Natalie Whatley

This week’s installment may be a bit macabre, but fitting as a little pre-Halloween fodder. I would’ve kept it under wraps for another week, but the show is going on.

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

It was the last Bingo number called for the night. “B-1” made yours truly the proud new owner of the prize no one else claimed in the two hours preceding:  a countertop cotton-candy maker. Am I lucky, or what?

I’m sure luck had nothing to do with it. It takes special skill and laser-like focus to win at Bingo.

The winning streak was running long for the Whatley Clan at the BERA (Bayer Employees Recreation Association) Annual Bingo Bash beautifully put on twice each year by Andy and Clarissa Legg, who by the way are new parents to one of the cutest babies I think I’ve ever seen. I swear by Hasbro toy makers he is the real, live Cabbage Patch Doll.

Fortune —or misfortune depending on where one is situated in the parent/child equation—had already smiled upon us earlier in the evening. Jeremy won an electric keyboard and Erin a karaoke machine.

These items complement the electric and acoustic guitars as well as a viola already enjoyed in my home. Told you I was lucky.

All that’s needed to topple my mental state into insanity and make permanent the nervous tick I have acquired is a set of drums.  No, I will not accept donations from any of you who’ve already lived through this special brand of crazy-making.

But getting back to cotton candy:  My not-so-little cherubs couldn’t wait to try it out. And I bet you already know they weren’t nearly as enthusiastic about cleaning the thing afterwards. However, as the webbed confection blew through the kitchen air, they did run in circles catching the “mess” with their tongues. Good times. (The cotton is supposed to stay in the collection bowl atop the maker IF/WHEN the operator is skilled enough to catch it all on the provided cone. I need to practice.)

Nostalgia Electric’s Hard and Sugar-Free Candy Cotton Candy Maker transforms hard candies straight into honest-to-goodness carnival deliciousness.

I banned cotton candy from my personal diet a long time ago as I was concerned over ingesting tons of pure sugar, but I was amazed to learn how much sugary cotton was produced with a mere two pieces of hard candy.

Two peppermints, which I’d never blink an eye over consuming, are two peppermints regardless of their form. And two of the red and white candies provided a perfect, pink serving. I love it when I learn something new like this. Life is sometimes so sweet.

We played with our new toy until queasiness set in, and I must admit to my surprise the machine was incredibly easy to clean.

Afterwards, you know I had to find out how and who in the world discovered a pillow-like material that literally melts in one’s mouth.

Its roots go way back to the banquet tables of European aristocracy and a time when sugar was so rare it was kept under lock and key. Spun sugar was the precursor to the cotton we know and love today. And it’s all about caramelization and what happens to sugar when it melts. It gets a little scientific.

That’s not entirely interesting, but what did make me take note in confectionary history was that the first patent on a cotton candy machine was obtained in 1899 by candy maker, John Wharton, and dentist, William Morrison. You think those two were in cahoots? Pure-sugar genius there.

Anyway, back then what was produced became known as “fairy floss” and cotton candy as we know it didn’t really become popular until the 1920s. It has remained a fun staple ever since.

All of that aside, I had an unexpected great time with two of my most favorite human beings on top of a fun night of Bingo with family and friends.

It’s a beautiful thing to be living in such high cotton. And when it gets too noisy, I’ll stuff some in my ears.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

My interest has a penchant for thorny subjects, which leads my reading endeavors down a long, winding road that I sometimes have trouble finding my way back from.

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

It has been said that we all must “pay for our raising”.

 I believe that’s true and my mother, the stunning Linda Rowe, will no doubt rejoice (or at least giggle) over the fact that I’m making payments.

Before I get started on describing the nature of the currency with which I’m repaying childhood debt, I must confess that I was the most difficult child and teen to get out of bed.

 The fact that I showed up for school and later work on time was a testament to the grit and determination of my maternal figure.

Also know that this whole bit is more than slightly tongue-in-cheek.  I do realize that if what I intend to complain about is the worst I have to deal with: I’ve got it made. But it’s still annoying and teenaged son and I are having the devil of a time finding an amicable resolution.

Not one person residing at the Whatley residence could be labeled a “morning person”.  However, we do manage to tell each other to “have a good day” after grunting and growling and before heading our separate ways. “I love you” also manages to sneak its way past snarls.

It gets so ugly because three out of five of us don’t hear alarm clocks. That includes me. Shameful, I know. And I’d appreciate if we could just keep that here between us.

Making things worse, every member of the family keeps different hours—not by choice but by school and/or work mandate. The going and coming is nothing short of chaos.  Mornings are the worst.

I knew the new school year with one cherub transitioning from a junior-high school start time of 8:40 to high school’s 7:15 was going to be a challenge. Minor miracles take place each day he catches his 6:27 a.m. big, yellow, chauffeured-limousine ride.

I’m certain he arrives at the bus stop with a scowl that matches the one I wear for the remainder of my morning after we’ve tussled over his not getting up on time and the ensuing rush accompanied by my harping.

And when he misses his chauffeured-limo ride, it’s a most unpleasant trip by private car to the Ross S. Sterling campus. Two-year-olds have nothing on me when it comes to the tantrums bus missing induces in me. It’s pathetic, really. But I do put on my big-girl britches before getting behind the wheel.

It’s all very odd because this particular young man, who I’ll refrain from embarrassing by name, is at any other time polite, agreeable and just generally an easy-going pleasure. Love him dearly.

But, between the hours of five and six-thirty a.m. he is the spawn of Satan. And, yes, as his mother I fully understand what that makes me. I’m living up to the part beautifully.

So Jeremy . . . oops, I wasn’t going to mention his name . . . and I are going to keep at this morning thing and together we’re going to conquer his losing that hour and a half.

In the meantime: If you hear my hollering all across town in the wee hours just before day break I’m not just making a fuss, I’m raising Cain out of bed!

© 2011 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

Ten years ago this morning I stood stunned in K-Mart’s electronics department trying to understand the images on at least 30 television screens airing the exact same footage: a second plane hitting The Twin Towers in New York. It seems like a lifetime ago, and it seems like yesterday.

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

Sometimes life stings. We’ve all had our bee-in-the bonnet moments and some of us handle such excitability and/or distress with style and grace. Others of us, not so much.

Earlier this week a Lynden, Washington man took rather explosive retaliation against a beehive.  One of the hive’s inhabitants had stung the man’s friend earlier in the day.

The online Associated Press story stated the man dumped gasoline on the beehive in a tree, and then ignited the hive, causing an explosion heard throughout the man’s suburban neighborhood.

The fire chief also reported that the night fire caused a large “whoosh”, singed the tree and killed the bees. No humans were hurt.

At first glance, I harbored some admiration for the unnamed man who took decisive action rather than brooding over the seeming injustice.

 I recall many times when life buzzed on over to my person and planted its bee-hind’s stinger into my flesh, enraging me with a trivial annoyance that provoked a way-too-explosive response. Raise your hand if you can relate.

Anyway, my smug grin and I were about to move on when I noticed plenty of folks were inflamed and felt compelled to comment.

As I read others’ thoughts, I became very ashamed of having related to bee-havior that was deemed idiotic and irresponsible by the masses. How embarrassing. Please forgive me for enjoying living vicariously through—in the words of our brethren— “an idiot”.

Now, I’m usually a big-picture kind of girl, but I have to admit I totally missed the horrific implications of the bar-bee-cue.

While the fire and the ensuing explosion could have been big trouble for the man’s neighbors, it was the killing of all those bees that had folks fired up.

Without getting all scientific and further showing my ignorance, bee populations have been dwindling since 1972 and folks who are up on apiculture (beekeeping) have been buzzing the alarm.

In 2006, the term “colony collapse” started circulating as concerns rose over lack of bees to pollinate food crops, and in the past five years the problem has only gotten worse. Recent studies suggest the issue is a combination of environmental stressors that are setting off a cascade of events that in turn cause worker bees to be more susceptible to pests and pathogens.

In short, we need every bee we can get.

And there I was: sad, stupid sap thinking he sure showed those stingers who was boss! 

But then I was zealously reminded of certain death by starvation coming to all human-kind should bees die off entirely – some say they’re closer than they’ve ever been in our recorded history.

Local officials involved in the incident stated the proper course of action would have been to call a beekeeper for removal. It did not appear the man was going to be cited.

I’m sure the public humiliation of his bee-havior being the “demise of all mankind” (that’s an actual quote from an interested party) will be punishment enough.

I think the bigger story was in how anger often moves us to fiery explosions – the implications of which we simply don’t see in our enraged state. I certainly don’t bee-grudge the man on getting his retaliation, but since I was so sympathetic, anger should get thee bee-hind me before I blow something up.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I know you’ve all been waiting with bated breath to hear of my kids-are-back-in-school adventures in holding down the couch. And I’d be glad to tell you all about it, but my brain is caught in a continuous loop of regurgitating my name, address, phone number, relationship to my children, and emergency contact information.

For good measure I’ll throw in what I had for my last meal; that’s about the only thing I haven’t been asked by the schools to divulge. Of course I speak in jest.

For those of you who are years removed and have forgotten: allow me to remind you of all the forms that must be filled out at the start of each school year. I’d even wager that if you have been removed for some time, the paper has increased by at least double. Bureaucracy is not a beautiful thing.

I’m considering the launch of major reform in this area as I believe each piece of paper should be uniform, allowing me to have a stamp made whereby a single movement would replicate all the particulars that have remained constant since my children entered school over a decade ago.

I want to scream from my rooftop, NOTHING HAS CHANGED!

I know that’s probably odd in this day and age and definitely boring (it’s exciting being me), but seriously . . .  I know there is someone, sitting somewhere with a horned head, wearing a red body suit and holding a pitchfork, thinking up a new form where I can be asked for my specifics yet one more time  . . . in my personal handwriting.  With all the technology available . . . really?

With each piece of paper I watch my somewhat beautiful longhand degenerate to the point of where it appears I need to go back to second grade. I can’t help it. I try to complete everything legibly, it’s just that my brain goes on auto-drive, my mind wanders to something far less tedious, and before I know it I’m rambling incoherently via ink pen. And you thought I only did it here.

I’ve often wondered what the point even is in offering up the various phone numbers requested, “should they not be able to reach me” at the first one.

I can recall every occasion I was ever contacted at home by any of the schools, and few times did someone have to use the second line of defense: my cell number.

You see, school nurses and some teachers have this special radar that is highly tuned to my personal whereabouts. I only receive phone calls needing my immediate attention in two scenarios: 1) while showering; 2) on the rare occasion I leave the greater metropolis of the Baytown area during school hours.

The first scenario is the most popular and I’ve usually just lathered up my hair with an ample dollop of shampoo.  I gave up on the slippery dash to the phone and now the landline’s cordless device and cell phone remain perched in an area of special reverence as I attend to my hygiene.

The second: I may leave town twice in an entire school year—take a day and enjoy some shopping and dining in a different locale. Never fails.  Those are always the days my otherwise healthy cherubs fall to some unknown malady.

Oh well. I suppose they can call me any time. And when I answer, I’ll dutifully recite my name, rank and serial number . . . just don’t make me write it one more time, please.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

When the human body becomes overheated, or maybe it’s half-baked, things go haywire.

Bad timing like no other, my home’s air conditioner chose this past week with its 100-degree temps to have issues. In a heat-induced hallucination I began dreaming of an ice cold “Winter Wonderland” devoid of heat and bickering teens.  In that snow white pleasant state of delirium I heard bells. School bells.

Then I found myself humming Felix Bernard’s famous winter melody and taking liberties with the lyrics Richard Smith added to it. I’m certain they won’t mind the ramblings of a deranged woman.

 Open your freezer door, stand in the crisp coolness bellowing out, and sing along in celebration for what is truly the most wonderful time of year:

                School bells ring, are you listening

                In the lane, Mom’s smile’s a glistening

                A beautiful sight,

                We’re happy all right.

                Kids are back to school throughout the land.

Gone away, is the summer,

Here to stay, homework’s a bummer

It brings smarts along

To even the headstrong,

Kids are back to school throughout the land.

In the classroom they can’t visit sandman,

And someone will be acting the class clown 

He’ll say: Are you buried?

They’ll say: YES, man,

‘Cause who can do a job

When they’re this down?

Later on, they’ll aspire,

As they scheme with some ire

To launch a tirade,

Over assignments displayed,

Kids are back to school throughout the land.

At the schoolhouse they will now spend their days,

And complain it’s really quite a bore

I don’t care the complaints leave me unfazed;

I did my time, now you must do your chore.

When school starts, ain’t it thrilling?

‘Cause young minds get a filling

They’ll whine and they’ll cry,

For summer’s gone by,

Kids are back to school; life is grand!

Ah! Back to school is so refreshingly cool.  The thermometer can explode tomorrow for all I care because life will be good, and more importantly: quiet. 

Summers with my children are special, but mostly because they’re fleeting. No way could we all handle so much together time year-round.

The last couple of weeks are always an extreme exercise in toleration. And to have the indoor climate control on the fritz when folks are already hot under the collar: not pretty.

But we made it through and fully recovered with the help of a skilled repairman and several hundred dollars.

We’re cool, calm and collected—ready to take on the new school year and jam-packed calendar.  And I can’t stop myself from singing: When school starts, ain’t it thrilling . . .