’s done, I get a twinkle in my eye thinking of all the reasons I want to give to others while remembering that the reason for the season has nothing to do with packages, boxes, or bags.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

One holiday down. I bet most of you have come out of the Thanksgiving-food coma, but I’m happily still sedated. Don’t worry. I did it on purpose as it’s my preferred state this time of year.

I thoroughly enjoy holiday get-togethers and spending time with extended family. However, I hate shopping. Period. Any time. And the shopping atmosphere during the holidays: loathe entirely. Even the music gets on my nerves. Do I sound Grinchy? Good. That’s what I was aiming for.

I’m not sure when or how I turned so sour on the holiday season, but I am concerned that my awful attitude will grow and I’ll be an old, bitter, nasty woman who no one will want to be around. Oh my. How sick is it that that almost sounds like a good plan? Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to get a little peace and quiet.

Kidding aside—and maybe there is more than a slight possibility I wasn’t kidding— why does it take so much stuff to celebrate? Yes, I’m a mom. I get it. It’s incredible to behold the sparkle in a young child’s eye as he experiences the magic of Christmas, but I’m a firm believer in “less is more”. Trust me when I say that sweet little cherub will one day be a hormonal teenager. Save some of that wanting to “give ‘til it hurts” in reserve . . .  you’re going to need it.

Anyway, getting back to our compulsion for over-the-top consumerism, I’d just like to buy myself a little sanity and tranquility for the holiday season. Then I’d be fully equipped to give respect, common courtesy, a helping hand, a smile, and even the benefit of the doubt that underneath that crabby lady who elbowed her way to snatch the last whatsit from my weary hands is under normal circumstances a decent human being.

My bah-humbugness aside, people I love would be disappointed if I didn’t hop on the runaway holiday freight train, so I will join the masses and do my part in keeping retailers merry. And because I know many of you will be there with me, I’d like to remind everyone of a few things.

The Baytown Police Department’s Crime Prevention Office doesn’t want the spirit of giving lulling us into providing opportunities for crooks.

Park in well lit areas and make note of where you parked. Upon returning to your vehicle, have your keys ready. (Ladies, this is NOT the time to be digging through your purse.)

If you will be shopping several stores, hide previous purchases in the trunk or somehow place items of value where they are not visible by a passerby.

If possible, don’t shop alone. Stay alert and be aware of your surroundings. Carry purses close to the body and avoid carrying large amounts of cash. Also, don’t overburden yourself with packages.

Remember if you’re stressed out and in a hurry you’re more likely to become careless and unwittingly assist a real Scrooge. I know . . . IF?  Be careful out there, my friends.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

In a few short weeks you’re likely to find me railing against holidays. The big, over-commercialized ones are around the corner. Retailers make certain I’m aware far earlier than I find necessary. Annoyed, I look away. Some would say it’s a form of denial, but I prefer to think of it as thumbing my nose at the ridiculous.

That said, today is a special day and one that I’ve never allowed to go unnoticed here in my little corner of the paper. Today —the first Sunday after Labor Day, and as presidentially proclaimed in 1978—is Grandparents Day.

I walk a fine line here in that I know if I continue to build this one up, the retailers will come. But this is one I feel doesn’t get enough recognition.

When I think of the word grandparent, I hear emphasis on the grand. That sentiment increases when one can add great in front of it, and I was fortunate enough to have had great-grandparents far enough into my life that I have many fond memories of them: The funniest being that I called my great-grandfather “granddaughter” until I was well into my teens.

I started calling him that as a toddler and no one ever corrected me (that I can remember). It took my Aunt Bonnie, who is only five years my senior and known for telling things like they are, to set me straight. Yes, I was embarrassed. But, hey, I still love “Granddotter” (that’s how it was spelled in my misinformed-by-omission mind), the late Johnnie Spaulding, and think of his ever-so-sweet coin-doling self frequently.

As I move down the family tree and remember those I’ve lost, I’m happy to report that I still have “Granddotter’s” daughter, my grandmother. She recently moved to town, and some of you may have met her: Ruby Watson. If you know her already, you no doubt see where I get the fiery spunk that stays hidden beneath a genteel exterior. (We’re those publicly quiet types who surprise people with what we say when we decide to speak.)

Then I get to my children’s grandparents. It’s hard to know where to begin with this bunch. As I think of them and their contributions the thought of “where would we be without them?” is what repeatedly surfaces. These folks have come to the rescue countless times.

They talked me down from the parenting ledge during many instances when I struggled to survive their darling grandbabies. And on those days when I thought I’d snap, they graciously swooped in and carted off my offspring for days of spoiling. That was always a win-win.

The kids always had a great time under the doting glow of patient people who thought they could do no wrong, the grandparents got to enjoy some mostly-not-responsible-for-the-daily-grind kid fun, and I regained a shred of sanity. Not one of my children recognizes how much they owe their very lives to these people. Recall that I’ve spoken of why animals eat their young.

Many thanks and Happy Grandparents Day to those of you who make life grand!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Please join me in wishing the great United States of America a happy birthday.

Comparatively speaking, we’re still quite young as far as countries go. Other localities around the globe feel we still have a lot to learn. And for all the advances we’ve contributed to the world we could certainly make some improvements, but only here do we understand how that knowledge must be gained.

We probably appear as unruly children, bent on pushing boundaries and thumbing our noses at those who wish to bring us in line by swatting our ample backsides. Yeah, I said it . . . ample. Statisticians say it’s the American way. And before anyone feels I’m pointing a finger, know that I’m soldier in that battle as well. I aim to keep my target smaller than those in my immediate surroundings – lessens the chances of a successful strike.

But I digress, and I assure you this column is not about hind ends, collective or otherwise.

I’m just tickled to be here on this July 4 and to have been born into a country that suits my temperament. I would’ve already been beheaded in some other places, or at least had my tongue cut out.

Independence is something I innately understand. My mother, the stunning Linda Rowe, will tell you it reared its head within my personality long before I knew what to do other than assert it.

Nearly 40 years of living with myself has taught me that independence is a sharp double-edged sword that must be wielded carefully. I’ve cut myself and others, even felt like falling on my own weapon a few times, but I learned not to make the same mistake twice.

That’s the beauty of freedom, we have the choice to be or do just about anything our hearts and minds imagine. We’re even allowed to mess up royally or abandon pursuits for any reason.

Am I advocating grand ideas with no follow-through? Heck, no! I just feel it’s great to be able to mess up, discover practicalities, and possibly find a quicker route to the finish line or start another race altogether.

We’re a different breed here – descendants of people determined to go it alone in a vast new world. Their hardships and steely resolve gave birth to the country I love and know as home.

There’s so much happening today that makes me wince, doubt where things are headed, and plain scare the rocket’s red glare out of me, but I wouldn’t trade it. Can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.

We’re hardy folks, and sometimes our dumb decisions cause freedom to wring our necks and remind us of the responsibility that comes with it. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. We live. We learn.

Remember those brave souls who gave us this day to celebrate and the chance to stumble on greatness . . . even as we stumble over our own feet. Happy Independence Day!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads, granddads, and great-granddads! It’s your special day, so allow me to give you a big pat on the back. You deserve it.

Most of my recent writings have been a little heavy, so I went on a quest to find some quirky Father’s Day facts with the intent of making this one at least a little lighter and hopefully humorous.

The holiday is fairly young — made official in 1972 — but even considering its relative youth, I was puzzled over finding nothing beyond the sad truth that there are more collect calls placed on this day than any other. Just a shame. But dads already know that fatherhood comes with a price far greater than the cost of a phone call.

I suppose I couldn’t find anything silly because fathering is serious business. Many of us are blessed to have had a man who did the job well – without an instruction manual (not that they would’ve read it) and through countless societal changes in paternal expectations. Two thumbs up, guys, for hitting that moving target.

According to anthropologists, it’s given that a child will bond with its mother. Dads, however, have to work at it. That would explain why they’re just plain more fun to hang out with. Not to say that moms can’t have fun, but we’re certainly not known for ignoring all sense of decorum in the name of garnering a few giggles.

And as if having to best mom to be in the pecking order wasn’t enough, then there’s the job of being a provider.  Even in these days of moms being a mainstay in the workforce, it’s hard-wired for a man to furnish that which a child needs to grow and prosper. The pressure is enormous and goes far beyond monetary.

While dads provide the obvious: food, shelter and clothing, it’s the non-tangibles above and beyond those necessities that really allow for the spreading of wings and eventual flight.

Being a role model, administering discipline, believing in his children, providing physical and mental protection, showing pride, giving of his limited time . . . the list goes on and on as does the investment that often takes a lifetime to mature. It’s a remarkable thing to watch.

I don’t know where we would all be if not for the men who show tremendous inner strength in the face of their own personal challenges and insecurities while being a rock for their children. A look through history shows fathers have seen unique challenges since the dawn of time. They always find solutions.

And while the ladies may sit back and bemoan how it all must look – not so refined, maybe even a little brash – it doesn’t matter because the kids are giggling and deep down they know Dad’s no fool. Thanks dads, for all you provide and especially the laughs along the way. You’re the best!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

While reflecting upon Easter and planning for the traditions that have become associated with the holiday’s promise of new beginnings, it occurred to me that sometimes folks get stuck in their pursuit of a colorful life – possibly inside a Styrofoam egg carton. 

The dyeing of eggs is a custom that can be traced back to the Middle Ages. Colors used, methods, and styles of decoration vary to reflect ideals important to specific cultures. However, the symbolism of the egg representing new life remains constant. For hundreds of years those symbols have been carefully prepared and offered as gifts signifying wishes for new life and fresh starts. I don’t know about you, but I’ll take all the rejuvenation I can get. I’m trying to coexist with teenagers. Need I say more? You know where to send the eggs.  

Since I’ve been working on my rather fluid insides – preparing for the necessary hard boil that will hopefully sustain me through some trials and tribulations – I decided my outer shell is quite ready to sport a bright, new paint job. I’m thinking something sophisticated with strategically-placed jewels to draw the eyes away from imperfections. Optical illusion is the name of the outer-shell game, is it not?

As is my life, boiling water was readied only for me to discover that I wouldn’t be enjoying the innards-hardening hot bath because I was glued to the carton. At some point in transit I cracked and oozed. Since the fissure was located just below the cup line of my cozy left-bottom-corner compartment – hidden to onlookers – my intact traveling companions were unaware of my unfortunate circumstances and left me all alone.

 I carefully considered eggstrication options which presented quite the dilemma: Pull too hard . . . my shell would break up, and I’d be quite the Humpty-Dumpty mess. If I did nothing, I’d surely rot; the smell would be most unpleasant.

Cemented in the realization that there would be no removing me from the carton, I thought maybe I could remove the carton from me. Piece by tiny piece I picked away until . . . Free at last! I didn’t look or feel so bad save for the tiny flecks of pastel-green lumpiness that were the Styrofoam sutures still holding me together.  Those would have to stay lest I wanted to perish.

Although the journey took a little longer than anticipated, I reached hard-boiled status and got a fresh, new outer look to boot. Notice I skipped the glitzy gems and went with colors and materials that complement green foam. (I’m spinning so you can get a good look.) Not eggsactly the level of refinement and high fashion I had envisioned, but I need those pieces of the carton that stuck with me during difficult times and my subsequent dive into hot water – good reminders of where I came from.

Remember the words of Bernard Meltzer, “A true friend is someone who thinks you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked”. Happy Easter, friends!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley