Natalie Whatley

Please bear with me. Each and every time I sat down and tried to get through this I started bawling.

The Big Guy, for reasons we are not privy to, sees fit to have us bump into each other. Some hit harder than others leaving deeper indentations. On fortunate occasions friendships are formed and gifts money can’t buy are received.

I’ve lived long enough to recognize it, hold onto it, and feel the pain when it’s time to let it go.

And this past week I had to let go of at least my Earthly friendship with one Lavon Heintschel.

Having been born in Baytown in 1925 and remaining here all her life, many of you knew her, too, and for far longer.

I met Miss Lavon (that’s what I always called her) in the summer of 2009 when I began the Baytown Police Department’s Citizens Police Academy. Each week she stood impeccably dressed behind a table full of sugary delights, and since I tend to linger at such places, sampling one of everything, we got to know one another.

She had witnessed me running my mouth through my fingers here and began commenting on columns. I found a kindred spirit and enjoyed cutting up with her.

Little did I know, she was scouting and recruiting for a little job she had a class member perform at the Citizens Police Academy graduation banquet. Unbeknownst to yours truly, she had her eagle eye on me.

A few weeks passed, and after she had me adequately buttered and sugared up, she sprung my “duty” on me. I had been selected . . . to stand up and speak. Publicly. In front of people.

Anger drove me to such drastic behavior in the past, but I was a woman with a bee in her bonnet and was thusly driven.  And I still broke out in hives, felt as if my heart would surely pound out of my chest, shook like I was having an all-over body spasm and I’d have sworn I didn’t have any bones in my rubbery legs. How I managed not to stutter during such occasions remains a mystery.

Anyway, I pleaded my case to Miss Lavon. She wasn’t having it. She waved her little hand, smiled and chirped, “Oh! You’ll be great!”

Well, I wasn’t about to have it, either. And when I said no, I meant it. Bribing me with cookies wasn’t going to work. She had no idea how far I could dig in my heels.

Next class rolled around. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Miss Lavon skipped the pleasantries and went right to, “So have thought about what you’ll say? I’m giving you plenty of time to get your thoughts together.”

Spiked heels were in order. And I was going to have to drive them all the way down.

That little lady dragged me kicking and screaming through the thick mud in my own mind about what I was and was not capable of doing.

Under great personal duress and darn-near needing oxygen, I performed.  I faced my fear and secretly loved her for pushing me through that barrier.   

We stayed in touch regularly and she even came to know my children through her involvement at the schools’ Crime Stoppers programs where the kids participated in fundraisers.

Last Tuesday, just as her graveside service began, dark clouds poured heavy rain over the ground holding my shaky body. I had on the same spike-heeled shoes I wore that night I spoke.

The ground softened to mud and the only way to remain standing was to sink those heels all the way down.

Walking back to my car, I looked down at my mud-caked feet and realized my shoes would never be the same, and neither would I.

Good-bye for now, Miss Lavon. I’ll forever see your face every time I try to refuse even the gentlest of persuasion.

 © 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

Last week was a sad one, and the world lost one of the gentlest souls it’s ever had.

Mr. Clint Prothro passed away on Tuesday, September 19 after a short, yet courageous battle with cancer.

The evening prior I was surprised to hear he had taken a turn for the worse. Last I’d heard he was down a little from his “fighting weight” but holding his own.

I can’t even imagine Mr. Prothro taking a swing at anyone, but I envisioned some fancy gold boxing trunks and matching gloves clobbering cancer. I was even going to tell him about it when I saw him next. He’d blush, flash an aw-shucks grin and play it off like fighting for his life was no big deal. 

That day will never come.

There is a poem by an unknown author that begins, “People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime.” 

Mr. Prothro came into my life for a season. And while I wish the season could have been longer, I know they must change for time must march on.

I met him four years ago as a newly-elected member of the Chambers County Appraisal District Board of Directors.

NON-EDITORS NOTE: If the mere mention of “Appraisal District” makes you want to jump in the ring and tussle over property values, know that this particular board has no say in those matters.  Spare me the hate mail . . . on this point, at least. All other malevolent love letters will be addressed in the order in which they are received. Thanks for your cooperation, and have a nice day.

From the beginning of my tenure on The Board I was seated just opposite Secretary Prothro.

Most times we saw eye-to-eye on the business at hand and on those rare occasions we didn’t, well, we still had to look straight at each other.

Being the absolute gentleman he was, he always kept his long legs curled up over on his side of the table. Invariably, we’d kick each other from time-to-time.

 So kind and soft spoken, he’d start apologizing before I could. Now that was a feat because where he was wise and thoughtful —slow to pick just the right words before speaking—my mouth runs at light speed, often unaided by my brain.

Anyway, the kicking was never his fault.

He was the still, dignified elder forced by nameplates to sit across from a rambunctious young’un who squirms in her seat.  He was far more patient than I can ever hope to be.

He loved his family and church family—always had plenty of tales on their adventures to tell.

I also had the privilege of hearing about some of his childhood antics. It was hard to picture such a genteel man having ever been a mischievous little boy.

He listened to the escapades of my boys and reassured me they’d be just fine in spite of themselves.

And sometimes after meetings we’d talk national politics.

It wasn’t until then that I really learned of Mr. Prothro’s sense of humor.  He was one of those folks who spoke gently and even in mimicking a yell remained quiet about it, but he’d slip a zinger in.

I learned to catch it by the twinkle in his eye as he anticipated those listening to “get it”.  As soon as we did, a broad, toothy smile would span his face.  I’ll miss that the most.

Farewell, my friend.  I’m a better person for having had my feet planted close to yours, if only for a season.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Life surely hums along. We’re nearly a month into the new school year, and with any luck the next few weeks will move the stifling heat to the rear-view. Change is good.

Seasonal variations have always captivated me. I have a hard time deciding whether I like the transition from summer to fall or winter to spring better; suppose I love them equally but for different reasons.

What I’d really love would be to live in a location where there were four distinct seasons visible to the naked eye and even felt by not naked skin. A girl can dream, but I digress. 

As of now, our neck of the woods is geographically in the migratory path of the Ruby-throated Hummingbird, which must exit its northern home for the upcoming winter.  Yea for us!

Before I go any further, please know I am not a member of the Audubon Society or even a serious bird watcher, but rather a curious rank amateur who thoroughly enjoys sitting on the back patio watching the hum of activity around a feeder filled with sugar water.

A quick search brought up long reading.  I’ll aim to hit the highlights. If I miss something pertinent, let me know.

Generally speaking of all hummingbirds, aptly named because of the “hum” of their rapidly moving wings: Did you know they are the only bird that can fly backwards? They owe that to the fact that unlike all other birds, they can rotate their wings in a full circle. They can also fly upside down.  

Watch two males fighting and you’ll see “rollover maneuvers” mimicked today by fighter jets.  Add that prowess to the fact that proportionately speaking they have larger brains than others in the feathered kingdom and these tiny iridescent wonders pack a punch. They can fly at speeds averaging 25-30 mph and dive at 60 mph.

While we spot others here besides the Ruby-throat, named for the red band on the males’ throats (the females lack the colorful attribute), that’s the variety I’m seeing at my feeders.

And as I’ve enjoyed their territorial feeder-fighting antics, I had no idea they were feeding—needing to double their weight— for a feat that baffles scientists: A non-stop, 18-20 hour, 500-mile flight across the Gulf of Mexico to their warmer-climate winter home in Mexico and other parts of Central America.

In late July the males began their southward movement close to our coast, followed by the females and young.  They’ll spend weeks here fattening up, and will start flying over in mid October. By mid November the migration will be complete.

When they head back north in March, they’ll stop by again only briefly as the long flight is then behind them. Plus, they’ll have a trail of spring flowers providing nectar all the way back to Canada where they will spend their summer.

With the severe drought this year, these birds don’t have many nectar-producing flowers to feed upon. And while they get most of their nutrients from eating insects, the nectar is essential in getting ready for their lengthy travel.

If you’re interested in a great show or just helping them in their journey, hang a few feeders (out of sight from each other helps with the territorial bickering) with a boiled 4-to-1 sugar solution (1/4 cup sugar to each cup of water). No need for fancy commercial food or even food coloring, but do allow it to cool before offering it to our little friends. They will come.

Sit back and enjoy the frenzied pace of life humming along. It’s a sign cool changes are coming.

 © 2011 Natalie Whatley

Would one of you please turn off the oven! I’d do it myself, but I’ve half melted into a puddle. Try as I may, I can’t reach the knob.

While reflecting on what to share with you all this week, I opened the morning paper to the headline “ERCOT urges power restraint during peak hours” and I already heard on the news that rolling black-outs were a possibility. The power grids: “She can’t take much more of this, Captain!”  

Since I’m committed to the let’s-keep-us-all-cool-enough cause (note I didn’t say “cool”, but rather “cool enough” . . . there is a difference) I’m tapping out this week’s column with a stone tablet and chisel. I bet you had no idea my writing methods were so versatile.

I’ve taken some time over the past several months to scan a few articles on the extreme temps—both hot and cold—that we have “enjoyed” in these parts over the past months.  Most of it was very scientific, and I couldn’t bring myself to really care about the whys and whatfors, but rather looked for someone, anyone to tell me when we could expect to feel extremely normal again. 

Anyone else not like the answer, “No end in sight”? That’s unacceptable. Let’s all have a word with the man in charge.

And I get a kick out of the recommendations for weathering the heat. But I suppose when it gets to the point of reviewing said recommendations we’re talking basic survival versus luxurious comfort.

Straight from a governmental agency’s website: “Wear as little clothing as possible when you are at home”.

 Have you noticed that some of our brethren extend that directive to the public domain? Normally I would be upset with them as most of us only remove so much clothing in polite company, but it’s been so darned hot that even wearing my birthday suit makes me sweat. So, I sort of understand and find myself extending sympathy.

And while I sit around my home, skeleton exposed because I’ve stripped down as far as I could go, I’ve been doing just as ERCOT has asked: conserving energy. I don’t do anything I don’t have to. I’m so good that I’ve added five additional pounds of reserve. I couldn’t be more proud of myself.

All non-essential electronic equipment is powered down, thermostat is set several degrees above my standard comfort zone (and the a/c still can’t keep up) and other household occupants have been advised to “use restraint” lest they want to cut off entirely.

In short: It’s a bit warm. Folks are running around nearly naked and fully agitated. Who could blame us?

It’s disconcerting to learn firsthand the feelings of a frankfurter encased in a convenience-store rotisserie. And I must speak to one of them and get some hydration tips. They always look so succulent. I feel beyond parched.

All this extreme heat and so little precipitation . . . it’s extremely uncool!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I imagine we can all agree the extreme heat usually reserved for August arrived ahead of schedule this year. In short: The heat is oppressive.  And it looks like we’re in for a longer than usual spell of it.

Curious like a cat (yeah, I realize it could lead to an untimely demise, but I’ve got 2 lives left), I had to dig up what was behind the phrase “dog days of summer”.

It all started back in ancient times when Sirius, considered the “dog star” because it’s the brightest in the Canis Major (large dog) constellation, would rise just before or at the same time as the sun. This movement was associated with hotter weather as the dog “seemed to be chasing the sun.”

 Sirius no longer rises that way due to changes in the equinoxes (starts to spring and fall), but the phrase that was born of its old ways hung around . . . obviously for a very long time. And of course it still gets very hot. For convenience, we’ll blame that dog.

In 1813, John Henry Brady’s Clavis Calendarium— an analysis of the calendar as we know it illustrated with ecclesiastical, historical, and classical anecdotes—described the dog days as, “when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, Quinto raged in anger, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies.”

Wow. Makes it sound like we humans get a tad cranky and/or crazy when it gets this hot.

And like a canine chasing its tail, I spent precious time trying to figure out to what or who “Quinto” refers to in that quote. Never found an answer.  If you know, I’d be eternally grateful if you’d educate me.

And “phrensies”. . .  just an archaic spelling of frenzies. Same violent agitation and delirious excitement we know in modern times.

But back to my point: It’s hot.

The “dog days” are known to be the hottest, most sultry (love that word as no other can make hot and moist sound so sophisticated) of summer and usually fall between early July and early September. These are also historically days when rainfall is at its lowest. Could we be any lower in rainfall? I think so.

As I attempt watering my yard and watch the very droplets intended to sustain the one blade of grass I have left evaporate into the atmosphere . . . I’m thinking that takes us into negative rainfall numbers. The atmosphere is taking back what it has not giveth away!

OK, I realize it’s water and it came from somewhere, sometime, (I paid attention to my kids’ water cycle homework) but it’s alarming to know the supply is trending low. How’s that for poetic?

All I know is that a trip outside acquaints me with the feeling of a frankfurter in a frying pan. I can hear the juicy sizzle, see and smell smoke. It would be sweet if some kind soul doused me in cucumber-cool pickle relish. Sweet, not dill.

Siriusly, I wish that “dog star” wouldn’t hunt. That would be cool.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

In my book, not much tops a warm summer breeze accompanied by a lounge chair and a good read.  But sometimes finding that “good read” becomes a chore.

I’m a modern human, trained to exist on the shortest possible snippets, but I’m happiest when I’m lost in the pages of a hefty tome.  Imagine my displeasure when I haul one home from the library—or worse, pay for it—only to learn that for me and my tastes it’s a dud.

If you’re a reader, I know it happens to you, too. And that’s where Sterling Municipal Library and Jamie Eustace come in.

Jamie holds rock-star status in my little world because she’s read at least a million more books than me. And I swear she remembers each one. Hold up a title, watch the card catalog that is her brain flip through a few files, and faster than you can whip out your library card you’re receiving a well-put-together mini presentation. It’s fascinating, I tell you. And who knew a librarian could be so funny?

Beginning this Tuesday, June 14 at 6 p.m. you can see the wonder that is Jamie for yourself at Sterling Library’s summer program, Red Fox Reviews, at the Red Fox restaurant on recently refurbished Texas Avenue. (If you haven’t seen the improvements to Texas Avenue, I guarantee you’ll be impressed.)

Jamie will review books about daughters, sons, mothers and fathers. The ten titles selected will reveal the complications of family and humanity.  In other words: Come hear how you and your family’s craziness are not at all unique.  It’s always nice to know we’re not alone.  

The Red Fox will have wine, beverages, and specifically prepared appetizers available for purchase in the semi-private area reserved for the event, but readers are welcome to attend even if they choose to skip the refreshments.

 It will be casual and simple, so come as you are.  (OK. If it’s Sunday morning and you’re reading this in a semi state of undress . . . don’t come exactly as you are, but know it’s not a formal dress-up kind of affair.)

If you’re unable to attend, Jamie will be at it again on Tuesday, July 12. Same time, same place. Only July will feature books that are long or short to the extreme. So, we’re talking under 200 pages and over 400. Bound to be a good time . . .  that’s the long and short of that.

Then again on Tuesday, August 9, same place and time, readers will meet to hear about books with eye-catching covers.  According to the flier, “That’s right, we are judging books by their covers and only going for the good ones.”  I’ve always secretly wanted someone to grant me permission to do that. See, Jamie reads minds, too.

And, if the evening book reviews don’t agree with your schedule, Sterling Municipal Library is also hosting Brown Bag Book Reviews at the library each Thursday during June and July from 12-1 p.m.  Readers are asked to bring their own lunch and the library will provide drinks and cookies.

While you enjoy lunch away from your daily grind, library staff will review their favorite titles giving you plenty of suggestions for filling up your summer book bag. For more information on what genres will be presented each week visit www.baytownlibrary.org/staffpicks and select the Brown Bag icon.

I can’t wait. Hope to see you there! 

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Drought, wind, wildfires, earthquakes, floods, tornadoes. I personally have my fingers crossed for no hurricanes, but praying for something in the form of a small tropical deluge. Remember, I’m weirdly attached to weather patterns. My yard and I are feeling quite parched.

Oh and today is May Day, which I thought about discussing, but we don’t much celebrate it here in the United States because we’re not ruled by socialism . . . yet.  But I slightly digress, and I’ll leave that topic for another day and more evolved minds.

And speaking of things evolving, just what is going on with the global weather? I try my best to be informed, but I’m about ready to plunge my head deeply into the sand. See, I’ve only been here a mere 40 years. Earth: Well, it has been around for much, much longer— longer than man has been able to report.

I can’t really make heads or tails out of all the information available. And a quick search led me to believe kooks are running amok with theories  . . . some affecting our very lives and livelihoods.

My mostly under-meteorologically-educated mind likes to think that this big rock we live on goes through cycles that last far longer than any man. And, considering Earth’s age we’ve really only collected a tiny amount of data. Said data can be manipulated to “fit” infinite scenarios. I won’t mince words. Some of those possibilities make me wonder why I should continue to do anything related to long-term living.  

Some are claiming that the weather has become more extreme and arguments abound over whether it’s natural or man-made. Then the focus shifts from science to conspiracy.

Is the weather that much worse than it has been in the distant (one can even find the not-so distant) past? Or has technology given us way more information and the avenues to discuss it than we are prepared to handle?

Those we deem “experts” can literally talk tornadic circles around most of us, and like sheeple we tend to take it all as the gospel truth. Next comes the outpouring of opposing viewpoints. Then it’s anybody’s guess who’s “right”. Most of the time we can’t accurately predict weather-wise what will happen in a few days, much less a few years.

Yes, we’ve come a LONG way in the last 100 years, but even the folks back then were calling for apocalyptic weather events.  I’ll go back to what I said previously: Seems these patterns outlast generations. Do we really think we can control that? And does hand-wringing and worrying over it help? I do take some comfort in being prepared with supplies, etc. It gives me some sense of control when in the back of my mind I know the possibility of events for which there are no realistic preparations exist.

Historically, climate change has been uncertain, and I’m as uncomfortable as any when it comes to uncertainty. So, I’m going to do the only sensible thing left: study up on rain dancing and get with it. I’ll chant, “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” while I perform. Sure, I’ll look quite silly, but I’ll do it for you. Here’s to hoping we can all dance in the rain soon!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Here on this first day of spring, I can’t tell you how happy I am to now be able to read Randy Lemmon in The Sun. In case you’ve missed it, the host of 740 KTRH’s Garden Line now has a column running here on Tuesdays. Fabulous addition. Kudos to whoever fertilized that idea and made it grow.

I have listened to Randy many times, and he has tried his best to impart basic lawn-care knowledge. My ignorance is no reflection of his vast abilities. He led this horse to the water hose and well, you know the rest of that story. Anyway, nice to see him in print. Maybe I’ll absorb the message better if I read, reread, and read again with a nice, cold beverage while I lounge in my chair and wish for beautiful, lush surroundings. (I bet there will be a lesson on how the lawn and garden fairy doesn’t show for little girls who sit on their behinds watching and waiting.)

This time of year my mind starts conjuring up all sorts of beautiful possibilities for the sprucing up of the flowerbeds. Given my track record, it’s a mystery why I haven’t been investigated by one of Baytown’s many garden clubs and eternally banned from landscaping attempts. Exasperation, amaryllis envy, and far too many errors in my trials have proven me an herbicidal maniac. Is it asking too much to have some lovely flora before I’m pushing up daisies?

And it’s a strange thing: Immerse me in words and the creative engine sparks, but when it comes to horticulture (and many other things for that matter) I’m a dud. So, under the guise of exercise I take off on neighborhood reconnaissance missions whereby I carefully choose the victims . . . uh, I mean the plant species . . . that I will bury in my own plot. My choices have become fewer in that I have learned to accept the limitations of my non-budding talent, but I’m still plowing through to see just how far I can push the seed-packet envelope. Not far.

It’s all a shame because genetically speaking I should be able to hold two green thumbs way up as my lineage boasts some impressive gardeners. Somehow I learned to enjoy the end result far more than the hard-work process. Suppose it’s a generational thing? What’s a girl to do? I can’t even engage in plant-related conversation without my eyes glazing over and my ears obviously don’t work in the regard, either.

I take some comfort in that I’m not a complete failure: I have plants nearly twenty years old that have somehow survived. Survival of the fittest, I suppose. Hey . . . that means I’m an expert on what won’t survive. I think I just found my horticultural niche. There may even be a radio show and book deals in my future. The list of what I can manage to kill is endless.

Anyhow, I’m rolling out a big welcome mat for Randy. Maybe he can turn me around with some printed Lemmon-aid. Or maybe I’ll just sit back and watch him do all the work. I’m good at that!

 © 2011 Natalie Whatley