There was a scene in a Jimmy Stewart/Henry Fonda western called The Cheyenne Social Club from years ago, that my dad especially liked. Jimmy Stewart's character, filled with exasperation, turns to Harley, played by Fonda, and says "Harley, why are you?" Not "where" or "how," but, "WHY are you?" My dad would often have that question in his eyes if not on his tongue when looking at me. It is a question I still get...in a slightly different form when I visit schools or, this time of year, summer schools and camps. Today, for example, I head up to the terrific town of Polo, Missouri for a summer school visit. Last week, as I mentioned in an earlier blog...what do you call a bleak frog? A bl-og...or, as I look at it now, a fr-eak....I had a wonderful time at Fleetridge Elementary.

In the mailbox this morning was a colorful envelope filled with pictures and thank you letters from the students. One second-grader opened his letter by writing "Words can't express how happy I am that you came to our school....Oh, like you, I really like reading..." With lyrical writing like that, he should be doing a blog, not me! Another said "I hope you will look back and laugh about this (the visit.) Who else will laugh?" She signed hers with "I'm just a kid." Well, a very perceptive kid! All the messages were great and some included a version of that question "Why are you?" as in "Why did you become a weatherman?" I hear that one from kids at schools, adults at charitable events, viewers in the grocery store and bosses at work, all the time. The bosses at work, and some of the viewers, tend to emphasize different words in that sentence...usually the "YOU."

Some weather folks can point to childhood experiences with a nearby lightning bolt or tornado or blizzard as the spark for their interest in weather. Some had an interest in aviation which led naturally to weather. Some were influenced by watching their favorite weatherman on TV. I don't really have a story like any of those. Honestly, growing up near rivers and lakes, we tended to forecast by watching the sky at night or in the morning...or paying attention to animals. If the birds were going crazy it meant storms were on the way or Alfred Hitchcock had moved into your neighborhood. If the cows were not standing up it meant a change in the weather...we called those cows "ground beef." My mom swore that a little white-tail squirrel that used to bounce around outside our house could predict the weather. If he seemed especially in a hurry to gather food, a stormy trend could be anticipated or if he was wearing Bermuda shorts and carrying Coppertone, a hot streak was on the way. My mom grew very close to that squirrel and loved to talk to him through the window. I always imagined the squirrel telling his family about the "sweet, little blond human that is so cute to watch scurrying around the house...she keeps making funny noises but I have no idea what she's trying to tell me."

As for becoming a weatherman, I just sort of fell into it about 20+ years ago. The station in Madison, Wisconsin needed a weekend weatherman and I was already hanging around doing goofy little stories. I had taken some meteorology in college and, growing up in the area, had an idea about what kind of weather was usually in store. Also, I could sort of play the piano and pretend to sing. Why was that important? Our main weatherman, the legendary Elmer Childress, was really a fine Gospel singer. So, it was expected that music would, from time to time, be a part of the weather. We even did a weather commercial that was made up entirely of a song called The Cloudy Skies Will Clear Up...not a word about severe weather coverage or who had the scariest radar or who guaranteed what...just a little, optimistic song. So, it appears my interest in music had as much to do with my current job as interest in weather.

Actually, now that I think about it, the two things do come together. Even as a little kid, I loved old songs. When it would rain, I couldn't help, like lots of folks of any age, thinking of Singing in the Rain. Except, unlike most folks, especially age nine or so, I would actually go outside and try to recreate Gene Kelly's famous scene. Most of the neighbors wisely ignored this behavior, but across the street, that neighbor actually liked it...encouraged it, in fact. With the first raindrop she would start to watch out the window...when I would come charging into the street, singing at the top of my lungs, she would stand on her front porch and applaud. It was then, I guess, I should have realized I'd become a weatherman who tried to sing...or a singer who tried to predict the weather. So, I guess you can blame my neighbor for all the silliness that has come over the TV since then.

It gets even wierder: That movie I mentioned earlier, The Cheyenne Social Club, was directed by the same, singing, dancing Gene Kelly. Coincidence? I think not. Maybe this is just the beginning of a tangled web of answers to that original question "Why Are You?" Watch for it at your bookstore: The Duh Weatherman Code. I like the ring of that.

They're here. The Last Days.

The last days of school. For kids, teachers, parents...these are heady times. One of our own kids is especially happy to be staring summer break in the face. Let's call him or her Mookie, just for the sake of this story...you know, "the names have been changed to protect the innocent"or, in this case, guilty. Mookie begins sliding into the holiday break each December around Thanksgiving. Mookie starts thinking ahead to summer around April 1. In between is spring break which usually begins, in Mookie's head, on or about New Year's Day. When you figure in things like days off for teacher in-service or conferences, Mookie gets about seven days a semester of dedicated class time. But, back to the looming summer break.

I think the last day of school actually meant more to kids when I was little. For example, now, in many schools, students can wear shorts to school just about anytime. When I was a student, the last day of school was the only day you were allowed to bare your usually skinny, usually pale winter legs to the world. When I was in school in a small town, you lived in fear that any little misstep would certainly end up being told to your mother or father at the grocery store and, possibly, reported in the paper that week, and, if grievous enough, become the centerpiece for the sermon in church the following Sunday. Everything was going into your "permanent file" which sounded very serious. I doubted the existence of this "file" until, a couple years ago, I got a parking ticket and, with the ticket was a mention of a notorious spitwad incident in fourth grade. So, when you were given "permission," unspoken, to wear shorts and, bring water-balloons...well, that was the best. You knew it was summer when you left school totally soaked.

Summer also meant independence when I was young. More than now, in some ways. Sometimes it seems we just trade one list of places our kids have to be and when for a new list of commitments. For me and my friends, summer was spent mostly outdoors...making up games...running all over...walking to the pool...grabbing ice-cream from the high school kid selling it from a wagon he pulled with his bike. After a brief break for supper, we'd all be back on the street to play kick-the-can late into the evening. As a parent, I know all the good reasons we like to have our kids be involved in summer-time activities...there are safety concerns...we worry that they may fall behind if they're not doing all the stuff their friends seem to be doing...too many dangerous roads to stumble onto if not supervised...and many more things that go through a parent's mind. But, all of that, makes me wish my kids could more readily know what my lazy summers were like.

Not to sound like an old fuddy-duddy...although, by using the phrase "fuddy-duddy" I think I automatically qualify...but I think, because summer was such a totally different thing than the school-year for me and my friends, we appreciated it more. It's like cartoons. Back when you could only see them for a couple hours on a Saturday morning, they were treasured more than now when they are available 24/7.

Actually, maybe there is hope of returning to a lazier, less programmed, summer. Remember Mookie? Well, Mookie seems quite content to take it easy and have simple fun for the next several weeks. The only thing on Mookie's agenda is planning for the Labor Day holiday. In the meantime, I have to finish filling water balloons. Old habits die hard.

Even at three in the morning, today, there were plenty of cars and trucks on the road with boats and campers trailing behind. Most neighborhood pools are filled and ready for a refreshing splash sometime during this weekend which will be notable for record-setting heat. Picnic baskets are coming out of hibernation and BBQ kings and queens are limbering up their flipping muscles. Some folks maybe getting ready for special sales at favorite stores. For many of us, Memorial Day weekend signals the beginning of summer...regardless of the calendar and, with that, an overload of fun...not that there's anything wrong with that but this weekend means more than just a party.

In fact, growing up in a small Wisconsin town, Memorial Day was not really considered a "celebratory" situation. Of course, being Wisconsin, to call the end of May the "Start of Summer" was to tempt fate and risk waking up to snowflakes on June 1. Memorial Day was actually rather somber and serious. Just about everyone made the trek to the cemetery where the Scouts would present the colors, the junior high choir would sing, the high school band would play, a minister would pray and some nervous kid would recite In Flanders Fields. It was out of that poem:

"The torch...be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
in Flanders Fields."

that the idea of wearing red poppies was developed. The local VFW auxiliary sold them in our town and everyone bought one.

A few years ago, Natalie Moultrie and I emceed a parade on Memorial Day which paid special honor to those who served during the Korean War. It was a relatively small procession...not as grand as the American Royal Parade or as happily packed as the St. Patrick's Day festivity. But, what it lacked in pomp it more than made up for in circumstance. It was a meaningful way to decorate what used to be called Decoration Day back in the years immediately following the Civil War. (And, no, I wasn't reporting the weather on FirstNews at that time...I was just an intern.)

Several of my Mom's brothers and sisters served during World War Two, including Uncle Pic. He carried the pain of his service the rest of his life but never complained. Of her 11 children, all of whom she adored, my grandma used to say that Pic had the softest heart. Pic and his wonderful wife, Ila, lived down near Springfield, Missouri. When my Mom would visit us from Wisconsin, we tried to stop and see Pic and another great brother, Bud, on our way down to Branson. Our last visit was a couple years ago.

Uncle Pic made a big impression on our ten year old son, Harrison. Harrison is addicted to the History Channel and, especially, the WW II era. So, for him, Pic was a living connection to that time. They didn't talk a lot but Harrison just sat and stared...and listened. Over the more than three-quarters of a century that divided them, they connected. One question Harrison had was why everyone called his great uncle, "Pic." His given name was Winten but as a boy, he loved pickles...so he became, and stayed, Pic. It was a funny story told by a gentle man. Uncle Pic passed away not long after our visit.

This year, as part of a worksheet in 4th grade, Harrison had to fill in a box labeled "Something I've lost." He wrote: "My Uncle Pic who loved pickles and was in the war. I have his picture on our refrigerator so I remember." That is a pretty good way to define Memorial Day.

There are a lot of great things about my job.
For example, driving in at 2:30 a.m., you avoid lots of traffic troubles. Yes, there is the occasional case of road rage but it usually is in the form of dirty looks from possums. I have found that raccoons and foxes are less angry with me but, possums, well, they have issues.
Also, I never have to buy hair-care products. I just use the left-overs from Jim Flink. Since he was voted "best hair" a few years back by a local paper, I figure I am getting the prime stuff!

But, perhaps best of all, I get to meet and visit with so many terrific people at a variety of get-togethers. Today, I will head out to Independence and spend time with folks at the Health Care and Rehab Center. Yesterday, I was at Fleetridge Elementary in the Raytown School District. It is a great school filled with great people. The principal is Dr. Steven Archer. He introduced himself as Steve but he is a PhD. I couldn't help but give him a little trouble by saying "Doctor...I have this pain in my knee...could you help me?" He laughed like the good sport he is and, then, gave me detention for the next three lunch periods. Dr. Steve and his whole team was wonderful. The students were absolutely super...attentive, involved and lots of fun. They gave me a cool, red cap with Fleetridge emblazoned on the front! As I was leaving, a teacher asked me a common question "What do you do with all the goodies schools give you?"

This is a very generous part of the country and I can't remember the last time I left a school empty-handed. (Okay, once that was because I stole a stapler and three-hole-punch, but that was a unique situation.) Often, the gift is a t-shirt or a sweatshirt. As I've mentioned before, my wife and daughter are runners so they often swipe the shirts to use for their work-outs. My sons also wear the shirts a lot. In fact, I am missing all kinds of clothes as my older sons grow up. Mostly, ties and dress socks. But, I get back at them by wearing their dress shoes...especially on days when they need them for an event at school. That did happen a few weeks ago and I looked pretty ridiculous delivering the shoes to the high school office and walking out in my last available pair of dress socks with a couple of holes in them...fortunately, I do have a lovely big toe.

Once I was given a pillow in the shape of a torso wearing a tropical shirt and flower lei...a tribute to summer. On the way home, I strapped it into the passenger side of my car. There was a fair amount of staring, laughing and pointing from other drivers...unfortunately, most of that was directed at me. I was particularly upset when the pillow tried to grab the wheel and called me the worst driver he'd ever seen. I was going to knock the stuffing out of him but he jumped from the car when he recognized an abandoned Barca-lounger on the side of the road. I learned later they had been room-mates at Upholstery University in Fabric, South Dakota. (As I recount this story, I wonder if maybe I shouldn't have eaten all the double-fudge brownies the school also sent home with me...before I had even gotten back to my car. Too much sugar, maybe.)

To answer the original question more succinctly: everything gets put to good use from the aforementioned shirts to coffee mugs to water bottles...ties...caps...pillows, possessed and otherwise. I do, however, have a confession to make about the stuffed animal mascots some schools send home with me. When my kids were little, they would end up sitting on a bureau or nightstand...the stuffed animals not my kids. But, now that the kids are older, those cute, cuddly little tigers, falcons, Vikings, etc are usually adopted by our dog.

He's a retriever with no opportunity to retrieve when it comes to ducks and geese out in the wild. Frankly, he's a little afraid of water so that wouldn't work anyway. Well, he still loves to carry stuff around. The more stuff the better. Once, he met me at the door with a bath towel in his mouth. I told him to drop it...he did. The towel was then followed by three athletic socks, two hot wheels cars, a poker chip and one beanie baby. It was like I hit the jack-pot on some wierd canine slot machine. What I am getting at is that the little mascots disappear. I don't think he's eating them, there would, eventually, be some evidence of that...CSI: Dogville. He may rip an eye off now and then, accidentally...tough love, you know. Really, I think he is hiding them. They become his treasures.
As long as no one gives me a stuffed possum, it will be just fine.

As we head into the Memorial Day weekend, the unofficial start of summer, things are going to get steamy around here. 90 degrees will be the temperature neighborhood from Friday through Monday. As mentioned here and on FirstNews over the last few days, co-anchor Jere (or JERRY) Gish and his very patient wife, Barb (spelled and pronounced the real way!) are expecting their second child anytime in the next month and, while Jere or Jerry or Jeree or whatever his name is, likes the hot weather ahead, for Barb it is doubly uncomfortable. I understand. I know what she means. While I've obviously never been pregnant myself...although I did gain ten to 15 pounds each time my wife was...I do have a vicarious idea about what Barb is going through.

When my wife was carrying our oldest son back in 1989, we had a major heat wave around here. It was 90+ in April of that year and never really cooled down too far from there. According to research done in my own home, being pregnant adds between 12 and 1200 degrees to the "feels like" temperature on any given hot day. The house we lived in at the time had just one, temperamental window air conditioner. Sitting indoors, my poor wife was practically melting, but, being fitness-minded, she still insisted we take walks each day...which meant going outdoors...one of the downsides of walking, running and biking by my estimation. Sometimes, in an effort to find a cooler place to stroll, we'd head for English Landing Park in Parkville. The tall trees and rushing river at least gave us the illusion that we weren't living in the Broiling Feet subdivision of the sun. As we would pass other walkers at the park, they always smiled with compassion and empathy at my wife...then, glared accusingly at me. Okay, I deserved it for any number of reasons.

My wife came through the sizzling last trimester like a trouper and I learned to never argue with a pregnant woman on a hot day...or, for that matter, any day about anything. It was still toasty in August of 1989, when our son was born so he was quite often in his birthday suit during his first couple months of life. Even as a toddler, he preferred to run around in his Power Rangers undies...a habit he really needs to break before starting college next year.

To this day, he can't stand the heat. So, he stays out of the kitchen as a tribute to Harry Truman and a convenient way to avoid setting the table or washing the dishes. Heat also can keep him from getting too friendly with the lawn mower...as a tribute to John Deere, I guess.

If David Blaine really wants to prove his physical stamina and mental strength, let him visit Kansas City in mid-July, in what feels like his 36th month of pregnancy. I guarantee he'd jump right back into that big tank of water in Times Square and hold his breath all over again.

Finally, a quick hello and thank you to fine folks at Heritage Village Assisted Living in Gladstone. It was fun to visit with everybody there yesterday. Thanks for the coffee mug and cookbook...since my wife isn't pregnant, I can blame those recipes for my fast approaching new ten to 15 pound weight gain!
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First, a thank you for the kind e-mails about this still-new blog. It is great and more than a little surprising, to know you're out there taking time to read these minor missives. This time around I want to answer a question posed by one of the e-mails. It is one asked fairly often when I am out and about...like today when I visit the Heritage Village Assisted Living Home in Gladstone. The question is "What time do you get up for work?" FirstNews hits the air at 5:00 a.m. and it takes some time to prepare the forecast and maps and other goodies for the show...not to mention finish several games of solitaire and hearts, as well as the JigZone, on-line jigsaw puzzle of the day. So, I start to roll out of bed around 2:00 a.m. I set three alarm clocks...one plugged into the wall, one operating on batteries and one, old-fashioned wind-up kind. The first alarm is set to the oldies. I always thought the oldies meant Elvis, Buddy Holly and the Everly Brothers...now, the music is from my young adulthood which means I am the oldie. The second is some electro-tune off a cell-phone...the kind of music Rosie, the Jetson's maid, would enjoy. I can't turn that one off fast enough. Finally, the wind-up alarm is truly alarming. When I first got it and it would ring, dalmatians would magically appear on our doorstep and I would head for the fire-pole to get to the first floor. Unfortunately, it took me several mornings to remember that we don't have a fire-pole but I did get downstairs faster than usual.

Getting up so early gives me the opportunity to view my children asleep in their natural habitats. I feel a bit like Marlin Perkins on the old Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom..."As we make our way deeper into the jungle, you never know what you may see or hear in the dens of these strange creatures...called kids."

My daughter is usually surrounded by the three or four books she is reading at any given time and her TV is on. For a long time, we wondered why, when asked what she wanted for breakfast, she would rap her answer. Turns out she had The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air on all night and was picking up tips from Will Smith by nocturnal osmosis. My second oldest son usually opens one eye and snarls at me...not unlike the middle of day, come to think of it. My 16 year old son usually is completely zonked but with a big smile on his face. I don't ask. I've learned that a big part of successful parenting is being selectively stupid. When he was about seven, we were staying at Grandma's cottage, sleeping downstairs. He got up...big smile...and walked right past us, through the laundry room and into a dark little closet where the water softener sat. To this day, if you want to get his attention you just have to yell "Hey, Culligan Man!" Anyway, I like to think the smile on his snoozing, teen-age face is just a happy memory of Grandma's house. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

The most entertaining child to watch sleep is the youngest boy. He frequently seems to carry on entire conversations while out like a light. Just yesterday morning, as I left, he was saying, in a calm, collected tone, "Do you think it will hurt? Is it going to be painful?" He didn't appear scared or worried...almost clinical. I patted him on the head, told him to relax. He, then, asked for security to escort me out of the building.

By the way, as for my adorable wife, her reaction to my leaving is either total lack of recognition...it is the middle of the night, after all...or, as I say "I've got to go...see you later..." she sits bolt upright in bed and says, anxiously, "What's wrong? What's going on? Where are the life-boats?" She is so dramatic, that I fully expect to see Leonardo DiCaprio strapped to our garage and Celine Dion beating her chest and singing with all her might on the stoop. But, it isn't my heart that goes on, it's my Ford and it goes on to work.

As for me, I am told I don't talk in my sleep or act in a peculiar manner. I rarely remember even dreaming. As one of my sons has mentioned, at least I am consistent: I am every bit as dull and boring when asleep as I am when awake. Then, he opens one eye and snarls.

Last Friday and again this morning, on FirstNews, co-anchor Jere Gish was asking for your help in coming up with a name for the baby he and wife, Barb, are expecting in the next month or so. They have a girl's name in mind but are stumped on a possible moniker for a little boy. (I also have been lobbying to get Jere's name changed from it's current spelling to "Jerry." Jere agrees that the name is a challenge for spellers...and, frankly, I think his parents did it just to toughen their son up...like a modified version of A Boy Named Sue.) KMBC's own Michele Rooney had the best idea for a name: Petri...Petri Gish. You can still let us know your ideas for names by e-mailing me, jnichols@hearst.com and I will pass it onto Jere.

We also had a story about the fastest growing name, in terms of popularity, since 1880: Nevaeh...heaven spelled backwards. It may be a little confusing for the child, at first. But, I guess you just have to tell him or her that, if you are being teased or having trouble explaining the origin of your name don't be afraid to ask for "pleh."

On our first real date, my wife and I came up with six possible children's' names. We were walking through a park after a picnic and started talking about kids, which led to names, which led to a wedding, polka band, mortgage, diapers, formula, more diapers, first days of school, college brochures...to think it all started with peanut butter sandwiches and a bag of Doritos. We actually ended up using one of the names. Some of my ideas were dismissed immediately: Wooden Nichols...Penny Nichols...Buffalo Nichols...Rasputin. (That last one was just a joke.) While we have middle names for our kids that have family connections, the first names are mainly just because we liked them. Sometimes it is hard to know why a name tickles one's fancy...or why someone would want their fancy tickled in the first place.

One of my brothers, when he was small, always said he wanted to name his son Clifford. No reason...this was long before the Big Red Dog of that name. He just liked the name. My parents used the name "Guy" as a middle for another brother. Apparently they thought that Craig "Fella" Nichols was too stuck-up.

For a long time, etched into the concrete of a sidewalk where my family lived when I was born, there was a list of our family names: "Ron, Wanda, Randy, Craig, Mark and ???" I think the question marks were because I wasn't born yet but my brothers always insisted I was, indeed, already born but my actual species was unknown.

If I had been born a girl, they were going to name me Julie and, after three boys, not have any idea what to do beyond that. But, since they all assumed it would be another boy, they decided on the name Joel. It was my dad's boss' name. An obvious attempt to curry favor...to ingratiate oneself with one's superior...to secure the job and move up. Well, the boss was flattered until I actually arrived. He got one look at me and fired my dad. From then on, my dad had a little nickname for me that I can't really share with you on this family site. Let's just say it was not Nevaeh-ly.

It's that time of the year: perfectly normal people put on funny, square hats with tassels, long robes in a variety of colors and lunge for a little piece of paper. While that could refer to a casting call for the new Broadway show--The DaVinci Code-The Musical...On Ice! Or, frankly, just another Saturday night at my brother's house...that's a whole other story. What I'm talking about is graduation! Nowadays, there are ceremonies all along the way...from pre-school to kindergarten...kindergarten to first grade...elementary to junior high...and, of course, for lots of folks, the big one: graduation from high school.

Believe it or not, I have actually been asked to speak at a high school graduation...once. Word must have spread about my inspiring performance those many years ago because, I've never been asked again.
As I stepped up to the lectern that day, I looked out on young, fresh faces drooping into unmistakable disappointment. They were all very polite and friendly but I'm pretty sure the entire class mouthed, in unison, "It's our high school graduation and we get the morning weatherman?" Later, I got to thinking it may have been a brilliant life lesson for the students on the part of the school administration: "Life can be hard and things can be less than you want or expect so, as a living, breathing example, please welcome our guest speaker, Joel Nichols."

I think I lost them from the start when I went off on a rant about how important it was to be on time for things. You see, my wife had decided to come along and that meant we were running late. That is not a petty criticism, it's just the way things go around my house. Her maiden name is Philps and she operates on what I've come to call "Philps Time." That means if an event starts at 1:00 p.m. she thinks you can leave the house at 1:00 p.m. Unless, her family had one of those H.G. Welles time machines when she was growing up, I don't know how that works. Our kids lurch between Philps Time (for things like doctor's appointments and school) and my time...meaning leave a little early. The most annoying part of Philps Time is how often it works out just great. We have avoided more traffic jams, parking hassles and boring delays at events by operating on Philps Time than I care to admit. I get my "leave early" mentality from my dad. He'd be in the car 15 minutes before leaving and honk the horn until my mom got out there. If I did that, I may as well take my pillow, blanket and alarm clock with me to the car.

So, that was my opener. It would have been better for a Dr. Phil show. As we were leaving, I heard a few mumbled comments from parents...I thought they were saying "Pomp and Circumstance" but my wife thought it was "Pompous something or other."

I graduated at the height of the Disco era. Instead of an inspiring quote about perseverance from Churchill or "Ask not" from JFK, the cover of our graduation program had "How deep is your love?"-- The BeeGees. There was some talk of having us march up doing the hustle, but that never materialized. I'm pretty sure the principal wore a white suit and black shirt open to the navel while handing us our diplomas...which he did with a spin, the splits and one finger pointed skyward. The valedictorian's address was titled "Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Stayin' Alive" which, as I get grayer, actually seems rather uplifting.

There's much more I could say about graduation day and there's still much of May to say it but, right now, I have to commence onto another place. I must be running late because my wife is in the car already...honking the horn.


By the way, as you may have noticed, we don't have the feedback option on this blog right now. But, please, e-mail me any comments or ideas you have at jnichols@hearst.com. They had to take down the forum deal because there were too many entries from "Weatherman 9" saying how great the blog is...I knew I should have changed that e-mail name.

Let me say, at the outset, I'm not a car guy. My dad's philosophy was "If I turn the key and it starts, that's all I need to know." Growing up in the icy bluffs of Wisconsin, getting the car started was often challenge enough. Sometimes you'd turn the key and the car would actually say "What? Are you nuts? I'm not going out in this weather." And, that was in June.

Car terms throw me, too. "Cammy," which I think is auto lingo, sounds like something a toddler calls the least favorite of his two grandmas...unless you are called "Cammy," then it would be the most favorite. If you tell me you've got a "hemi" I would probably recommend you see your gastrointestinal specialist. I used to hear people talk about their car's "grill." The only way I knew that that was on the front of the car was from CB radio talk about "had steak on the grill about five miles back" which meant "I hit a cow."

A few blogs ago, I mentioned that sometimes kids at schools ask what kind of car I have...with two sons learning how to drive, I can now answer "Nervous." Really, they're hoping I have something cool out in the parking lot. There are some folks here at KMBC with fancy cars. I have never been a passenger in any of them, but, as per most of their contracts, I do have to change their oil every 3000 miles and wash them once a week...the cars, not the people.

Many people do have dream cars. My daughter thinks she wants a pink Beetle convertible. I think she'd be pulled over in a second for driving while too cute. My second son has mentioned a Maserati but I think that is more for the Joe Walsh song than the car...a guitar is cheaper and won't make my insurance rates reach Pluto. My youngest says he wants a car like mine, because I am the best driver and Dad in the world. Just because he says this right before he wants a pile of M&M's and control of the channel changer, doesn't mean it's not true. My cautious, older son would like a large, safe car preferably driven by someone else...with secret service running along side, if at all possible. My wife seems to like her van. It has everything she needs, usually rolling around the floor. I don't mean to imply that her car is messy but it is like trying to navigate in a Deffenbaugh dumpster. Once I came to a sudden stop and was covered by deposit slips, coffee cups, a couple library books, a massage table and a family of chipmunks.

As for me, I don't have a dream car in mind but I have one that holds a special place in my memory. I bought it my Freshman year of college for $300 from a kid who's dad was a minister so my mom felt it would be, in some way, a blessed transaction with guardian angels as standard equipment. It was an AMC Hornet Hatchback. Blue...not a deep royal blue or baby blue or, even, robin's egg blue...more of a Tidy-Bowl Man blue. But it also had a hand-painted black racing stripe along the side which didn't fool anyone into thinking it could go much above 55. Sometimes state troopers would pull me over just to laugh and point. It was a good car and it was paid for. I could change my own oil and do other things like replace the solenoid...some gizmo you need to start the car. When I was told it needed a new solenoid all I could think of was Captain Kirk breathlessly urging Scotty to push the engines to warp speed so the Klingons wouldn't get to steal the federation's solenoid and control the neutral zone...I really have watched too much TV in my time.

The beautiful part of the Hornet was that I could actually keep it running myself. Now, when I open the hood of a newer car, I swear I hear it laughing at me: "Go ahead...just try to find my battery, you dipstick."
The reason I got to thinking about cars in general today and the blue Hornet in particular,is because, on FirstNews, after a story about alternative fuels, the subject of Fred Flintstone's foot powered car came up. It reminded me that, on the Hornet, I actually could see more and more of the road below me as rust slowly ate away the floor of the car. Up north, when it comes to vehicles, rust is the fifth season of the year. Anyway, it was like a moon-roof's ugly cousin, and it added to the adventure of driving. Forget the Beetle, the Maserati, the Corvette. If you want driving enjoyment, get a Blue AMC Hornet and, if necessary, drill a hole in the floor. Yabba-Dabba-Doo!

Cat whiskers and fur-balls. That was the subject line of an e-mail I received this morning. Now, some of you may have automatically deleted that message. But, I think you need to be careful about that deleting stuff. For example, I can't tell you how many members of how many royal families want to give me hundreds of thousands of dollars or how many total strangers are concerned about my love life and increasing bald spot...not necessarily in that order. Anyway, "cat whiskers and fur-balls" did not strike me as odd. No, quite the opposite...it brought back fond memories.

About ten years ago, I first met Bobbie. She was going in the Guinness Book of World Record Collections for having over 2000 cat whiskers. Bobbie had three generous cats of her own and also took whiskers from friends and family (their cats not themselves)...naturally occurring...not cut off or, worse, plucked! She'd attach them to note-cards and file them away. While visiting with Bobbie, she mentioned she also saved something else from her feline friends: fur-balls. She had a box full of them. There has to be a joke there somewhere but I can't seem to cough one up. Today, Bobbie wanted to let everyone know that her collection is part of the Crown Center exhibit Oodles More Things People Collect, and she will be at Meet the Collector Day on June 3. The display will be there through June 25.

Lots of collections start by accident. When my wife was a Rotary Club Foreign exchange student in Germany, back in her high school days, one of her host mothers called her "gluckliche Gans" or Lucky Goose. So, she started to receive all things goosey as gifts. Porcelain geese. Pictures of geese. Inspirational posters featuring geese--"Don't Let Life Bring You DOWN!". Apparently, what was good for the goose was good for my wife to give a gander. I'm just happy the German host mother didn't call her "gluckliche Hasselhoff."

As a child, I collected marbles and, just to silence the snickering, I still have all of them...but my shooter is chipped. There was a time when I received lots of clown stuff. I'm not sure where people got the idea I liked clowns although watching my family of six get out of a 1962 Corvair may have had something to do with it. As a teenager, I also started to collect Frank Sinatra stuff. In fact, the local paper did a story about this boy who liked The Chairman of the Board, rather than all those evil rock and rollers. They took a picture of me in an Old Blue Eyes is Back t-shirt! Well, the reaction was overwhelming. Lots of calls from interested women...most of whom were about 35 years older than me and former Bobby-Soxers. They weren't calling for anything illicit, they just wanted to know if I had an older brother...much older, wealthy, and better-looking. The answers were as follows: yes...absolutely not...and, it depends on the lighting.

I've done stories about
people with Winnie-the-Pooh collections, Happy Meal collections and Pillsbury Dough-Boy collections among others. That last one was kind of interesting. After we were done doing the story the woman asked if she could have a picture taken with me. I was flattered until she said she thought I looked like her hero,the Dough-Boy, in athree-piece suit. At least that explained why she had been poking me in the stomach the whole time. She was disappointed that I hadn't been giving the little dough-boy chuckle. Instead, the finger to the abdomen made me cough. Not unlike a cat with a fur-ball.

This morning on FirstNews, in addition to welcoming back the Achilles Tendon-challenged Natalie with her new purple cast, we had a story about a perfume designed to take us back to childhood. I think it was called Eau de Play-Doh...yes, it smells like Play-Doh. I've read that smells and odors are the best memory triggers of all. For example, you get a little sniff of cinnamon and think of Grandma's house. In my case, exhaust fumes remind me of the times my family accidentally left me at Stuckey's out on the highway...at least, they said it was accidentally. Fool me once shame on you, fool me eight times, shame on me. Or, the smell of a rain-soaked dog reminds me of one of my big brothers.

But, more than those happy, odor-induced remembrances, the Play-Doh story made me think of all the toys that were hot when I was a kid. Some still are, like Play-Doh...Silly Putty...Slinky. My Play-Doh history is a little spotty. No matter how I tried to create all the cool things shown in the commercials and on the box, I always ended up with a gray blob. Supposed to be a doggy...looked like a moon-rock. Supposed to be a sports car...looked like a moon-rock. Supposed to be a pizza with all the toppings...looked like a moon-rock with pepperoni and extra-cheese. My own kids have always loved Play-Doh and I have a funny story about my two older boys and the stuff but I can't really tell it here...if I ever speak to a group you're a part of, you can ask me to tell it...then it will be your fault. It is funny but may not be considered appropriate for a luncheon address. That's all I'm saying.

Growing up, my friends and I built things out of Lincoln Logs not Legos. Once, when I was about four, I was building a house out of Lincoln Logs...that was the only thing I could really create and it usually ended up looking like what some realtors would call a "fixer-upper." Friends of my folks were visiting with their little dog. The dog was not completely house-trained and, in retrospect, may not have liked me very much. Somehow, as I was building my sad shack, I discovered a couple extra "Logs." When my Mom came upon my construction project, she immediately got the dog, named Dropsie, appropriately enough, out the door and, using thick Playtex gloves, lifted me into the shower for a scrubbing and detoxification like that scene in Silkwood.

Speaking of Lincoln, the new book about him, Team of Rivals, is terrific. I know, it seems like an odd spot for a book recommendation but I really thought I needed to raise the intellectual level of discourse after that last story.

Just a word about Legos, while they were not really part of my generation's playthings, my kids have had tons of them over the years. The name Lego is based on the Danish phrase leg godt which means
"play well." If you've ever been taking a glass of water to your son or daughter, in the dark, barefoot and stepped on a Lego, you may have said some other words that sounded vaguely like Danish, but "play well" would not be the sentiment.

Silly Putty was always fun until it was banned from our house. Remember how you could actually lift pictures and comics from the paper with the putty? One of my brothers would always do that with the Sears ads in the paper...just the parts featuring underwear...and then leave it sitting on the kitchen counter. Eventually, my parents had had enough. (Etch-a-sketch vanished, too, after someone mastered the art of writing naughty words with it. If only a house full of boys would use all that energy for good rather than evil!)

Finally, I never could get that Slinky to go all the way down the stairs like the little show-off in the commercial. As my frustration mounted, a helping hand was offered. This person decided to demonstrate how it would work in terms of physics by using me as the Slinky. The only thing I remember clearly about what happened next is the lingering aroma of wet dog. Oh, brother.

Thank you to the hundreds of friendly folks who showed up on a beautiful Saturday morning in Independence to benefit Sunshine Center by running,walking and cheering. Over the years, this has always been one of the friendliest fun runs around. I've been lucky to hand out awards and make announcements at the Truman 5K for many Mays...and some other runs around town, too. Almost always I am asked two questions: "Hey, you with the icing on your chin, could you, please, get away from the donuts?" and "Why aren't you running with your wife and daughter?"

To answer question number one, I usually pretend I can't hear over the sound of the DJ's music. Similar to the technique President Reagan used when headed for the helicopter...cup one ear, nod, smile and keep moving. I do the same thing now when my kids ask for money or inquire about practicing their driving. In fact, forget about Dr. Spock, I've found that Ronald Reagan is a great role model for raising kids. For example, increasingly, my daughter's room strikes me as something of an evil empire, in need of a little glasnost or openness...at least of the window. She is a delightful person, but my daughter's cleanliness and clutter standards are very different from mine. Once I was dragged out of her room and physically assaulted by the rabid dust bunnies that reside under her bed. As for the Pike's Peak of clothes that pile up in my sons' bathroom, I often announce "Mr. Gorba-teens, tear down this wall...and then take it to the laundry room." When we had three out four still in diapers, I can't tell you how often I said "Well, there you go again...and again...and again."

As for the second question, the truth is that I did actually run in a 5K once. Well, "run" is probably not the right word. Meandered, maybe. My daughter, who won her age group this past Saturday, was quite little but wanted to be in a race like her Mom. So, I agreed to stay with her on the course, so she wouldn't be alone. How hard could that be? The starting horn blasted and we were off. My daughter's little legs were working hard. She actually got to moving at a pretty fair clip. By the half-way point, I was well behind. I tried to slow her down by yelling "Hey, look what I found, a four leaf clover!" and "Did you see that puppy back there?" and "Please, call the paramedics when you reach the finish, sweetheart!"

Eventually, she was just barely in sight and I was bringing up the rear. The volunteers along the race route were very encouraging "Come on...you can do it...good job...way to go...keep it up!" I am pretty sure they thought I was recovering from some sort of surgery and just getting back into the swing of things. The fact is, my baby girl had left me in the dust, not unlike opening her bedroom door, today. (See above.) I didn't go through the chute at the end where they tear off your number. I like getting laughs as much as the next person, but not that way. I just melted into the crowd. I found my wife, who had finished the course about three days earlier, with my daughter. They were laughing about what a great run it had been. I would have argued but they wouldn't have been able to understand me through the oxygen mask, anyway.

Friday has rolled around again and it looks great. Sunny and 70...a little breezy. The entire holiday weekend should be terrific for Mom...and everyone else, too. Don't forget about the 5K Truman Run Saturday morning at 8:00. Get to the Sunshine Center at 607 West Lexington in Independence early to register. Rumor is that President Truman himself will be there with me. I'll be the one not wearing a suit or carrying a walking stick. Sadly, for me, he'll be the one looking most alive.

Also, a sincere thanks to the wonderful folks at the Redemptorist Senior Center. We had a good visit yesterday about all kinds of things. I was the warm-up act for the main attraction: lunch and bingo! I hope they had as much fun as I did. Just one warning, when you visit...and you really should...be careful about who you ask regarding the restrooms. I ended up in the sewing and craft room. Yes, it was labeled "all-purpose" but I didn't take that literally and, yes, I made a nice quilt but I still needed to find the restroom.

Yesterday in the blog...that word still strikes me funny...I think it's the sound made if the Pillsbury Doughboy squeezed into a wet-suit. Anyway, yesterday, in this interweb space (see how cyber-hip I'm getting?) I talked about gifts I had given my Mom over the years. It became clear that she most liked the ones I made myself. So, with that in mind, and my wallet tightly shut, I offer this poem for my Mother:

M is for the moped on which she speeds around.
O , well, that's the ostrich she once brought home from the pound.
T stands for her teeth, by her bed, safe in the jar.
H, is the halo of smoke rings from her smelly green cigar.
E means all the ear wax...she said that I had tons.
R is this reality: I'm the favorite of her sons.

Well, let the psychoanalysis begin and remember, I am a weatherman, so the accuracy of some of the above could be a problem. Happy Mother's Day!

The clock is ticking. As I write this, it is less than 72 hours until Mother's Day. Getting down to crunch time for finding that perfect gift. Earlier in the week, I mentioned how my kids shopped for their most perfect of mothers when they were all small. It reminded me of another story I did once here at KMBC. I took an 8x10 of my own mom up to Antioch Mall and asked folks going in what they would buy for such a woman. In addition to the usual ideas of flowers and candy, some thought she looked like a lady who should be riding in a new convertible or taking a luxurious cruise or wearing lots of diamonds. It is easy to spend someone else's money...even when the someone else doesn't have it. One older gentleman, with a twinkle in his eye, looked at the photo and said "Hubba Hubba." Yes, he really said, "Hubba Hubba." I felt incredibly uncomfortable. "Maybe she could use a new husband!" he growled. Now, I was moving from uncomfortable to panic. All of a sudden, my silly little story had become like some Twilight Zone version of Love Connection and I was Chuck Woolery. What do you get for the woman who has everything? An unwanted, lecherous, old suitor! That was the one and only year, I solicited help on getting a gift for my mom.

When I was little, she liked candles so my brothers and I bought her candles. Scented. With four sons, assorted dogs, and other odd creatures running around, scented was the obvious choice. If you bought a candle shaped like a castle or duck or something, she'd never burn it so we ended up getting candles that looked like candles. Eventually she had had enough of the candles. If you lit everyone of them at once, Smokey the Bear would have had a coronary and we didn't even live in the woods.

Like everyone else, I also made things for her at school like a tin ash-tray, although she never smoked; a spice rack that was a little too narrow for the containers; a blue, clay pot that looked like something from that famous scene in Ghost, if, instead of Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze, the stars were Jerry Lewis and Charo. I also hammered some pictures out of metal. One was a puppy and the other an old Model A...although, if you looked at them upside down the puppy looked more like a car and the car more like a puppy. I could pretend I was going for a Picasso-esque effect but even Pablo would've asked "What the heck are those supposed to be?" I placed the two metal pictures in a hand-made wooden frame. My angles were not quite right, though. If you've ever been to one of those attractions where everything seems off-kilter...The Wonder Spot in Wisconsin Dells or Grandpa's Mansion at Silver Dollar City, for example...well, my picture frame would have looked perfect hanging on those walls. Despite my lack of industrial arts skill, my mom still displays all these gifts. She is either very proud or feels that my work up until the age of 12 was the highlight of my career and it's been all downhill since.

For awhile she collected teddy bears, so she got a bunch of bears. That's the trouble with collections: people always think you want more of it when really it may have just been coincidence that everywhere you went salt and pepper shakers, for example, got thrown in the bag. In any case, after her house started to look like a Care Bears convention, she subtly mentioned she had enough of them. Her exact words were along the lines of "If I get one more bear, I will go into hibernation!" She went through a red-stuff-for-the-kitchen phase...a bird-house phase followed closely by a cardinals (the bird not the team) phase.

One year, my brothers and I chipped in together and bought her wire-spoked hub-caps for her car. We have a photo of her being surprised by the new automotive look. Her hands are up in the air and her jaw has dropped. It was one of her favorite presents, ever. Who needs candy, flowers, diamonds, a cruise or even a secret, albeit rather creepy, admirer...when you've got cool hub-caps.

This morning on FirstNews, we had two stories about prom season being here. One had to do with keeping young people safe with after-prom parties. As a father of teenagers, I am all for that...too many sad stories come out of what should be a great night of fun. The other had to do with a high school out east doing background checks on the some of "dates" coming to the dance who were not students at the school. After that piece, Jere Gish turned to me and asked "Your kids are in that prom age group, how would you feel about background checks?" At first I thought he meant the background check being done on my kids' dates. But, now that I think about it, it's obvious he assumed the check would be run on my own kids. Well, as long it doesn't include sins of the father, I'm okay with it. Frankly, I was so overcome with emotion by this time in the show...feeling the pain of never even going to prom those many years ago...that I'm not sure what Jere was driving at. I do know he seemed to enjoy putting the salt of sad memories into my long lost prom-inflicted wound. (Now, there's a sentence you'll never see on Larry Moore's page and probably shouldn't have seen here, either.)

I never went to prom. I tried, once. There was a girl in high school that I thought was funny, smart and cute. She looked a little like Marie Osmond. This was during the heyday of Donny & Marie. Sometimes we'd sing duets "I'm a little bit country....I'm a little bit rock and roll." (And, right now, I'm a little bit nauseated just thinking about it.) She had always insisted that her father wouldn't let her go out on dates. It seemed a reasonable excuse to me. Then, again, I was in my late twenties before I was given the cold hard facts about the tooth fairy, which I still don't quite accept.

Remember, these were the days before prom got so "big-ticket." No limo...you borrowed your parents' Buick, Ford or Chevy, which you better bring back with gas in the tank. No tuxedo...you just made sure your Sunday suit was not all scrunched up in a ball on the closet floor. Maybe you went out to eat at Stub Lang's Diner (that was the spot kids could afford in my home-town.) You'd buy a corsage at Eileen's Flower Shop and call it a date. Well, I decided to ask "Marie" to attend and do so with a little panache.

I walked across the street to our neighborhood Avon Lady's house. She was and is the best in the business. She'd sold so much Avon stuff for so long, that she didn't even need to ring the doorbell. You'd just sense that she was there, on your front porch, ready to take your order. Eventually, everyone just called her to get the commemorative after-shave decanter shaped like a barber pole or industrial strength Care Deeply for chapped lips. Well, I bought a little pin shaped like a lady-bug from the Avon Jewelry Collection.

As I approached "Marie" in the hallway at school the next day, I felt confident. She was surrounded by her friends but I was brash and didn't hesitate. "Here...this is for you," I said as I handed her the carefully wrapped box. "Maybe you can wear it to prom." "Thank you so much. It is really pretty...and I will wear it to prom. But how did you know Chuckie had asked me? I just now said I could go..." replied "Marie."

I laughed knowingly and went to class. I also vowed never to watch Donny and Marie again. Years later, when I interviewed the Osmonds, I actually accused Marie of hurting my feelings by not going to prom with me. The last thing I remember of the interview is a rush of giant white teeth and being landed on by all of her brothers. True entertainers, they were singing as they tackled me.

The night of my prom I stayed home and looked up the word in the dictionary. It comes from the word promenade which among its various definitions has "formal ball." Another meaning is "leisurely walk" which is what I took from the couch to the kitchen to the TV to the couch, again. So, in a way I attended a prom-enade. Oh, if you're wondering about the title of this story: Some friends asked if I wanted to go to the dance, anyway, as a group of loser guys without dates. I declined because all I could think of was Barney Fife telling Andy he wasn't going to go stand in some stag line with a bunch of teen-age boys and old man Schwump. Looking back, maybe Mr. Schwump is the true patron saint of proms. He never lost hope!

Here's a great idea for part of your upcoming Mother's Day weekend: The 5K Truman Run to benefit children with special needs at Sunshine Center in Independence, Missouri. It's all happening Saturday morning at the Sunshine Center, 607 West Lexington in Harry's town. The run starts at 8:00 a.m. so get there early to register. You can get more information by calling 816-833-2088. If you're thinking that a 5K...that's 3.1 miles...is too far to run...don't sweat it, walk it with friends. My wife has been in hundreds of fun runs over the years and this is one of her favorites. It has become a favorite of our daughter, as well. All the women in my family, learn to run very fast and, usually, away from me. My job at the run will be to welcome everyone at the start and give out awards at the end...while carefully guarding the assorted tables of food in between. Folks at these runs often ask why I don't run with my wife and I make it clear that we also serve, who stand and weight...I mean "wait."

This run is almost always the day before Mother's Day and one year, my wife's time was not what she was hoping for or expecting. Speaking of expecting...she was and didn't know it yet. That little bundle that slowed her down, now runs next to her. (And, by the way, has done just the opposite of slowing things down, ever since!)

Years ago, I did a story for the news about what to get Mom for her special day. At the time we had three kids, the boys were two and three and that speedy little girl was about six months old. The boys each took a five dollar bill into a dollar store and picked out what they thought Mom would like. She ended up with a hose nozzle, plastic ducks, some fertilizer sticks (with three in diapers at the time that seemed redundant), placemats, a candle, coasters and several other choices I don't recall. One of the boys was insistent about getting one particular item for Mom: a paperback Bible. Apparently, he knew, even at two, that with three and soon four little hooligans running around, Mom and Dad, would need it!

Which brings us back to running the good race this Saturday morning at Sunshine Center. See you there...I'll be the one holding the donuts, but holding them with great vigor!

Hello and welcome to a brand new week. According to the calendar, as I write this, it is Monday. But, sometimes calendars are tricky. For example, on the Channel Nine Weather Calendar, yesterday, May 7, was Mother's Day. If you are one of those that used the calendar to remember Mom...we're sorry but, just think, now it appears you were so eager to give Mom her card and gift you just couldn't wait another week! I'm sure that next year, the Weather Team will take the responsibility for listing holidays away from me, but, they really should have known better since I started by listing my birthday on the 21st of every month. They caught that. There's much more to say about Mother's day later this week, but today let's consider being wrong. To err is human, to forgive, divine...and, as a weatherman, I often need lots of divine-ing.

One viewer, letting me know about the calendar error, said, with a smile: "Well, you guys have trouble with numbers all the time!" The old joke is the best thing about being a weatherperson is you can be wrong 90% of the time and still get paid. I have been married a long time. I have four children. Three of them are teenagers. Around the house, I would be delighted to be considered right 10% of the time so being considered wrong 90% at work doesn't really hurt so much. Early on in my checkered weather career, I got a call on a Thursday from an anxious Father of the Bride asking about the weather on the upcoming Saturday. The ceremony was outdoors and, in Wisconsin...which means, even in June, you can't completely rule out snow. Over the years, I've learned to hedge my bets with the best of them. Even at the grocery store when folks ask "How are you?" I will respond, "Well, so far so good...we'll see what happens later...not entirely sure which way things are headed...okay, I guess....maybe." By that time, the other person has gone onto the cereal aisle having somehow been reminded by this encounter that they need frosted flakes at home. Back to the wedding plans...instead of being careful...I plunged right in: "It will be beautiful. Sunny and mild." I was young. My style was that dangerous combination of over-confidence and incompetence. I think the Greeks called it "hubris e' stupido."

You guessed it...Mother Nature didn't just toss a curve...it was an intentional bean-ball and I would've charged the mound except I've seen enough margarine commercials to know that is a bad idea. It was cold and rainy. Some folks actually claimed they saw a snowflake or two. I got a call from that same Dad. This being a family-friendly blog, I can't relate exactly what he said but it was rough...made me question that old "Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me" adage. I was in emotional and mental traction for weeks. Still, it was worse for that family and I've never forgotten it.

Saturday we went to Silver Dollar City and it poured! Buckets of rain all day. As I stood under an awning with my wife and littlest kids, a man walked by...stopped and stared at me..."Well, I feel better now seeing the weatherman getting drenched. Thanks." Anytime!

By the way, coming up on Saturday, when the weather will be absolutely perfect, is the 5K Truman Run at 8:00 a.m. to benefit the children with special needs at Sunshine Center. More to say on this later this week, but you can get information now at 816-833-2088.

Also, we're expecting off and on showers today and some storms on Tuesday...I think its Tuesday...I better check the calendar.

After our gloomy, drippy stretch of weather this week, the weekend is here and looking pretty nice. I know there are a lot of folks for whom Saturday and Sunday is not their personal weekend...in fact, Monday and Tuesday made up my weekend for big stretches of my work-life. I didn't mind, since it gave me great excuses for never having plans on Friday or Saturday nights: "Oh, yeah, I had lots of folks calling me to go out but, having to work the next day, I decided to stay home and watch that very special episode of Love Boat where Captain Stubing trys an herbal hair-growth product and hallucinates that he is actually a news-writer in the Twin Cities. He's calling Julie, Mary and Gopher, Lou...it was just a mess." Anyway, it is the weekend and time for lots of area towns to begin their festivals and special days.

For example, the wonderful town of Richmond, Missouri...the Mushroom Capital of the World...is celebrating the 26th annual Mushroom Festival all weekend long. In addition to great food, games, exhibits and music, they will have 800 pounds of morel mushrooms in a refrigerated truck. It's a great time in a great place. It also answers the age-old question of where dogs from the Iditarod spend the night...in a Mush-room. (I wonder if we could put in a digital rim-shot for awful lines like that one.)

The Mushroom Festival reminds me of the small Wisconsin town where I grew up. It was a little like Mayberry, with the Bates Motel just over the county line. Sort of like Norman Rockwell painted it after a very long night on a bus eating too many macadamia nuts. I wouldn't trade growing up there for anything, though. Every year the big weekend was called Town and Country days. Considering our town was mostly country, it always seemed a little pretentious. But it was great fun, with carnival rides and games, polka bands, a beer-tent, sales at all the local merchants.

One year they had a traveling circus in town and one of the elephants broke free and rambled to the nursing home. Actually, he rambled through the nursing home and did some damage to one of the hallways. No one was hurt but one resident told me years later he thought he needed to get his medication changed until someone told him it really was an elephant he had seen in his pajamas that morning. ("How he got in my pajamas, I'll never know..." See, we really need that rim-shot.)

But, year in and year out , the main event of Town and Country days was the Cow Chip Toss. Yes, it is exactly what it sounds like. Remember, we're talking about Wisconsin which is filled with cows. As it says on the license plates: "America's Dairyland." For awhile there was a push to get that slogan changed to "Smell Our Dairy Air" but it fell flat. The official state motto is "Forward," which most of us in rural Wisconsin knew as "Forward, but watch where you step."

Everyone had a chance to see how far they could hurl the meadow muffins. The serious competitors would look over the pile carefully judging which dry pie was the most aerodynamically sound. There were many techniques such as the shot-put toss and the Frisbee throw. For a little kid it was quite a memorable spectacle. As I think about all those Town and Country days I spent watching the bovine biscuits soar through the air, I wonder if being surrounded by that led me to being a weatherman. You may insert your own joke here...and rim-shot.

Yesterday, you may have noticed that FirstNews co-anchor, Natalie Moultrie was missing. Today, we found out why: She was playing in the very first game of a basketball league for women when she heard a snap! She didn't have the ball...no one had bumped her...she was just getting herself "in position" as the athletes say and "SNAP!" It turns out she hurt her Achilles Tendon. (Of course, according to myth, Achilles was the first to ever sink a three-pointer at the buzzer.) A painful situation that will require surgery and a rather long period of recovery. We all wish her well! Being a trouper, Natalie was back today on the morning news, with her extremely purple temporary support deal...sort of a soft cast thing. It looks like she's in a three-legged race with Barney the Dinosaur! (Sometimes I think the anchors will do anything to avoid working with me and I can't say that I blame them.)

I've never had a serious injury to my foot because it is usually tucked safely in my mouth. Also, whenever I get the urge to exercise I lay down until it goes away. Should that be "lie down?" Well, now I'm out of breath just thinking about it.

Today is the anniversary of the 2003 Tornado Outbreak that turned a quiet Sunday into a day of destruction for many of our friends and neighbors. Fortunately, this May 4th's weather will be much quieter...just a few showers around. KMBC's Kris Ketz will certainly never forget this date. Many of you will remember that Kris and family lost their house in the storms. Kris sent a nice note about this blog this morning. He said their nine and half month old boy seems most content when I am doing the weather on FirstNews. I've been told that I have a calming effect on children. This could be because they sense my inner peace or they are pretty sure I must be one of the lost Tele-tubbies.

Speaking of Kris' note, thanks to all of you that have taken time to send a message about his blog...that word still makes me think of eating too much potato salad on a hot summer day. Even heard from a kind person in the United Kingdom, who said, while Kansas City will be rainy, foggy and coolish, the forecast there today is sunny and 77! Take that, Mr. Gershwin!

I just noticed that I have mentioned Barney the Dinosaur and the Tele-tubbies. Maybe I am already heading into my second childhood. I'd go into that more but the trolley is leaving for the neighborhood of make-believe! That Lady Elaine Fairdchild makes me so mad!

Thanks for stopping by.

With gas prices being what they are, it sometimes feels like you need to get a second mortgage or sell a family heirloom like Uncle Dudley's toe-nail clippers just to run a couple of errands. (Don't laugh about my uncle's clippers...he had the most beautiful toe-cuticles in our town! The rest of him was a little off, but his feet were awe-inspiring.) Calling someone a "Sunday Driver" today is really a compliment to his or her financial acumen. Imagine taking a ride in the car just to take a ride in the car! Luckily, in my case, I have great reasons to get out and about: school visits.

As I mentioned yesterday, Atchison Catholic Elementary was my destination on Tuesday. A room full of bright, well-behaved fourth, fifth and sixth graders made the visit a terrific time. One student snapped my picture with his cell-phone/camera. A fellow 4th-grader said to the shutterbug "What are you...the paparazzi?" They had great questions and comments and sent me on my way with a couple of t-shirts, an Atchison Kansas decorative bell and other goodies including a delicious strawberry pie from the nearly world-famous Jerry's Again restaurant. Thank you everybody! If you haven't been there lately, take a trip to Atchison!

It was a pleasant day for a drive, too, through one of our prettiest areas. It brought back a lot of good memories of Special Olympics opening ceremonies at Snow Creek, for example. My oldest son and I were honored to take part for several years...announcing the Olympians. One year, they had me compete in a race down the hill on a garbage bag. I lost...but I didn't get Mad...I got Gladd!

Driving by the Lewis and Clark village reminded me of the floods of 1993 and a story I did for the old ABC Home show about one family's devastating loss of their home and everything else in that dangerously soggy summer. They were inspiring in their determination to move forward.

Also, I once did a feature story about a country gas station up in that neck of the woods with a unique way of getting customers. If you filled up your tank, you didn't just get a commemorative tumbler or S&H Green Stamps (young'ns...ask your folks what those were all about.) No. If you filled your tank...you could take home a piglet. A real, live piglet. All clean and pink with the little curlicue tail. When you squealed out of that gas station you really squealed!

This morning, after FirstNews, I am off to Atchison, Kansas to visit with some 4th graders at Atchison Catholic Elementary School. All of us on the weather team love to talk with young people and, this time of the year, when so many classes do their weather units or have career days, it is extra busy and extra fun.

The questions range from "What would happen if a tornado caught on fire?" to "What kind of car do you drive?" For the first one I usually say I would run screaming into the night and, for the second, I say a Ford. (I think they're hoping for a braver answer to the first and "Corvette" to the second.) Tomorrow, I will let you know what the kids in Atchison have to say.

Mother Nature may teach us a thing or two tonight and tomorrow with some strong storms and soaking rains moving back into the area. While we are under a slight risk of severe weather, with hail and gusty winds as the main threat, the bigger concern may turn out to be isolated flooding. Stay tuned.

Finally, as for getting a continuing education, this blog has been great, too. Thanks for the kind words and comments on the first couple of entries. I learned that a couple kids aren't allowed to wear shorts outside unless I say it will be 65 degrees or warmer and that "embarrass" has two r's and two s's. How embarasing...embarrassing.

Thanks for stopping by and take care.

After our soggy weekend with anywhere from one to three inches of rain, on average, around the area, our Monday looks great. It is May already! What happened to April? Time isn't just flying, it's supersonic.

I hope you all had a great weekend. I spent part of mine in the car with my oldest son and his learner's permit. While he has some minor issues with making turns that don't involve using every part of the street, curb, sidewalk and neighbor's driveway and remembering that he is not driving the bumper cars at Celebration City in Branson, I think the main problem is me.

First of all, I am not used to sitting on the passenger side of the car. It always feels like we are awfully close to the mailboxes on the side of the road. All I know is I got to read several of my neighbor's postcards. Who knew so many people vacationed in Sheboygan, Wisconsin this time of the year!

Also, I probably did not help my son's self-confidence by manually triggering the air-bag before he had even turned the key. An ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure...and stitches....and dental work. The helmet, the goggles and a book of prayers may have been overdoing it, as well. I really think his Mother should be doing this as she had great success in getting him to ride a two-wheeler. But, she mysteriously disappears whenever she hears the jingling of car keys.

Anyway, if you notice my gray hair turning Barbara-Bush-White over the next several weeks, you'll understand.

However, it is the first of May! When I was a little kid, May Day meant you made baskets...weaved out of construction paper...filled them with flowers (sometimes out of more construction paper and sometimes just dandelions or clover from outside) and, if you were really cutting edge, some candy. Then, you would leave them at your neighbor's front door, ring the bell or knock, and take off. Kind of ding-dong-ditch but with a nice twist. That scenario doesn't happen very often anymore but I just may try it today. So, if Channel 9's top story tonight at 5:00 is a report on a 45 year old man seen leaping from front porches...you'll know.