Yesterday evening, as I was heading for bed, our 16 year old son, Taylor, looked up from his computer, guitar, cell-phone, snack and book--he was multi-multi-multi-multi-multi-tasking--and said "Going to bed, already? Oh, that's right. Summer isn't universal." He's got that right. As of mid-day Wednesday, all of our kids were done with school for the year which means, for them, summer is here. Forget what the calendar says about June 21. Forget that weather dorks consider June, July & August as meteorological summer. When school is out, summer is in. I could feel the sense of liberation and freedom emanating from the children yesterday. It was annoying.

Frankly, I think the last day of school was better when I was a kid and I say that not just because I'm bitter that they get the summer off and I don't. For a big chunk of the last month of the school year, my kids had picnics, field trips, game days, awards ceremonies, special assemblies, year-book signing days, and other events. For me, we had regular school stuff right up to the last day. I remember having spelling tests ON the last day. And, they counted! So, when we were released it really felt like Escape From Alcatraz.

Another thing that made the last day special, when I was a kid, was the fact that we were allowed to wear shorts to school. Today, many schools let the students wear shorts most any day, but at Grand Avenue Elementary, shorts were reserved for the last day. Of course, being Wisconsin, there was still a chance for snow on that last day, but no kid wanted to give up the chance to wear shorts to school. It was sartorially subversive! All those skinny, pasty little legs scampering into school looked like a foot race for uncooked pasta.

After our class work was done, we'd gather up all our supplies and cram them into our book bags. We didn't have back-packs. Those were strictly for folks who went camping or GI Joe. We had plaid book bags with straps and buckles. The rich kids' were made of cloth but most of us had the plastic. Rich or not-so-rich, all the kids in my class had worms. Reading Worms with a colored dot representing each book read in the year. The longer the worm, the better. We'd take those off the wall as well as any other work that was displayed. We'd take home what was left of our supplies. Even the smallest nub of a pencil got shoved into the bag. There was usually a competition to see who would take home the class creature to care for during the summer. Some had guinea pigs, some had rabbits. I never took the class critter. First of all, the rabbits always tried to bite me and the guinea pigs looked like rats with bad haircuts. Anyway, our little book bags would be bulging with crayons, Styrofoam balls that had, for a brief shining moment, been planets of our solar system, lots of papers, bread crusts, M&M wrappers, erasers and paste. Speaking of erasers and paste, we had one kid in my class that never had any erasers or paste left because he would eat them. I don't know whatever happened to him. He's probably the creator of Fear Factor or a consultant to The Food Network.

The best part of the last day of school, way back yonder in those ancient days, had to do with water! Just about every student...except the ones who wanted to take home the class creature and would have to spend their last day being especially well-behaved...came to school ready for combat. Waterworld style. In today's society, sadly, but for very good reasons, such behavior is totally unacceptable and would be stopped at the door, perhaps resulting in suspensions and news stories. But, my elementary days were different. Sure, there was always that atom bomb deal, but violence in the hallways was not a daily worry. So, we'd come to school with balloons waiting to be turned into watery projectiles and squirt guns filled to the brim. This was NOT sanctioned behavior but most teachers knew, as they stood in front of the class, that almost every kid sitting there was bursting with Rambo-like intensity. Planning out in their heads who they would soak first and how they would get away in one dry piece. Of course, nobody really wanted to go home dry. The fun was in getting drenched as much as in the drenching of others. A drippy twist on the golden rule.

So, you'd sit there at your desk, making sure you had all the balloons in your pocket...checking on the water level in the squirt gun...wishing you had brought that empty Palmolive bottle as a mini-bazooka like the kid next to you had done...just waiting for the bell to ring. The really wild kids started their assaults on the way out the door but most of us waited until we were outside. We were a very well-trained unruly mob. Once outdoors, anything was possible. The bigger kids always commandeered the faucet on the outside of the school building for the filling of balloons and re-filling of the squirt guns so us younger kids had to make our first efforts count. Every year someone would dare someone else to throw a balloon at the principal, Mrs. Van Loenen. Every year no one could bring themselves to do it. She was a tall, stately woman with an upturned hairdo and glasses, apparently encrusted with what looked to us like precious gems, hanging from what had to be a solid gold chain. She spoke in measured and mellow sentences and just seemed too proper a person to endure the indignity of a water balloon. Also, all of us had heard that hitting the principal with a water balloon carried a life sentence in grade school, mention in the local paper and public upbraiding by the priest or pastor at Sunday's services. Her husband owned the only men's clothing store in town, too, and that meant maybe your dad wouldn't be able to buy new boxers and neck-ties if word got around that you had beaned her. Since the principal was off limits, a few kids thought they'd try for the secretary, Mrs. Nagler. But, the problem there was that Mrs. Nagler, a small, wiry woman well into her 60s, would have been able to catch any kid on the playground without breaking a sweat. So, we just focused on each other. We all made it home soggy but smiling.

I guess I really shouldn't hold it against my kids that they have a stretch of relatively responsibility-free days ahead of them. After all, another bonus back in my day, was that our summer break used to start with the Friday before Memorial Day and run right up to Labor Day...pretty much three full months. Now, our kids end up with closer to two months. In fact, I think back to school sales start in about a week!

All this talk about the last day of school gave me a great idea: Tomorrow morning when I get home from work and the big boys are still in bed maybe I'll wake them up with a good old-fashioned Grand Avenue Elementary water balloon. They'd love that...right?

Enough with the "farewells!" Yesterday, I attended our daughter's 8th Grade Farewell ceremony. Last week it was our youngest's 5th Grade Farewell. And, of course, there was the high school graduation festival which seemed to take up most of the last 18 months. Only our second oldest, moving from high school sophomore to high school junior, did not have some sort of commemoration...but marking that transition is probably only a matter of time:

"As you fine young scholars leave the comfort of your sophomore year and enter the much more challenging junior year, we wish you only the best. True, you will be walking down the very same hallways...seeing pretty much the same teachers and fellow students...using the same lockers...but it will all be SO VERY DIFFERENT because you will be JUNIORS! In the words of Robert Frost's out-of-work brother-in-law, 'Two halls converged in the yellow 'hoods and I took the one less travelled...by sophomores and more travelled by juniors and that has made all the difference...until I become a senior and then all bets are off.' So, as you begin this next journey with a single step on this, the first day of the rest of your life in which you will take lemons and make lemonade because it is in loving we find love and in giving we find gifts and in resting we find reward and in singing we find song and in searching we find our lost car keys. Remember, most of all, close cover before striking and apply ointment only to the inflamed area. Good luck, JUNIORS!"

Before going any further I should mention a couple of things. First of all, this blog isn't going to get any better so if you have things you should really be doing, right now, I would suggest you get off the computer and get on with your day. Secondly, I know that, in some cases, things like 8th grade graduations are understandably important. Many years ago, I was taking part in such a ceremony when I asked the principal when all these kindergarten, fifth grade, eighth grade "commencements" started and why. She told me that for some of the families in her school, at least, for a variety of reasons, the 8th grade graduation would be the only one in which the student and family would ever participate. She said this in a very kindly manner, overlooking my insensitive naivete.

Now, that is a very compelling reason but, speaking just for me, the farewells, commencements, graduations, awards ceremonies sometimes seem endless. The routine is usually about the same: a few words from the principal...some certificates are handed out...a song or two is sung and then a video featuring candid shots from years past. I guess even 11 year olds can be nostalgic. Of course, it becomes something of a competition in terms of the reaction to the photos projected on the gymnasium wall. Some kids get an almost Springsteen-like response: "BRUUUUUUUUUCE!" I'm glad they didn't do this when I was a kid. The sound of retching upon seeing my face up there would've been hurtful and that would've been just from my own family. After the obligatory video compilation, a speaker representing the school the kids are heading into usually gives a little inspirational welcome.

Before you think to yourself "Oh, come on, Joel. Don't be such a curmudgeon. It's all in good fun. Lighten up. In fact, why don't you just pack up and leave town if you don't like it. We've never really warmed up to you anyway...." Please, stop thinking that stuff. I get it. Sometimes, these things can be downright adorable. For example, someone I work with told me that her kindergarten graduation was actually a very sweet, memorable day. They made little robes out of black garbage bags and mortarboards out of cardboard. Cute. I admit it. And, best of all from a parent point of view, cheap.

When I started this thing today, I was really prepared to be quite negative about all these farewells but, now, as I get to the end, with tears in my eyes, a lump in my throat and a nasty bruise on my upper thigh, I just want to say that taking this big step has turned out to be very important in shaping me as a person. As the next few blogs go by, I know I will never forget the laughs and, yes, even the tears, these few fleeting paragraphs have brought me. It is my hope that this experience...this opportunity to write this very piece...will give me the resolve to continue. I know we have shared some tough challenges together over these past minutes but, I like to believe, they have only made us stronger. So, now the time has come to march away from this webbernet moment and onto new cyber horizons. Thank you all for your support and guidance. This is not an ending. Just a beginning. As Perry Como once sang "Catch a Falling Star and put it in your pocket and soon you will have serious burns on your hips." May your hips always be a little toasty, too.

Back in the Rat Pack days, Sinatra or Dean Martin would look out over the audience and bellow "How'd all these people get in my room?" I had a little bit of that feeling on Sunday. We had an open house for our graduate, Alex. Now, his mother and I had a pretty good idea of who was coming in terms of grown-ups. We had a finite number of invitations that we sent out which included friends, neighbors and relatives. As for my side of the family, up in Wisconsin, several of them are prohibited from crossing state lines for a variety of reasons which I'm not allowed to divulge so that held down attendance from that branch of the family tree. By the way, I've been told by genealogists that, regarding my family tree, I'm considered the sap. As for my wife's side of the family, with the exception of her parents, when they found out I'd be home and, in fact, taking some time off from TV to be home even more than usual, they decided they couldn't make it.



The wild card for Sunday was who our son had invited. He didn't put an invitation in an envelope, stamp it and send it out. He did the invites in the 21st century way: over the interweb. Just kind of a blanket "Come to my house" to who knows who. Just to be on the safe side, I assigned our daughter Samantha to be the front door sentry. She would warily watch each approaching unknown entity. If they were carrying a gift of some kind, she usually let them pass without too much problem. However, if they were empty-handed, she would grill them about their name, parents' names, birthdates, tax information as well as require two forms of photo ID. She wanted to use our electric carving knife to replicate the clicking wand they use at airports but we thought that might be a little dangerous. The first teenager to arrive seemed a little too good to be true and my daughter and I wondered if we were being lulled into a false sense of security. This young man was planning a Scrabble tournament and spoke of attending Duke and how his Harvard Senior sister was in town. Initially I thought we were being Eddie Haskell-ed. But, the kid was on the level and a sign of good things to come. Turned out that all Alexander's invitees were terrific company...well-mannered and good-humored. In reality, I think Alex was more worried about his father's behavior toward his friends than the other way around.



A few other little party odds and ends:



*Thanks to my wife's mother, we ordered just the right amount of food. Especially cake. A half-sheet was more than enough. Also, my wife's father turned out to be the Rodin of vegetable choppers.

*Although my mom was not there, her "Chewies", comprised of Special K, peanut butter and chocolate, were the hit of the buffet table. Who needs caviar when you have Grandma's Chewies? With the healthy cereal and peanut butter I've always felt a Chewie is the real "Breakfast of Champions." If we're talking about champion Sumo wrestlers. Good stuff.

*My wife found great decorations at a very low price which we carefully took down and will save for the next three graduates. The fact that the banners were in the "irregular" barrel and actually spelled out "Congratulations Gradients" is no big deal. Also, the '07 can easily be changed to '09, then '11, then '14 with the creative use of duct tape.

*A friend of Alexander's let him use the friend's Wii game system. Now, as someone still a little intimidated by PONG and downright scared of Ms. Pacman, I view this interactive deal where people are jumping up and down in front of the TV, waving their control-laden arms around, as a sign of the Apocalypse. But, it did turn out to be quite a hit and not just for the kids. A certain adult, who shall remain nameless, really loved it and was talking trash to his own little son as they competed! Okay, I'll give you a hint. The adult's name rhymes with "Hairy Fish."

*Finally, a sign that the future is in good hands. We were honored to have, as a guest, the legendary singer and Johnny Carson favorite, Marilyn Maye. Marilyn agreed to sing a couple songs while accompanied by a non-pianist...namely, me. Any of Marilyn's regular accompanists would have done a much better job even if they were wearing oven mitts. But, being a trouper, she made musical magic anyway. As she wrapped up the second number, almost all the young folks in the living room applauded. I say "almost all" because some of them were busy dancing...cheek to cheek. They knew show biz greatness when they saw...and heard...it. The Wii gave way to WOW!

Sunday's party pretty much wrapped up the Season of the Graduate. I hope it wasn't too jarring when I woke Alex up on Monday morning with a box and a garbage bag for his bedroom. Hey! It's supposed to be the season of DAD, now!

As I've mentioned before in the bloggitany, my brothers are all much, much, much older than I. Because of that, I became an uncle when I was about nine years old. That means I was, mostly by accident, the favorite uncle. Now, I've never been the "favorite" anything before or since so I cling desperately to this distinction. It really happened because I was so young myself and, obviously, single. Even in my little town, having nine year olds marry, was frowned upon. That meant I had plenty of time to hang out with the little kids. As I got older, into my teens, it meant I could take them places like Wisconsin Dells where we rolled through town in my old Ford Van with the windows open and music playing as loudly as possible. Sure, it was most likely Sinatra or The Goose Island Ramblers doing The Hurley Hop! but it was still loud. I also used to do this thing where I'd pretend my hand was some sort of alternative personality with a will of its own. I'd have long conversations with my hand that made my nieces and nephews giggle. Unfortunately, this particular behavior has continued and, every now and then, a producer will catch me in a heated discussion with my friend, Mr. Hand. Usually, our arguments stem from a discussion of history. Mr. Hand simply refuses to acknowledge any of Millard Fillmore's strong points as president. Ever since he read those books by presidential historian, Michael Beschloss, he thinks he's the expert or, as he calls himself, The Upper Hand. Still, even with that annoying habit, I must admit that without Mr. Hand's work, viewers would be staring at an empty map as well the empty suit they usually see. Okay, now this has just become creepy. My apologies. And, the same from Mr. Hand.

What I'm getting at is that I was lucky enough to be a pretty active and involved uncle and, now, in a case of "what goes around comes around" one of those formerly little squirts is filling a similar role for my own kids. Although he's old enough to be their uncle...because, as I may have mentioned, my brothers are all really up in years...he's their cousin. His name is Kurt but, since he was a tot himself, I've called him Kurtie which, in the language of our own little kids, became Kootie. So, he was and is Cousin Kootie. He pulled up in a rented red PT Cruiser on Thursday, in town, in part, to commemorate Alexander's graduation. Of course, seeing Cousin Kootie in what looked to them like only a step or two above a Fisher-Price car, gave the kids plenty of early ammunition to use. (To all the PT Cruiser fans, please know that I like the PT Cruiser. The kids just thought it was a little too cute for Kootie or is that coot for Kutie?) However, for the next several days, whenever anyone had to go somewhere the cry was "I'll ride with Kootie."

Cousin Kootie took the kids to movies. Attended a church service where Alex was awarded a scholarship, then attended a part of Alex' Senior Day and, to top it off, spent the afternoon eating buffalo wings with the graduate. He played lots of Scrabble, basketball, volleyball, football and more. He also drove around in his little red buggie with the windows down and radio blaring. Wonder where he got that idea? All-in-all, he won the Cousin of the Year contest hands down. It behooves me to mention that in the Scrabble matches, daughter, Samantha, tended to win. But, to be fair to Kootie, Samantha and brother Harrison really were double-teaming him with very short, annoying words, inhibiting word-building potential. There was also a fair amount of questionable wording placed on the board. You can make up your own definition of "questionable." Anyway, Kootie was a good sport.

Kootie has a Master's Degree in special education, focusing primarily on people living with Autism. I've seen him in action working with students and young adults and he is terrific. He has a deep well of empathy coupled with just plain common sense. He is also, despite the oxymoronic sound of it, a working actor. Right now, he is filming a movie in which he plays a football player. Not just an extra but a "core extra!" According to Kootie, that means he gets to sit at a separate card-table in the extra's tent. Obviously, this is a man of many talents. But, his best talent, if you polled the residents of my house, is just being Cousin Kootie.

Sunday was the big day for our oldest son, Alexander. Graduation Day. I say "big day" but that may be pushing it. I think the day before, Saturday, was his big day as he hit about eight graduation parties. That's a lot of Mr. Pibb and potato chips. Anyway, Sunday morning rolled around and it was time to do the Mortar Board Boogie.

As I mentioned in this space last week, my graduation ceremony was held in the high school gym or on the football field. However, for some reason, my son's ceremony was down at Kemper Arena. Of course, with all the construction around town, you can't really get there without some sort of hovercraft. The graduate was supposed to be at the site by 11:45 a.m. for the 1:00 p.m. event. We left the house around 11:00, stopping at the drug store for film since my wife's high-tech digital camera was out of juice. It's just as well, because, if she used that camera we'd never actually see the photos other than squinting into that little screen on the camera, itself. We made our way through the closed roads and detours arriving in the Kemper parking lot in plenty of time. Now, we had been warned that parking would cost us seven dollars. So, I forked over the bucks without a word. Then, I overheard the folks behind us say that they had just mentioned they were related to a graduate, signed a piece of paper and drove in for free. I know seven dollars doesn't sound like much when you look at the cost of everything else surrounding a graduation...like the cheese and meat plates for the open house or the cost of the robe and cap and stuff that he'll never wear again...but, for $7 you could almost buy the two gallons of gas it took us to get to the arena!

The other kids were disappointed that none of the concession stands were open. Our second oldest boy, Taylor, who will be going through all this stuff in two short years, kept saying that going to Kemper for the circus was much more fun. I told him it was a bad idea to suggest that all the school officials and other dignitaries arrive at the stage in one of those little clown cars. Taylor also thought they could make the graduates walk a tight-rope to the stage or, at least, step across hot-coals to grab their diploma. After awhile, he used his cell-phone to get in touch with some friends at the event, too, and went to sit with them in the nose-bleed seats. Meanwhile, Harrison and Samantha were very patient as they waited...and waited...and waited. Soon, a glimmer of hope, when the high school band started to tune-up. At one point, they all held a note for what seemed like six hours. In retrospect I believe they were putting the audience into a trance...hoping we would forget about the passage of time and the seven dollars some of us paid for parking. Finally, they launched into Pomp and Circumstance, which was originally written as a recessional which meant all the graduates had to walk in backwards. Over the years, with four kids...four active kids...my wife and I have been to quite a few concerts, meets, plays, games, etc. But, in the 12 years or so that we've been doing this stuff, we have never guessed right about which side of the gym or field or, in this case, arena, we should sit on. Sunday, true to form, we were on the opposite side from where the grads marched in. We were able to catch a glimpse of Alex ambling in...looking like an absent-minded professor from some Disney movie. I swear, if he opened his mouth, he would've sounded just like Fred MacMurray.

After all were seated, it was time for a few speeches. They were short and to the point. Lots of talk about how great the school is...how many distinctions this particular class had achieved...how many challenges they had met and overcome. Alex had written a speech for the event but it was deemed a little too comedic. ("Take our principal....please!") Finally, the moment arrived for that walk across the stage. They were using the jumbo-tron, so we could see the faces. That was a nice touch although the "Kiss-Cam" effort had fallen flat earlier in the ceremony. And, apparently, the superintendent didn't want to dance the limbo under the video limbo pole. Most of the students used their full names. "Skip Finster Hottentott, the third." "Mercedes Juniper Twartkowski." "John Wilkes Booth." But, for whatever reason, our son Alexander Michael Nichols went with Alex Nichols. Apparently, he really wanted just the first name like Elvis but they insisted he use a last name. He suggested Alexander The Great or Alex P. Keaton or Alexander Wolcott or Alexander Hamilton. In the end, he went with Alex Nichols.

Some of the kids, as they went up for the diploma, flower and George Foreman Grill of Distinction, got shouts of acclamation from their families and friends. Being from Wisconsin and having been taught from an early age not to draw attention to yourself..."Who do you think you are, anyway? You're not so special. You put your pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us, remember?"...my wife and I are not good at the "Yahooing" stuff. So, when Alex made his appearance we kind of cleared our throats in an approving manner and tapped our knees.

After all the students got back to their seats, they moved their tassels and let out a cheer. Some of the caps went airborne. The band got busy and the robed ones moved back out toward where the circus folks usually hang around or the various American Royal creatures mill about. We left the arena and moved out to find Alex. He looked happy to have it all over with. That's one high school graduation ceremony down and three to go.

Weeks ago parents had been encouraged to write a personal letter to our graduating children which would be given to them right before the ceremony. We did. My wife had had a great idea filled with cleverness and creativity. We got the finished product into the appropriate place in plenty of time but when Alex opened his envelope, there was just a form letter from the faculty. So, my wife was, upon finding out, post-ceremony, in agony over the idea that Alex thought we'd not cared enough to do the letter thing. Nothing like a little parental angst on graduation day. I understood her emotions...I was still peeved over that seven dollar parking fee.

Lately, I've felt a little bit like Marlin Perkins on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom:

"We're treading very carefully through the underbrush...attempting to catch a glimpse of one of nature's most confusing creatures. Oh...shhhh...there it is: The Black& Yellow Crested Graduating Senior! Notice how he seems to be walking in his sleep...rousing himself only long enough to tap on that lap-top computer. We're not sure, but we think that is how he communicates with others of his species. It will not be long before this creature, currently in his late spring t-shirt and shorts and, apparently molting, will be grandly arrayed in his cap & gown plumage, strutting proudly before his peers. Now, while Jim sneaks up to put the identification band on the animal's left ankle, let me tell you about how affordable life insurance can be when it comes from Mutual of Omaha!"

Yes, we are co-existing with a soon-to-graduate senior. It happens this weekend so watch this space for a thorough look at how it all went down. In the meantime, it got me thinking about my own graduation back in the olden days, when people said things like "olden days." First of all, our senior son has had graduation-related events almost everyday: Senior Awards Ceremony, National Honor Society Ceremony, Drama Awards Ceremony, Forensics Awards Ceremony, then, finally the Awards Awards Ceremony, honoring students who did a good job while accepting awards and honors at all the other ceremonies. He also had a Senior Picnic, a Senior Class Day, a Senior Bowling Day, a Forensics Picnic deal and a bunch of parties thrown by classmates and their parents. This means he is far more popular than his father ever was and, additionally, my car is never home.

As far as all those pre-ceremony ceremonies are concerned, I really only remember an awards night. It was for all the grades. My classmates were being awarded a variety of scholarships and honors. I was not. I may have gotten one certificate for my work as the sole member of the Senior Boys Quilting and Hot Tea Club. I was there, for the most part, because the choir was singing and I was a member. By that point in my life, I fell into the choral section known as "Shaky Tenors." Our choir director looked at us as the most unreliable bunch in the group. Not just because our voices were notorious for shifting from Vienna Boys Choir to Vienna Sausage Grinder, but, also, because we tended to talk out of turn and fool around a lot. I think, that night we were to sing Climb Every Mountain which was a little odd considering we lived in Wisconsin. Hike Every Bluff With Frequent Stops For Cards and Cheese Curds would've been a better choice. In any case, that awards ceremony was about the only official pre-graduation deal I can recall. I think there was a Senior Picnic but my invitation was a little vague:

What: Senior Picnic
When: Sometime soon.
Where: Outdoors.
Why: To enjoy each other's company one last time and, for all students with last names beginning with NICHO, to receive boosters for every inoculation taken since Pre-K.

In those days the actual ceremony was held either on the track behind the school or in the gymnasium. (There's a word you don't see spelled out completely, very often, anymore.) For my class, I think we were in the gym. (That looks better.) Our school colors were red, black and white and we were the Eagles. I think we were the Eagles because of all the eagles that could be seen along the river front. Or, perhaps, we were supposed to be the Beagles and someone accidentally let the B fall off. Our class wore robes that were sort of a maroon color...like a bad dye job on a man of about age 55, who wears his shirts open to the naval and a neck weighed down by enough gold and silver to make Captain Jack Sparrow get all flushed. I can say that with impunity since my hair has obviously not been through that process and the only silver I have is in my teeth. My suggestion of "plaid" was completely rejected although Blaze Orange almost won...we were a big hunting school. Now, my memory of all this is highly suspect but it seems to me our class motto was "Watch Where You Step." We were also a big livestock school. There were no student speakers that I remember and, frankly, I can't recall who made the main speech. Probably the principal or school board president. I do recall the general gist of the comments: "Don't get too big for your britches. Turn off lights when you leave a room. Don't speak to me in that tone of voice. Who do you think you are? Put that stuff away. Are you rolling your eyes at me? Every action gets a reaction. I've been down that road before so I know better than you do. What goes around, comes around. Shhhhh." Wait. That may not have been the commencement address. I think that was actually what my dad was telling me as we drove to the event.

As for a class song, I think at prom it had been Color My World. That's what I was told, not having gone to prom myself. But for the graduation ceremony it may have been the aforementioned Climb Every Mountain or In Heaven There Is No Beer or Smoke on the Water. Just can't be sure.

I do know we used that Sir Edward Elgar ditty Pomp and Circumstance as we walked across the stage. Of course, we had the only know polka version performed by The Six Fat Dutchmen. Elgar originally wrote the tune for a fashion show and called it Pumps and Flowered Pants. It went through several permutations before becoming the grand processional we know today. At one point Paris (the city not the heiress) used it to promote free trips to their country: Comps and VisitFrance. Then, an exterminator grabbed it with Stomp on All Those Ants. Elgar finally drew the line when a local butcher started using the song to promote his shop where he sold meats of questionable quality, changing the title to Rumps and Take A Chance.

It is really troubling how little of that event I can recall. I do have a picture of myself in between two other graduates. I remember telling my mom to be ready to snap the shot when I walk behind them and smile so it would look like I was standing with some close friends. Along those same lines, most of the names and messages in my yearbook are ones I did myself, trying to change-up the penmanship each time. I only messed up once when I wrote "Dear Joel Nichols, You are the best. I'm glad we had some classes together this year. Hope to see you this summer. All the best, Joel Nichols."

Well, let's see what happens this Sunday. I have a feeling I'll remember more of this graduation than my own.

The story you are about to read, is true. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent. That may end up being a mistake on my part seeing as how I've grown accustomed to sleeping indoors and can't really afford to hire a food-tester. But, here goes nothing. This is how my wonderful wife, Jessica, spent her Tuesday.

First of all, she had to take our daughter, Samantha, in for a pre-volleyball camp physical. It went well. But, during the course of the appointment, Jessica found it necessary to write the word "adenoid." She was, understandably, unsure of the exact spelling. If we all pronounced it as a three syllable word, "ad-uh-noid," that would have made it easy. But, around our house it is a two syllable word, "ad-noid." Sometimes, when we're feeling particularly lazy, it devolves into one syllable, "noid." Like saying 'Sconsin, instead of Wis-consin. Basically, "adenoid" is one of those words, like so many in the English language, that seems intent on being difficult. I can just imagine Noah Webster sitting in his office saying "HA! HA! HA! Let's throw in a silent E. That will annoy them!" Well, my wife asked the nurse to verify the spelling...the nurse stuck her head out in the hall and asked anyone who was listening. Soon, it became a weird game of "telephone." Now, my wife didn't mean to disrupt the office. It was a close call in one of the examining rooms as a new doctor thought the cries of "adenoids!" meant he was to remove those from the kid seated in front of him. The medico was stopped just in time.

When Jessica and Samantha left the office, they discovered that the keys were locked inside the van. No problem. Jessica is very proud of her Magneta-Key Holder. So, they unlocked and moved onto lunch. They chose a specific eatery because we had a gift card. Samantha and Jessica had a great lunch and then paid for it. Only after forking over the dough did Jessica remember the gift card. The folks at the restaurant were very helpful and willing to redo the bill. Of course, it did require a manager to complete the complicated transaction. The manager had to use a red phone, kept under a bullet-proof glass. Apparently, he contacted the World Bank for permission. Paul Wolfowitz was a little tied up...figuratively speaking. Well, I'm assuming "figuratively." So, the complex gift card for cash switch was accomplished through, what the manager referred to as "other means." I don't know what those were but apparently the stock market did quiver a little by the time it was all over. Eventually, Jessica and Samantha got out of the place, only to discover that my wife had left the key in the ignition of the van and the doors unlocked. So, she went from not even being able to get into the car herself at the doctor's office to giving everyone a chance at entering...and driving...the vehicle at the diner.

The next stop for this Thelma and Louise-like duo, was the DMV where our far-too-young daughter successfully completed her written test for her learner's permit. We just got done with this stuff with the older boys and here we go again. (Frankly, I refuse to admit that Samantha is anywhere near old enough to drive. She can't possibly reach the pedals! Well, it's back to the parking lots and side-streets for me. That is father fodder for another time.) Now, to my wife's credit she had remembered the birth certificate. However, she had not written down our daughter's Social Security number. Naturally, she did what anyone would do in such an instance. She called Grandma in Wisconsin. My mom gives the kids Savings Bonds for Christmas and, so, has all of their numbers. Good thinking on Jessica's part and good record-keeping on my mom's. Around 1:30 in the afternoon, the pretty pair left the DMV office and approached the van. Can you feel it coming? Do you sense what I'm about to tell you? Yes! Jessica locked her keys in the car...again. And, not just one set of keys. But her main set of keys, which were clearly visible on the car-seat AND the amazing Magneta-Key, which she had not replaced after the doctor's office incident AND a third key she keeps in the car for when she can't find her other keys. Three car keys. One car. Locked up tight.

Being of hardy pioneer stock, the first inclination for Jessica and Samantha was to walk the ten miles home. They got about five miles in before they decided it was too far and turned around and walked back to the DMV. Okay, that's not true. They only got about a mile down the road before re-thinking the strategy. I believe they started hallucinating and hearing a voice saying "Donner. Party of two." So, where was I during this part of the day? I was hosting a seminar and had my phone turned off. When I wrapped things up it was going on 3:15. I got the voice mails and headed to the DMV. In the meantime, some very nice person working in one of the stores in nearby, offered to let Jessica, a total stranger, take the worker's car home to get an extra key. That is really quite extraordinary. Now, Jessica does look and is, in fact, trustworthy, but still...to turn over your car to someone you don't know from Adam? Pretty nice.

It was just about then, that I showed up. Our daughter, the new almost-driver, rode home with me and related the day's events. Even with all the twists and turns, both wife and daughter were in great moods. All the important things had gone perfectly: the check-up, the lunch, the driver's test. The rest was just stuff that happens. I'm not sure how long it took the doctor's office to recover from Adenoid Alert. As far as I know, the restaurant is still sorting out yesterday' books from the girls' lunch-date. It maybe my imagination but I thought I heard the van whimpering just a little bit this morning...worried about what today holds at the hands of my wheeling wife. When she was little, one my wife's sisters used to call her Hurricane Jess. Tuesday, she certainly left a path of head-scratching wonderment in her wake.

When I was first approached about doing this bloggerania, the all-knowing, all-seeing Web-Master! (That exclamation point is part of the Web-Master!'s legal name and must always be included...and it must always be in bold print.) said to me "Merle, (The Web-Master! has never known my name.) we would like you to put something on the web-site every now and then to let people know where you have been visiting and what you have been up to." At first, I was flattered, thinking this must mean that folks are really interested in me and my wanderings. Turns out it was just part of a court agreement reached by the station with the states of Missouri and Kansas regarding the several restraining orders issued against me by fore-thinking, random viewers and most of the other Channel 9 employees. Well, I often neglect that original reason for this cyber-silliness on the interwebs, so, today I am going to, at least, get caught up for this past weekend.

Friday Evening: Lenexa is celebrating its 100th birthday! They have had a bunch of neat things going on in town and one of the best was the Lenexa Starquest 2007 on Friday evening. The local talent on display ranged from nine years old to "I'm Not Telling!" It was my job to introduce the acts and get out of the way. We had a panel of judges from area theatres. When you are talking about fancy, schmancy stuff, you spell that word with an "re" at the end instead of the "er" that I grew up with. The singing talent displayed was exceeded only by the enthusiasm of both the entertainers and audience.

It reminded me a little of the local talent shows held in my hometown way back when. Now, I must say that the production values in Lenexa were terrific and, as mentioned, the talent was impressive but the general idea of giving folks a chance to strut their stuff is the same. Back home, it was the AFS Talent Show...I think that stands for American Field Service which was a way for the school to participate in the student foriegn exchange program. There was an ongoing effort to send me to Antarctica, for example. Anyway, it was fun to watch your friends and neighbors perform. Who am I kidding? It was mostly fun to watch your enemies try to entertain. I know of one upstanding, respectable member of our community...who shall remain nameless...who used to sit with his or her good friend and try not to laugh at some of the acts. It was great entertainment to sit behind this particular person just to watch his/her efforts at stifling the eruption of guffaws as musical notes were just missed and dance-steps were tripped-up. Good times. Good times.

It was at the AFS talent show that my brothers' Tijuana Brass band, called What's New, took the town by storm. They were a big hit. When my brother, the cheesehead version of Herb Alpert, played the opening to The Lonely Bull, the girls swooned. We think they were swooning, maybe it was just nausea. Most of their songs were upbeat and fun but they did a version of Where Is Love?, sung by the bass player that really did seem to make the females in the audience weak in the knees. Us guys thought it was stupid. Just stupid. Get back to the fun music. Let my brother, the drummer, sing Never-Ending Song of Love or something good. Enough with this wimpy, mushy stuff. It was at the AFS, that I first played piano in public. I lost. I didn't even get honorable mention. My trumpet playing brother felt I had really embarassed the family and did not do my part to continue the winning tradition established by What's New. I understood his disappointment but felt that his having my name officially changed to Jocko McLoserdork was excessive.

Saturday Morning: The Truman Run kicked off at 8:00 a.m. and it was a great turn-out. Over 300 walkers and runners made their way through historic Independence. My job was to welcome folks and introduce the dignitaries before the race. Three girls from a local Catholic school did a great rendition of The National Anthem. Father Rost gave a great pre-race prayer: "Dear Lord, Bless our knees. Amen." Apparently, St. Peter did suffer from shin splints at some point. After the race, I helped hand out the awards. My daughter and wife both got medals...which always raises the idea that the fix was in. But, they won them all on their own and, true to form, wore disguises when coming forward to claim them. Congratulations to all the volunteers, runners, and walkers who made the morning such fun-filled success.

Monday Morning: I went to one of my favorite places in our whole area: Kearney, Missouri. For many years I have visited Kearney Elementary and always leave in a good mood. The teachers, administration, parents and students are amazing. Great questions and good fun! We used to drive in and around Kearney a lot when our kids were little because we spent plenty of time at Watkins Mill Park. In fact, our second son Taylor was born the day after one of those round-the-lake jaunts. We're pretty sure that's what forced the issue. Also, my wife has ran in the Jesse James 5K for many years and I even emceed a pet-talent show in Kearney one time! So, Kearney brings back lots of good memories. Thanks to all the fifth graders for inviting me to your class.

By the way, this morning on FirstNews, you got the chance to see more of the newest member of the weather team, Lisa Teachman. You can watch Lisa every Saturday and Sunday morning on FirstNews Weekend Edition. She is a great addition to the KMBC family. Yes, I said family. A little dysfunctional maybe, but still a family!

In past cyber-meanderings, I've mentioned that my family has adopted this odd little idea of each person having his or her own "season." For example, our second son, Taylor, celebrates his birthday in September, so "The Season of Taylor" runs from the day after his older brother's birthday in August until Taylor's own birthday in September. Then, "The Season of Harry" begins until October...followed by "The Season of Samantha." The oldest child, Alexander, has his "Season" from my birthday in June until his in August. However, the longest "Season" of them all belongs to my wife, Jessica. Hers begins on December 15, the day after Samantha's birthday and runs through Jessica's own February birthday, but, does it end there? NOOOOO! It continues through Valentine's Day. Is that the end? NOOOOO! It dovetails right into Mother's Day. My wife has a five month season! Most of us get a month...or two, at the most. She gets FIVE! FIVE months of gifts. FIVE months of saying "Don't forget, it's the season of Jessica" when making a "request."

Well, yesterday, being Mother's Day, marked the end of this year's season. For starters, we went to a different church than usual. A friend of ours from our home church is now a pastor at a new church so we thought it would be nice to see him in action. He made an interesting entrance. As we were standing in the narthex, he approached, resembling some sort of sacred janitor, carrying a wet/dry-shopvac. Apparently some water was seeping into the sanctuary from below...giving new meaning to the phrase "living water." There was some fine print in his letter of call that indicated this type of thing would be necessary. It was under "duties, other than baptism and feet-washing, involving water." Well, he did a wonderful job in his part of the actual service and the sermon, given by the senior pastor, had perfect pitch for Mother's Day.

Then we went to a brunch. Lots of good food. The youngest, Harrison, definitely got his money's worth. He had at least nine slices of pizza and a pile of desserts. Breakfast of Champions. In the afternoon, Mom opened presents...a personalized coffee mug...a candle...some books...an oven mitt. It was a good, quiet, restful day.

She certainly deserved it, especially after her Friday. She and a neighbor went in on a mulch delivery. When I got home on Friday, it looked like a giant cow had left a gigantic squishy calling card on the drive-way. Naturally, at first, I thought it was some sort of critique of my weather forecasting abilities. Turned out to be a mountain of mulch. Well, Jessica and the kids, with a lot of help from our neighbors, got it all spread around. When it comes to "spreading it around" I have a lot of experience, but I had a work-related deal to attend. Anyway, they all did a great job and got it down quickly. So, when Mother's Day rolled around, Jessica took a good rest...right before the End Of The Season of Jessica Parade that happens every May!

Here's hoping all your celebrations were great. Really, for Moms...the Season should be endless!

*My mom could never keep the pianist Roger Williams straight from the country singer/songwriter Roger Miller. Often she would say "I just love it when Roger Miller plays Autumn Leaves." Then, when You Can't Roller Skate In A Buffalo Herd would come on the radio, she'd remark how funny "that Roger Williams" was.

*My mom once said she enjoyed hearing a "Vietnamese Waltz" every now and then. We are pretty sure she meant Viennese Waltz, but, who knows.

*My mom sometimes says things out loud that are really just part of an internal conversation she is having with herself. Once, while my brothers and I were sitting at the kitchen table and she was getting something off the stove, she chuckled and said "Oh, those cows had no idea what they were doing." All of us looked at each other, figured it was just mom being mom and went back to eating.

*My mom visited me in Las Vegas to celebrate my 19th birthday. Frankly, she had not been too crazy about her 18 year old baby moving there in the first place. Anyway, she and the Bionic Avon Lady (BAL, for short) flew out from Wisconsin for a few days in the desert. Now, BAL naturally wanted to see the sights and paint the town, if not red, at least a light pink. But, for my mom, it didn't matter that this was glitzy, glamorous Vegas. She had come there to make chocolate chip cookies and a birthday cake and that's what she did. Now, we did see some shows, including Liberace, but, for the most part, my mom was there to be a mom. By the way, the Bionic Avon Lady had a great time, too. She disappeared for a couple days...turned out she was in the chorus line for the Wayne Newton show and had sold a ton of Avon's Care Deeply lotion, on the side.

*My mom and I once travelled to Reedsburg, Wisconsin to see Frank Sinatra....Junior. For some reason, Junior and his band were appearing in a tiny little room on a postage-stamp sized stage. We had a table right at the front and, I'm not sure, but I think Junior was flirting with my mom most of the night. She is the kind of person a performer wants in the front row because she smiles, claps to the beat, sings a long and just generally has a great time. When my brothers had a band back in the late 60s, every summer, they would play at a camp for kids with special needs and challenges. I think it was called Camp Waubeek. Well, as great as they played, it was the chance to dance with my mom that made the most smiles. She'd stay on the dance floor as long the young folks wanted to spin around.

*My mom, speaking of dancing, used to request "Music to Iron By" when I would be practicing my piano lessons. Well, when I should have been practicing my piano lessons. There were really only two things she insisted my brothers and I do as far as childhood activities were concerned: swimming lessons and piano lessons. Apparently, she was preparing us for life as musicians on a cruise ship of doubtful seaworthiness. Actually, swimming lessons are a smart idea for anybody but she was particularly diligent on this because of her one and only water skiing experience. The moral of that story was "If you are water skiing and fall, LET GO OF THE ROPE AND SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" As for the piano side of things, her own father had been a talented musician and she had spent part of her little girl-hood dancing while he played. To this day, she can pick out more melodies on a guitar or piano than you'd find in a pile of Reader's Digest Songbooks. Anyway, she wanted all of us to have a little grounding in music and piano seemed the best way to accomplish that. So, when I would play something like Scott Joplin's The Entertainer, she'd start ironing or dusting or vacuuming in rhythm. Who needed Jazzercise when you had Mommercise! Obviously, she was ahead of her time.

*My mom has walked right through sliding screen doors without missing a beat.

*My mom has been the source of many more stories, long and short, but I'd better save some for her birthday and beyond. Oh, I should mention that she is as wonderful a grandma as she is a mother. Almost too good...I'm pretty sure she and my children are in cahoots against me at all times.

*My mom is the best there is and my brothers and I are pretty lucky people. In the words of Roger Williams, she makes us all feel like the King of the Road. Or, is that Roger Miller?

Ask TV folks about their media heroes and you will hear names like Cronkite, Huntley & Brinkley, Barbara Walters...for some of the younger ones: Brokaw and Peter Jennings. I had one student in my broadcasting class at Johnson County Community College say Anderson Cooper...now, that's a young broadcaster. Of course, I'm a little out of touch. I thought Anderson-Cooper was a brand of linoleum flooring. (By the way, when I say "my" class, I mean the one I teach not attend. Although, I would certainly understand why you may think I need to be a student not an instructor.) For me, in terms of broadcast journalism, I always think of Edward R. Murrow. I'm happy to say that, since the George Clooney movie, more of my college students at least know that name. Running right now, on KMBC, is a promo letting everyone know that Channel 9 has won more Murrow Awards than any other local TV station in the country. It is a great testament to the hard work of the news team but, when the promo airs right before weather and it goes from Murrow to me, well, that is just plain wrong. On the entertainment side of broadcasting, folks mention Steve Allen, Johnny Carson, Lucille Ball, Mary Tyler Moore and many other names. But, for me, one of my true inspirations was Allen Ludden. He was really a pioneer in TV. He hosted the College Bowl quiz program and, most famously, Password! He was also married to another legend, Betty White. Fortunately, when I had the honor of interviewing her many years ago, I was able to tell her how much I admired her late husband's work. Betty White, by the way, has logged more TV hours than almost anyone else. The interview I did with her was part of promoting a new ABC sit-com in which she was starring. Her much younger, much less accomplished, co-star showed up with an entourage and generally avoided talking to anyone. But, Miss White was there with one companion and chatted with everybody. Despite the fact that the show ended up being cancelled rather quickly, it was great to spend a little time with Betty White...a class act. That phrase also applies to Allen Ludden.

Allen Ludden was from Mineral Point, Wisconsin. So, right away, you know he had to be a good guy! I loved watching Password. I firmly believe that had grade school included a Lightning Round and allowed me to have a partner like Tony Randall or Carol Channing, my grades would have been much better. Mr. Ludden was not a "jump-up-and-down-get-in-your-face" game-show host. He was calm and cool. He seemed intelligent but not smug. (Sometimes, Alex Trebek strikes me as a little bit superior. Of course, HE knows the answers! They're on those cards in front of him!) Anyway, when Allen Ludden would wave his hand in front of the podium and purr "and for our friends at home..." all was right with the world. The thing that has me thinking of Mr. Ludden and the great game show, was a story on FirstNews this morning about the most popular passwords people use nowadays to get into e-mail and voice-mail and who knows where else! The most used included the word itself, "password," and the numbers "123456."

Around Channel 9, we are required to change our passwords pretty often. We can not use the same one within a certain period of time. It has to include numbers. It has to include letters. It has to include punctuation. It has to include you standing in a cemetery at midnight swinging a dead possum over your head while chanting "coverage you can count on....coverage you can count on...coverage you can count on." Okay, the last one may be just for me because I've never seen anyone else out there when I am, but, the fact remains, we change passwords a lot. Now, if you're a mover and shaker, like Larry Moore or Lara Moritz or Donna Pitman or Jere Gish or Jim Flink, I can see where you'd want to be extra careful to protect sources and trade secrets or, in the case of Flink and Gish, hair-styling tips. But, for a yahoo like me? Nobody wants to see my e-mails...not even the people I send them to. (Did that sentence end with a dangling participle and, if so, should I see a specialist about having it reattached?)

Frankly, I am sick and tired of passwords. You need one to go to your work e-mail and home e-mail and to buy certain things from your often-used on-line retailers, like, in my case, rubberduckie.qak. Yes, I go through lots of rubber duckies in the course of a bath. That's all I'm going to say. I do appreciate their liberal payment policies at rubberduckie, they let me put everything on the bill! The bill! I'm sorry if that pun brought you down! Down! I quack myself up! The rubberduckie web-site's celebrity endorser is Ben AFLAC! Please, stop me! Seriously, stop me! You also need passwords to check voice-mails. By the time I'm done checking the school voice-mails for the four kids, then the college voice-mail and then the KMBC voice-mail, it's time for bed. Naturally, there are no messages on the college voice-mail and the complaint calls on my line at work all sound about the same so that doesn't take long. And, as for the school voice-mail box, how many different ways can a teacher say "Please, have a talk with your son/daughter about his/her behavior in class. Samantha/Harrison/Taylor/Alex must learn not to (Insert infraction here) any more." Still, just punching in the number (who dials anymore?) and sifting through all the steps and remembering the pile of different passwords is exhausting. I didn't even mention the cell-phone.

Now, when I was a kid the idea of a password, even apart from the TV show, was exciting. It conjured up all kinds of images of secret clubs and secret handshakes and secret meetings. Every now and then we'd try to have a more formalized secret club among the neighborhood kids but, then, some one's mom would go to the back door and yell "DINNER!" and, by the third time she yelled, our organizational meeting would fall apart. Once I tried to have a secret password for entry into my own bedroom but forgot it and had to sleep on the front porch for a week. (My father wouldn't let me in without a photo ID and a notarized copy of my birth certificate.)

Several times a day, I will curse this or that password that I can't recall properly. Did I use a number or a letter or a question mark or an ampersand? And, if it was an ampersand, was I wearing a truss at the time? In those moments of despair and distress, I travel back to a kinder, gentler time and hear Allen Ludden's dulcet tones saying "and, for the frustrated pinhead in the 21st century...the password is...." When he says it, it sounds just right.

Over the last, nearly quarter century of being on TV and visiting schools, I've heard lots of great, funny and interesting questions. I like using terms like "quarter century" instead of 25 years because it sounds so majestic and irritates my wife. Like saying someone is "starting their 40th year of life" rather than saying "Happy 39th Birthday!" That kind of counting just irks her but, it is also part of what's kept things interesting for us as we approach the start of our 20th year of marriage...only about five short of a quarter century!

Anyway, back to schools. This is a busy time for such visits for a number of reasons. First of all, many classes do their weather units in the springtime. Second, it is, obviously, an active time of the year for weather around here. And, finally, hard-working teachers don't mind turning over their precious charges for an hour or so by the end of the school year...catching their breath a little. Over the last few days, I've been lucky enough to travel to schools in Leavenworth, Odessa, Independence, Chillhowee and Richmond. (Clearly, the staff of Channel 9 is doing all it can to keep me as far away from the station as possible. I didn't really think this effort would get going with such intensity until we were in the fancy-schmancy new building.) All of the visits have been filled with smiling faces, good humor and interesting questions and comments. However, at one of the schools, I was asked a brand new one. It didn't come from a student but from a staffer and not in the assembly but in the hallway as I arrived. The person looked me up and down with a quizzical look on her face and then said "You don't dress that nice on television, do you? I mean, you wear different clothes on TV, right?" I told her that I was wearing the same suit and tie at the school as I had on that morning on FirstNews. She told me she hadn't watched. The fact is, with my particular wardrobe, what you see is what you get...on the tube or in the flesh.

When I was a kid, I thought I was a pretty snappy dresser. I never wore blue jeans...mostly just to be contrary. I had white shoes and a powder blue sport coat for gala occasions. My day-to-day wear was something a golfer in the 60s would've worn. I was reminded of that from pictures e-mailed to me from the France family back in my Wisconsin hometown. When I was a kid, I assumed the France family was from France. I don't know if they have any French heritage or not but you can't really blame me for any confusion since they lived next door to the Belgium's, across the street from the Yugoslavia's and just down the block from the Lichtenstein's. Anyway, Bob France found old photos of me in some high school plays that I wrote about a few blogs ago. (Put those two words together and you have "BLOGSAGO!" New From Milton Bradley!) The e-mailed photos show me as a festival of polyester. There was not a natural fiber within ten feet of me...including my hair, from the looks of things. They are in black and white but, frankly, color wouldn't help. I wore a lot of blues and grays. Hard-soled shoes. Other kids are wearing blue-jeans, t-shirts, tennies. I look like I just fell out of a Metamucil ad in Modern Maturity magazine.

As for TV clothes, while working at WMTV Channel 15 in Madison, Wisconsin, I had a couple of sports-jackets that made me look like an Easter Egg on steroids. One was sort of a turquoise/robin's egg blue and the other was pink. That pink one was potentially dangerous. Once, while wearing it, I walked too close to the river and a trout fisherman tried to hook me. These pieces of clothing were supposedly kind of hip...Miami Vice and all that. But, it's hard to look like tanned, Floridian, rakishly-stubbled Don Johnson when you are a pasty, pale, Wisconsinite me...who, to this day, can't get any decent stubble going. Upon coming to KMBC, I was told to jettison the pastels and go for "friendly professional." That meant dark suits and conservative ties. I was fine with that, having dressed like an old-time mortician at career day for most of my school years. Starting around 1998, on-air dress standards changed a little. Sports guys started wearing mock turtle necks instead of ties. (By the way, as I get older I am developing a real turtle neck.) Weather folks showed up in shirtsleeves. Open collars became acceptable for reporters. It has been a turn for the casual. I tried wearing a sweater deal instead of a shirt and tie one morning but got nervous about it and changed minutes before show time. (In addition to being a bit stuck in my ways, I also noticed that the sweater didn't allow my chins and tummy adequate space.) I also can't seem to go in front of the camera without a suit coat on. I know it would add to the breathless drama of the weathercast if it looked like I was just too swamped to put on a tie and jacket, but I can't bring myself to do so.

My former FirstNews co-hort, Jim Flink, on the other hand, has great clothes and is always getting compliments. He used to wear a yellowish-gold jacket but our news director said it made him look like a realtor. Now, that would've been just fine except Flink was setting up showings for various listings during FirstNews. Mr. Flink also put highlights in his hair once and looked like the world's oldest Backstreet Boy. I think when you are fast approaching 50 but have small children at home, you will try anything to hold onto your youth. This could also be a bit of sour grapes on my part, as Mr. Flink tends to look like he just stepped away from a photo shoot for GQ when he shows up for work...while I, increasingly, look like an extra in one of Matthew Brady's Civil War shots.

The only part of my wardrobe that gets any consistent mention at all are the ties. Thanks to my wife and children, various schools and viewers, I have a pretty good collection of ties. I can cover quite a few of the holidays. I have some for rainy days and some for sunny. I have one I wear when I know the news of the day is going to be particularly sad or troubling. I have several that make little kids take notice. There are some I wear when I have some sort of important meeting...like when the FirstNews team gets together to talk about how to replace the current weatherman. One is a power tie with blue and red stripes. I think it makes me intimidating. Of course, it doesn't so I resort to the tie with all the members of my family displayed...including the dog...looking needy and pathetic. That tie may be the only thing that has kept me employed here for nearly two decades...or, as I like to put it, a fifth of a century.

Regular readers of this space know two things for sure:

1. If you are a regular reader of this space, you need to find a good hobby or a good therapist or both.

2. I don't very often write of weather-related topics.

However, with the torrential rains of Sunday and early Monday, several e-mailers reminded me of a particular weather situation and a specific year: The Flood of 1993. That was one for the record books for all the wrong reasons. To this day, you can see the high-water marks on the sides of buildings and other structures in our area. I seem to recall the month of July being particularly bad. There were stories of area cemeteries becoming rushing rivers with coffins actually floating away. The Mighty Missouri was so violent one Saturday morning, that a freighter tore lose from its moorings and raced into a bridge. When I visit schools, one question that often comes up is "What's the worst weather you've ever actually seen in person?" The answer always comes back to the Flood of '93.

ABC used to have a show on in the mornings called Home with Gary Collins and Sarah Purcell. It was a very gentle, friendly little show. No yelling or screaming or controversy. Needless to say, it probably wouldn't last long on the air, today. Anyway, I was asked to do a story for the program about one family's struggle with the floods. They lived up at Lewis and Clark State Park and their home was totally destroyed. The walls were washed away and just about all of their furniture, appliances and memories went into the current, as well. They described it as having the entire house put in a washing machine with all the churning and agitating. They were trying to pick up the pieces from the flooding rains when the house was hit by a small tornado. It was a devastating summer.

Still, with all of that behind them, they were looking forward to graduations and holidays and family fun by the next summer. I hope they made it happen. I suspect they did because they still had their humor, spirit and faith high and, most importantly, dry.

Be careful out there today and tomorrow. I don't think we are heading into another summer of flooding like 1993 but a couple days like this can make a person wonder.

As a child, when it would rain, I had a tendency to grab an umbrella, run out in the middle of the street and pretend to be Gene Kelly. I would belt out Singin' In The Rain and try to dance in the soggy gutters. Most of the neighbors would politely ignore this demonstration but, across the street, the Bionic Avon Lady, whom I've mentioned before, claimed to love the performance. I think it started to lose it's appeal when I entered my mid 20s. It's unfair, but, apparently, if an eight year old dances and sings in the street it is considered cute at best, precocious, at worst. However, just let a 26 year old man do it and the authorities have to get involved. I thought of this yesterday as I walked the dog.

The dog will walk whatever the weather. I've learned that if I postpone his walk for any length of time after arriving home, he gets agitated. He stalks me from room to room. Whenever I stand up, he jumps toward the door. It can be frigid. It can be snowy. It can be icy. It can be rainy. It can be roasting. This dog, a true creature of habit, needs his walk. So, yesterday, in the gentle sogginess, we headed out the door. Of course, by the time we were home he was mostly soaked. Forget potpourri and incense, nothing says SPRING like the smell of wet dog.

As we strolled through the drips, I found myself humming and whistling a medley of rain-related tunes. Many years ago, my Uncle Selmer, a very gentle and kind man, used to hum and whistle and say "Yes, sir" rather randomly, to nobody in particular. My brothers and I would imitate him and think we were funny. Well, now I find myself doing the same thing. I've actually been walking through a grocery store or hallway at a school and found myself humming or whistling...sometimes in the middle of an on-going conversation. Apparently, my mind must wander. Apparently, my mind must wander. Apparently, my mind must wander. Apparently, me mind must wan....

So, I'm walking the dog. Of course the first song melody that entered my noggin was the aforementioned Singin' In The Rain...followed by Just Walkin' in the Rain, then Crying in the Rain, then Rhythm of the Rain, then Rainy Days and Mondays, then Raindrops Keep Fallin' on my Head, then Come Rain or Come Shine, then Stormy Weather, then Here's That Rainy Day, then Pennies From Heaven ("Every time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven...") then, Rain In My Heart and I Love a Rainy Night and Kentucky Rain and It's Raining Again and Blue Eyes Cryin' In The Rain and on and on and on. (We took a reasonably lengthy walk.) Clearly, many songwriters hate the letter "g" and leave it off "ing" words whenever possible.

I rounded out my rainy repertoire with The Cloudy Skies Will Clear Up. That's a song you've most likely never heard. It was written by a couple of brothers up in Madison Wisconsin when I was on TV there. The main weather guy was a singer/piano-player named Elmer Childress. These two brothers liked the fact that the weather team at our station was made up of a couple of song and dance men so they wrote a song for us. We even used it as a promo about our weather coverage. No breathless delivery...no action shots of weather people running around the place...no bragging about who has the biggest doppler. Just, a song performed be a couple of guys. It got the biggest response of any little promotional spot I've ever been involved in...not because of me, certainly, but because of Elmer and the great song. Maybe I should dig that tune out of the piano bench again!

Most of this soggy opera was just in my head...I think. However, I may have let loose with a note or two out loud. That would explain the fruit and vegetables tossed my way every now and then. Not everybody is as good an audience as the Bionic Avon Lady of my youth.

Last evening, just before turning in, I took a look at thekansascitychannel.com. I really did. This not just an embedded commercial for the KMBC Channel 9 web-site, where you can find all the latest news headlines and weather updates, everything you need to stay in touch with COVERAGE YOU CAN COUNT ON! Really, it's not. Anyway, one of the national headlines caught my eye immediately: "Newhart Sidekick Dies." Tom Poston, one of the funniest people ever on television, passed away after a short illness, at age 85. He was truly a TV trailblazer, lasting from the "Golden Age" of the 1950s right into the 21st century. He was one of those comic actors that could get huge laughs from just a subtle look. Many years ago, when Mr. Poston was appearing in a play here in town, he took time to visit my old talk-show, after*words. At the time, he had only recently lost his wife and was feeling a little glum. During the taping he did a wonderful job of promoting the play and sharing memories of his half-century or so of entertaining millions. After the show, as we were walking off the set, he asked if the interview had been okay. He was concerned because, he said, he was still missing his wife very much. As we reached the front door, he shook my hand, looked down at his shoes and said "I'm just so lonely."

So, it was great news, not too long after that, when I read that Mr. Poston and his long-time friend and sometime co-star, Suzanne Pleshette were becoming an "item." Sure enough, they got hitched. I suspect she took care of his loneliness.

Mr. Poston was one of those "Stars-In-The-Making" who cut his comedy teeth on the Steve Allen show back in the 50s. More than 15 years ago, Steve Allen, himself, stopped to chat on after*words. Then, several years later, another alum, Don Knotts, visited the program. Well, the world goes 'round and, now, all of these talented folks are gone.

If TV is part of heaven, which seems a little oxymoronic, they'd have a continuous Golden Age!

Thanks for all the laughs, Mr. Poston.

BREAKING NEWS: Sometimes Weather-casters Go Overboard! Yes, I know it's a shock, but, every now and then, whether it has to do with stormy stuff or a nice stretch, weather folks can get a little hyperbolic. For example, sometime ago, when we were in a streak of gloomy, drizzly days, I would talk about how dreary and drab everything had been for so long. Well, it wasn't long before I got an e-mail from a viewer reminding me that some people really like the cloudy days...good for reading, for sleeping, for contemplation, for avoiding outdoor chores. I should have known better because I am one of those people who kind of likes gray days now and then. My hair is less noticeably gray on such days. When I first came to KMBC, the then-head honcho told me "We're part of the sunbelt!" He was right. There is a lot more sunshine around here than where I grew up in Wisconsin. So, when it is a bit dreary that's okay.

I did it again, Monday, during FirstNews. I went on and on about what a great day it was on Sunday and how we were going to get close to 90 in some parts of the area on Monday and , ooooh, isn't that exciting and great and wonderful and summer-like and toasty and sizzling and toga-weather and hit-the-pool and hot, hot, hot....you name the weatherdork cliche' and I may have used it. In fact, please, name a few more weather-dork cliches' and I will steal, eh...I mean, use them! You get the picture. I made it sound like a mid-July day at the end of April was a great thing, period. Not so much, as an e-mailer informed me:

"Mr. Nichols: You are certainly the prince of prognosticators, but really, Sunday's temperatures were wonderful and Monday will be even better? As I was hiking on Sunday, sweating and swatting insects...as I was cutting the grass and about to die of heat stroke...as I listened to my neighbors complain about 'no spring' this year (in case it slipped your mind, spring is more like temps in the 40s at night and 50s, 60s maybe in the daytime) and as I wondered what my electric bill will be like having to turn on the a/c so early, I listened to you go on and on about how great this hot summer weather is. You folks are either genetically engineered to sub for reptiles or spend a great deal of time in air-conditioned environments. Whatever happened to spring? It's hot!"

I think he was calling me "reptilian" in there somewhere. I'm not sure because I was busy catching a fly with my tongue as I read it. In any case, this perspiring petitioner pursued a pertinent point, poopsie. (That last sentence brought to by the AAA...not that AAA, I mean the American Alliteration Association.) When it comes to hot weather being less than welcomed by some folks, I really should have just looked around my own family. My mom hates hot weather. She will never be a snowbird...leaving Wisconsin for warmer climes just as the cold and snow moves in. Fall and winter are her favorite seasons in Wisconsin. Since summer in the Badger State usually falls on a Thursday, that's a good thing for her. She used to lay out in the sun with a wash rag on her head so she could tan a little without roasting completely. Speaking of "roasting," I'll never forget how my mom's dislike for rising temps did NOT keep her from making a full-blown Sunday dinner with a roast, mashed potatoes, rolls and all the trimmings once when she visited us during a heat wave. It was nearing 100 outside and, by the time the dinner was ready, felt like twice that inside. The food was great but we had to eat fast as the dining room table and chairs were melting. My mom and wife each lost about 20 pounds preparing the meal. But, since life usually balances out, I gained 20 eating it.

My wife's personal thermostat has become quite sensitive since moving to KC. Growing up in Wisconsin, she could take the cold with the best of them. Sledding with a wind chill of 40 below? No problem. Walk the dog in a snowstorm? Fine. Now, if it gets a little below 50 degrees, you'd think we were competing in the Iditarod. That's fine except for her yelling "MUSH...MUSH...MUSH" from the window of her mini-van as she leaves the driveway. On the other end of the thermometer, if it gets upward of 80, she feels just too darn hot. The bottom line is, for my wife to be totally comfortable, it has to be somewhere between 66.7 and 71.4 degrees with a partly cloudy sky and me in another part of the house. Also, our kids have all developed their grandma's anti-heat tendencies. A couple have talked about basing their college choices on the number of cloudy, cool days in a particular locale.

Whenever I get an e-mail like the one mentioned above I'm surprised. Not because someone is taking issue with my facts or presentation, who wouldn't? But, because someone is listening to me, at all. A few Mays ago, we were in the middle of a perfect stretch of weather. Mid 70s and sunny everyday...cool and starry at night. Well, one morning, it was clear that the worm had turned and we were going to have a chilly, drizzly spring day. I went on and on about it that morning. "Bundle up...it's going to be a shock to your system...no shorts and t-shirts today...big changes ahead!" You'd think we were expecting a foot of snow. Anyway, later that afternoon, as I was home reading the paper, in the door comes our oldest son. Now, believe it or not, my forecast had turned out to be right. It was a chilly, drizzly day. But, here he comes wearing shorts, t-shirt, flip-flops. Looking more like he was returning from the beach than high school. I confronted him: "Hey! What are you wearing? Didn't you hear me say on the news this morning that it was going to be cool and rainy today? Bundle up? Dress warmly?" His calm response: "Dad, I don't listen to you around the house. Why would I listen to you on the TV?"

The bottom-line is that the e-mailer is quite right. I, too, noticed that someone had turned on the a/c yesterday and, I, too, felt the chill of money going out of my pocket. But, that was the only thing I really noticed about our summer-like Monday. Maybe the fact that I'm a weatherman has something to do with it. When you deal in hot air everyday, a bump in temperature just doesn't make an impression.