Just a quick note of thanks to those of you who take time to peruse this silliness from time to time and a wish for a safe and happy Independence Day. Unless they change the locks around here...always a possibility...I'll be back on July 9. You've been warned!

You're Beautiful. No, I'm not being fresh. (Do people still say "fresh" when they mean someone being a little too familiar or forward? Or do we have to spell it "PHRESH" like folks spell "PHAT' when they mean something positive? I am so un-HIP, I'm surprised my pants still stay up.) Anyway, You're Beautiful is apparently the title of what one poll is calling the most annoying song of all time. It's performed by a guy named James Blunt. I have to tell you I don't find the song or singer the least bit annoying. Why? Mostly because I've never heard the song or heard of the singer. I told you I am not on the cutting edge. Now, I know the old Rogers & Hart song You Are Too Beautiful and the Burke & Van Heusen tune But Beautiful, but this latest one? Nothing registers.

Second place went to something called Crazy Frog. I've known a few unstable toads in my time, but no crazy frogs. In third place is a song from the teen group Hanson, called MMM-Bop, named for the sound made when Orson Welles would remove his wet-suit. Over the years, other such lists have put It's A Small World on top of the list. The song never bothered me until we actually rode the ride at DisneyWorld. Now, those wide-eyed automatons haunt my every waking moment!

FirstNews viewers e-mailed some of their choices for most annoying. I, personally, got a lot of votes from those who misunderstood the question the first time around. "No, maam, we're looking for the most annoying song not person." Songs like Macarena, Who Let The Dogs Out?, Achey-Breaky Heart were mentioned. One viewer said Tiptoe Through The Tulips by Tiny Tim or "really anything by Tiny Tim" drove him to distraction. I have to defend Mr. Tim. He was a guest on after*words years ago. Sure, he looked a little squirrelly and had a personal...uh...aroma...that has yet to fully leave my sinus cavities but, beyond that, he was extremely kind and generous with his time and talent. He sang his big hit, Tiptoe, but in his own, real voice minus the falsetto! At one point he called me "Mike" but, then, so does my wife, from time to time. Another viewer mentioned Seasons in the Sun. "We had joy. We had fun. We had seasons in the sun...." The song takes a very sad turn at that point. I don't know if it is really annoying but it sure doesn't make you want to polka.

My mom loves just about all kinds of music but really grew to dislike I Am Woman. It was not so much because of the melody or lyric or sentiment. Her disgust grew out of seeing the singer, Helen Reddy, accepting an award on the Grammy's and hearing Ms. Reddy say "I want to thank God. SHE is great!" Without getting all theological, let's just say that referring to God as a SHE made my mom rather perturbed. No more I Am Woman...no more Delta Dawn...no more whatever other songs Helen Reddy sang. According to the Helen Reddy web-site, Ms. Reddy is now a motivational speaker and hypnotherapist. Maybe there were actually post-hypnotic suggestions in her records. That would explain why I always found myself clucking like a chicken whenever one of her tunes came to a close. Coincidentally, my mom still goes into a trance of irritation when she thinks of Helen Reddy.

My mom also hated a song my brothers and I loved. They're Coming To Take Me Away! You remember that one, don't you? A very politically incorrect song about a mentally unbalanced man being hauled off to an institution of some kind. To be honest, it scared the daylights out of me when I was little but I still wanted to hear it. Because I am a caring and involved father concerned that family traditions be strengthened, I recently introduced it to our youngest son, Harrison. He, too, is creeped out but strangely compelled to listen over and over again. (The other tune and image that gets Harrison a little jittery is the Johnny Cash version of Hurt. Oh. Okay. I'm frightened by it, too.)

Just to show my age, I was surprised that the new list of annoying songs, did NOT include that old song Feelings. It was done by a guy named Morris Albert. When it first came out, I thought it was done by Morris The Cat, but I was young and not all that bright. Once I got the name right, I still thought it was backwards...Albert Morris seemed more likely than Morris Albert. Where does this guy get off having two first names? Somewhere there's a fellow going through life named Mokowski Horgendorfer...all for want of a first name. Anyway, that song had a great chorus "whoa...whoa...whoa...feelings." Perfect for a sensitive horse. The other number that used to be on all the lists was You Light Up My Life. As I recall, it was Debbie Boone's tribute to GE. Maybe not.

Well, I guess I have to find out what this You're Beautiful song sounds like. Just in case I run out of things to be annoyed with or about. Until then, I'll keep a song in my heart, if for no other reason than to drown out the voices in my head! They're Coming To Take Me Away...ha ha...ho ho...hee hee!

One of the friendliest people I've ever met passed away on Sunday, Rich Becker. Rich was 76 and had a list of accomplishments and titles that could go on for pages and pages. Long-time Lenexa Mayor. State Representative. State Senator. Candidate for governor. Author. Salesman. Husband. Father. Grandpa. Everybody's pal.

My wife and I were very new to the area, almost 20 years ago, when we were wandering through Sar-Ko-Par Trails Park at one of the many festivals that the fun town of Lenexa hosts each year. Out of nowhere a blur of white teeth and salt-and-pepper hair appeared saying "Smile" and snapping a picture. It was Mayor Rich Becker. After the impromptu photo shoot, he extended his hand and gave us a hardy and heart-felt welcome. At the time, I didn't know that Rich was "hardy and heart-felt" in everything he said and did.

I was lucky to have Rich on that little late-night talk show called after*words several times over the years. He always talked about politics in noble terms. He viewed public service as a high calling and important responsibility of citizenship. Calling someone a "people-person" has become a cliche. But, I think if you looked it up in the dictionary, you'd find Rich Becker's picture. When he ran for governor of Kansas, he visited every corner of the state and loved talking to everyone he encountered. His enthusiasm for the race did take a toll on his personal health but it was certainly good for the health of our political system.

Our photo albums at home include several examples of Rich Becker's handiwork with a camera. He was always capturing a memory and, then, sharing it. Even from behind the camera, you can almost sense his presence in the picture. Rich Becker never had to tell his subjects to say "Cheese!" Being around Rich meant you were already smiling.

It was my birthday last Thursday. First day of summer. Longest day of the year. As I mentioned last year, it was certainly the longest day for my mom all those decades ago. I'm not a big reader of horoscopes but, being on what they call "the cusp," which sounds rather painful, frankly, I can pick and choose between Gemini and Cancer. Depending on which one sounds best, that's the one I go with for my birthday. This year both told me I was a dunce and should stay home all day. But, I didn't. Out on the road, I noticed one of those motorist assist vehicles slipping in and out of my blind spot. At first, I assumed he was going to tell me of some problem with my car. Not news you ever want to hear but, for me, especially this last week, when I had just forked over several hundred bucks so my little blue Escort would no longer sound like a Sherman Tank coming into the cul-de-sac. Well, I accelerated out of his way. At the next stop light, he pulled up and honked his horn. Despite the 90 degree temperature that day, I had my windows open as I drove because

a) I enjoy nature.
b) I think it is more environmentally friendly not to use the a/c.
c) It is healthier not to use the a/c.
d) The air conditioning in my car hasn't worked for about two summers.

The correct answer is, mostly, "d."

So, anyway, I looked his way and said "Yes?" "Is my tail-light out?" he inquired. Okay. How's this for four-wheeling irony: The Motorist Assist Guy Asking Me For Motorist Assistance? He pulled ahead a little and I took a look. I told him it did look like a light was out. He motored on. Then, at the next light, he pulled up next to me again and shouted "Next question: Who was the first weatherman in Kansas City?" So, now, I'm on a rolling game show. If I get it right do I win luggage or a trip to Tightwad Missouri or a car air-freshener? "I'm afraid I don't know off the top of my head," I whimpered. "Shelby Storck!" came the triumphant answer. "That sure sounds familiar...you take care, now," I said as the traffic began to pick up. I hope he got his tail-light fixed.

Anyway, thanks to all of you who sent birthday wishes via e-mail, voice mail and snail mail. Around my house, I was well-gifted. All thoughtful, nice gifts. All undeserved. However, again, as in the past, the choices certainly say a lot about my children's' view of their father. I received a jigsaw puzzle featuring film stars of the past, a couple of books, a well-upholstered lawn chair, some shorts with widely-expandable waists and, just so those drawstrings get some action, a basket full of sweet treats. Now, I know I'm no Spring Chicken. Chicken, yes. Spring, no. More like early Fall. But, like some past gift-giving holidays, the wonderful presents do seem to suggest a rather sedentary life-style.

Of course, I wouldn't want a motorbike or jet-ski. They scare me. Frankly, I don't think I've had a very remarkable or interesting mid-life crisis at this point. No convertibles. No sky-diving. No all-night poker games. About the only mid-life risk I've taken is trying to do the Daily Jumble on a regular basis. Well, I guess I could live dangerously and set up my card-table outdoors. Put my new puzzle together while sitting in my new lawn chair, wearing my new shorts, eating my candy and, when the puzzle gets too exciting, take a reading break. Whew. Just thinking about all that makes me have to take a nap.

Several weeks back I mentioned being very disappointed after attending a big concert, due to the loud and rude people we had encountered. Yes. I am an old coot. In fact, I have to make this short so I can get out on the porch and yell at kids to get off my lawn. Well, to be fair and balanced and kinder and gentler and Sears and Roebuck, I have to report that last evening my wife and I took our daughter to see Alison Krauss and Union Station at Starlight Theatre. It was a perfect evening.

The weather was ideal and the music was terrific. My daughter heard just about all of her favorites and my wife got to hear Dan Timinski sing Man of Constant Sorrow in person, which made her night. For me, it was the laid-back, calm attitude of the other concert-goers that I really enjoyed. Maybe it is something about the theatre itself. Starlight is such a beautiful place...kind of classy...that, perhaps, that encourages attentive but polite behavior. I remember my wife and I going there in 1988 BC...that's Before Children...to watch all the summertime plays. We had purchased the least expensive package they offered. (I was going to say "cheapest" but just thinking of Starlight made me alter it to "least expensive" lest I look uncultured and uncouth. Now, I've used "lest" and "uncouth." See the effect the place has on me?) Anyway, those plays were fine. Although, we were so far back that Tim Conway and Tom Poston playing The Odd Couple may as well have been Mighty Mouse and Atom Ant in the roles of Oscar and Felix. Still, it was a nice spot. Now, with all the renovations, it is a totally different experience.

The folks seated around us were a pleasure. One guy ahead of us tried to get an audience clap-along going but was left pretty much alone. His rhythm was a little off so maybe his row-mates thought he was just smacking at invisible gnats. Another couple became fascinated with the colorful night sky and just stared off into space. Whatever their diversions, they were a courteous bunch.

Last night was a great gift to our family. Now, I want to give you all a present: I will be gone from KMBC for a couple days. See how a good evening's entertainment brings out the best in me! Have a wonderful first day of summer!

Flying Fish Alert! You've probably seen the story. We had it on FirstNews Tuesday morning. On a river in Illinois, Asian Carp are leaping out of the water. Apparently, they get excited by the vibrations of boat motors and go airborne. These scaly sorts are not the best of fishy friends. They're not good for eating and too good at breeding. There is a fear that they will overtake other fish populations and, frankly, they are a little dangerous. I just got an e-mail from a viewer who said that, last year, she and her husband were fishing on the Missouri River and he was telling her about these so-called flying fish. All of a sudden she took a hit, in the noggin, from a 30 pound, 32 inch member of this gilled group. Her husband was roaring with laughter while she beat the thing with her lawn chair. So, they don't taste good, they are a little too frisky...if you know what I mean, and they can't be that smart, despite being in schools, if they are actually jumping into a fisherman's boat.

As a little kid, I would go out in the yard and dig up some worms, take my cane pole, head down to the little pond at Bluffview Courts Retirement Village where I lived and my grandmas also resided. Rumor had it that one of the residents had taken it upon himself to put fish in the pond. I would catch little blue-gills and feel like I was a guest on American Sportsman with Curt Gowdy. I always threw them back. As I think about it, maybe I was just catching the same one over and over. Maybe, even for the fish, this was nice little diversion.

Sometimes, on family vacations up north, things would get a little more serious. We'd actually go to a bait shop, use rods with reels, get up before sunrise and head out onto the lake in our little boats. Now, I had gotten pretty spoiled by fishing at my little pond. Even if it was the same fish I was catching repeatedly, at least there was action. From the boat, it usually required lots of false starts until you'd find a hot-spot. And, even then, it wasn't usually hot...more like luke warm. There were times our neighbors went up north with us and then their oldest son and I would go out in our own little boat. That was not the way to give the Gorton's fisherman a run for his money. We never caught anything. We'd mostly talk. Every now and then one of us would doze off. We did make the minimal effort of putting our lines in the water so that if our dads looked over from their boat, it would appear we were trying. But, I don't really remember ever baiting the hooks. I'm pretty sure Mrs. Paul would've grounded us for life.

There was a time when my dad, Ron, took one of my brothers, Mark, and I to Governor Dodge State Park to fish. (I have always thought that "Dodge" was a great name for most politicians. Anchorboy Kris Ketz claims that the late Wisconsin Governor Dodge is a distant kin. Of course, he also calls his wife Josephine, walks around with his hand tucked in his jacket and insists the rest of us call him "Your Excellency." He also refuses to acknowledge the existence of Waterloo, Iowa.) Anyway, my brother was a grown person by this time with a wife, kids and mustache of his own. I was a teenager. The day was quite uneventful. We may have even caught a few fish. On the way home, for some reason, my brother and I started reading every single billboard we saw in loud, overly-enthusiastic, big-time radio DJ voices. "Hey Culligan Man! Call Ernie at 555-WAWA!" "You Can Trust Your Car to the Man Who Wears A Star!" "All Stopped Up? Call Rotor-Rooter!" Then, we started in on highway signs: "45 Miles Per Hour!" "Slippery When Wet!" "Watch For Falling Rocks!" This went on for about 45 minutes. Then, Ron gave us the look that said we'd better stop or we'd be walking home. Under his breath, I think he called us a pair of Bass Pros or something close to that. Anyway, I never did know why, out of the blue, he took my brother and I fishing that day. I do know, he never did that again.

Obviously, I've never been much of a fisherman, but visiting Grandma Wanda and Grandpa Gordy at the lake, has given the kids many chances to reel one in. The first time Samantha ever caught a fish, she was about three. She and her brothers had been out on Grandpa Gordy's boat for a pretty good stretch. She showed no fear or revulsion about the worms or the fish. She loved every slimy minute of it. One of the best photographs in our house, shows the silhouette of Samantha and Grandpa Gordy looking at her first fish. For me, that snapshot was the best catch of the day.

There have been other fishing adventures like the time in Branson when little Taylor hooked Grandma Kathy in the cheek or the current took Alexander's rod, reel, bobber, bait and fish down the river. And, truth be told, there have been times, especially when Grandpa Gordy has gotten a credible tip in the barbershop, that we have actually brought home several meals from a day on the water. Still, it's the fun, the camaraderie, the memories that make a day of fishing fun. Whether the little creatures fly into your boat or not.

Here's hoping all you dads had a wonderful Father's Day yesterday. My first fatherly duty was at 6:00 a.m. when I transported our two oldest sons to the high school. No, there was nothing going on...I just felt like taking them to school like any good papa. Actually, they were there to connect with other talented talkers on their way to the National Forensics League tournament in Wichita. The night before, we had one of my wife's amazing Newlywed Loafs. It is a thin layer of chocolate cake wrapped around vanilla ice cream and topped with chocolate icing. Looks a little like a Hostess Ho-Ho on steroids. I'm not sure why it's called a Newlywed Loaf. Maybe it is supposed to represent the coming together of different strengths...ice cream and cake... to make something even better. Whatever the reason, it is good stuff. I opened a few gifts on Saturday evening, including a jigsaw puzzle from our youngest boy, a card from our oldest and a promise that he was planning on picking up something extra special for me in Wichita, from the middle son.

After the big boys were on the road, the rest of us went to church. The pastor, Dave Whetter, told a great Father's Day story. When Pastor Whetter turned 16, he had a serious talk with his dad about driving the family car. His dad said Dave could drive if he did three things: get his grades up, read The Bible, and get a haircut. Well, the report card came and Dave's grades were up. He had been reading The Bible, well, uh, religiously. He approached his father with this information and mentioned "You know, Dad, I noticed that in The Bible, all those people like Samson, Moses, the disciples...even Jesus...they all have long hair so I thought I would skip that third request about getting a haircut." Dave's father replied with a smile "Dave, you're right about all those men having long hair and, if you want to do the same, fine. You know, another thing all those men did was walk everywhere they wanted to go."

Later in the day, our daughter gave me a cool t-shirt from K-State celebrating their terrific volleyball program. She had been there for several days last week...adding considerably to my gray hair quotient. She also wrote a wonderful poem which she placed over a cool computer-enhanced photograph of the two of us walking hand-in-hand. I really appreciated the fact that she was able to make my thickening middle look thinner and my thinning top look thicker.

Now, my wife, Jessica, is an E-Bay master which means I always end up with some pretty neat stuff like, this time around, a couple of tapes of those Dean Martin roasts. One featuring Frank Sinatra and the other with Johnny Carson. It takes me back to my youth! That is an increasingly long trip. Used to make it with just a bottle of water and a Hershey Bar. Now, I require a sack lunch. It won't be long and I'll need a picnic basket full of goodies to go back that far. Anyway, those will be fun to watch. Also, she found me a brief case. I know, you're thinking what does he need a briefcase for? To carry the cold fronts around in? To have a file of alibis available? To hold the records of missed forecasts? Well, ever since I was a little boy and would wander around our neighborhood with my red, cardboard suit case, pretending to be an insurance salesman, I've thought a real grown-up carries a brief case. I'm not telling you what's in it. Suffice to say, I will never run out of Ritz crackers, Cheese Whiz and Oreos. The brief case I had been using was really Jessica's anyway. She'd gotten it when she graduated from college and I stole it. Now, that I have a new one, I did return it...piece by piece.

A recent news story had me thinking of something my own father used to tell me. You have probably heard that news item about a woman in Des Moines who is in prison for stealing toilet paper. Her name is Suzanne Butts. Butts and toilet paper. Too good for TV to ignore. However, the story reminded me of a couple my dad insisted he used to know named Butz. First names: Rosey and Harry. That can't be true but it always makes me crack a smile. So to speak.

That song is all over the place this week. You know:

Happy Birthday to You
Happy Birthday to You
Happy Birthday Dear What's Your Name
Happy Birthday to You

Of course, some people don't like that song very much. We've all seen little kids get completely befuddled by all the attention of a birthday. Sometimes they turn red, start crying and crawl under the table. My oldest brother did that. Unfortunately, he was turning 58 at the time. According to information gleaned from the interwebs, always a trustworthy source, the melody was written in the early 1890s by a woman from Kentucky named Mildred Hill. Her sister, Patti, wrote words that went "Good morning, dear teacher, good morning to you yadda yadda yadda." Later, when she decided to dump her boyfriend, Patti changed the lyric to

Take a hike, you big dork
Take a hike, you big dork
You smell like an aardvark
And your brain's made of cork

Eventually, Mildred rued the day she ever wrote the tune, because Patti was using it all the time for the most random of reasons.

Hey, those are my socks
Hey, those are my socks
Quit stealing my clothing
You big stinky ox

Okay, so that part of the story maybe a little unlikely. But the next part is true:

Eventually, many years down the road, Patti wrote the words to her sister's melody that we all know today. It was officially published in 1935 and really hit the big time when it was featured on Broadway in a production of As Thousands Cheer.

After that, Patti saw dollar signs and thought the song could be adapted for other occasions, such as:

Plant a tree I do say
Plant a tree I do say
Just dig a big hole there
Celebrate Arbor Day

and

You've been married awhile
You've been married awhile
It's your (insert number here) anniversary
So why don't you smile

and

They've removed your spleen
They've removed your spleen
I guess that was the reason
You weren't feeling so keen

Again, this last bit of info may have some problems being backed up by good sources.

Anyway, you can sing the song to the United States Army today, like they will in Leavenworth, as they cut a big cake and say Happy 232nd Birthday! Thank you to all who serve and have served.

Also, send salutations to our flag. June 14 is flag day. The original idea for a day honoring the Flag Resolution of 1777 came from a teacher in Fredonia, Wisconsin back in 1885. I know, Fredonia sounds a country Groucho Marx would be president of, but it really does exist. Eventually, President Truman signed an Act of Congress designating June 14 as National Flag Day. So, Happy Birthday to the Stars and Stripes. Rumor has it that Patti Hill tried to write some words about it, but the ghost of Betsy Ross appeared and stuffed Patti in a trunk. Patti was rescued when people heard her muffled voice singing, to a very familiar tune:

I am stuck in this trunk
I am stuck in this trunk
Betsy Ross shoved me in here
And, no, I'm not drunk

Finally, yesterday, June 13 was also an important birthday. My mom's! If you have the stomach for it, you can go back in the archives of these e-pistles and find what I cyber-scrawled last year but I do have to add one more story. This one relates to both my mother and driving, which was the subject in this space a couple days back.

My mom, Wanda, grew up out in the country and just about every kid started driving a car at a very tender age...in most cases long before 16. For example, Wanda hit the road when she was about 13. Now, her mother did not drive so the kids would have to take their mom into town for groceries and other errands. One day it was Wanda at the wheel. As they got back to the farm, my mom said, with adolescent certainty, "Watch me stop on a dime!" It turned out to be a large dime. In fact, this dime was so big it included the flower boxes on the side of the house. The groceries flew all over the car and all my mom heard from her mom was "Let me out of here." Now, in my mom's defense, this was back before power brakes...a person really had to stomp on that pedal to bring the vehicle to a standstill. When she did turn 16 and went into town to take her official driver's test, the policeman just said "Yeah, I've seen you around" and handed over her license, with NO behind-the-wheel run-through. Was that a compliment on the part of the examiner...or fear? Not sure.

Anyway, in honor of her birthday, here goes

Happy Birthday to Wanda
Happy Birthday to Wanda
As A Mom and A Grandma
It is YOU that we're Fond-a!

Somewhere Patti Hill is smiling and her sister, Mildred, is not. Don't even ask about Betsy Ross.

It is Viewer Appreciation Day here at KMBC. That means if you stop by any local Sheridan's, Wednesday between 11:00 a.m. and 11:00 p.m., you can great a free tasty, treat just by telling them you watch Channel 9 or Channel 29. There is no truth to the rumor that if you mention FirstNews, in particular, they will take away your freebie and make you pay to leave the store. I did hear that one of the special toppings they are offering today is "News Chopped Nuts Nine." Or, you can request the "Jim Flink Frozen Fiesta" which comes with a fancy-schmancy silk pocket square. The "Pitman & Gish Chilly Surprise" maybe a great choice. I've heard it makes you a better dancer. They also have something called the "Joel Nichols Dorky Dessert." It's an empty bowl. Sad. Of course, all of those choices may not really exist. The real deal will more than satisfy. Seriously, I think the actual thing is called a "Concrete." Still, that could apply to me...being a blockhead and all.

Anyway, I am headed out the door early today so I can do the weather from one the Sheridan's. Not sure how many folks will be knocking on the door at five in the morning but, as they say around KMBC, "Anything that gets Joel out of here, is a good deal." I think the 5:00 p.m. and 6:00 p.m. weathercasts will also be out there somewhere.

So, stop by your neighborhood Sheridan's and say "I watch Channel 9...despite the presence of Joel Nichols." They will salute your good taste (and sound judgment) with their good tastes.

Back when I first foisted this blog-a-doodle-doo upon you, several of the initial bits had to do with getting our oldest sons behind the wheel and on the road. Before I continue, let me apologize for using the word "foisted." I did Increase Your Word Power in an old Reader's Digest over the weekend. I'm behaving like a neighbor of ours from when I was growing up. He'd expand his vocabulary by a word and, then, naturally, want to demonstrate his prowess with that particular part of the language, so he'd knock on our door, knowing he'd get a tolerant response from my mom. He knew that because just about everyone in the neighborhood called him "Huck" except my mom, who insisted we all address him by his real name, Bob. "Mrs. Nichols, I am feeling inquisitive today. So, since I'm inquisitive, I thought I'd come on over to ask a question, because of this inquisitive feeling. My inquisitive question is...uh...well...oh, yeah...what time do you have? I bought a new watch and am inquisitive about the exact time. I hope you don't mind my being so inquisitive." Now, I also must apologize for foisting that story upon your perhaps-not-so-inquisitive ears.

As I was saying, some of the early stories here were about new drivers living in our house. Well, it has started all over again. Our daughter, Samantha, drove for the first time on Saturday. On the way home from a little shopping trip and obligatory "mother-daughter time," my wife, Jessica, turned into the high school parking lot and turned the wheel over to Samantha. Why? I don't know. With the big boys, I was the first one to let them sit in the driver's seat. My wife hesitated. But, for some reason, Jessica was ready to go with Samantha. My wife has highly tuned intuition about things which has only faltered once. That time it involved saying "I do." Well, they returned home and here is the big news: It appears, to the unending distress of her big brothers, that, when it comes to motoring, Samantha is a natural! Jessica said the girl did an absolutely great job. Of course, this meant I had to see for myself.

We headed for the grade school parking lot, where I had first taken the boys. As we pulled in, you good see the light poles shudder...remembering those earlier efforts. Sure enough, Samantha was as smooth as silk. Braking. Turning. Accelerating. All right in the groove. After a few passes through the lot, I told Samantha to turn toward the exit lane and stop at the stop sign. "Ah...that means we're heading out onto an actual street, you know," she said to me, warily. (Another word from the Reader's Digest.) I just nodded. Now, with the big boys, I had not let them drive on neighborhood streets on their first outing. But, Samantha seemed ready. She had just the right balance of caution and confidence as she cruised up to our drive-way.

I will admit that I had my doubts about Samantha's readiness for driving. I knew she'd be responsible and take it seriously, but I worried that she'd drive as fast as she talks and, with so much going on in her noggin, she'd be a little unfocused from time to time. I was erroneous (Again, Reader's Digest.) in that assumption. And, actually, I should have known better. After all, this is the same child who slept through the night, in her own bed, just about from the moment we brought her home from the hospital...where she had been the easiest, quickest delivery of the four kids. She was potty-trained in no time at all. It appears driving will fall into that same "no-sweat" category.

Of course, there is a part of me that is pretty sure Samantha is far too young to be driving at all. She should still be in the "wanna play dolls with me?" phase! But, the fact is, time is flying. The good news is, it appears, based on the first efforts, Samantha may allow the few dark hairs I have left a little more time. Just a little, though. I have a feeling that when it gets to be Harrison's turn at the wheel, my follicles will fade...at high speed. Harrison is already warily inquisitive about foisting his driving ability upon the world, but his timing is erroneous.

Saturday morning, my wife and I were lucky enough to be at the 20th Annual Tonganoxie Library Run. Of course, my wife ran. Of course, I didn't. They had their biggest turn-out ever on an absolutely perfect morning. It is all about raising money to keep their great library going strong. Thank you and congratulations to all the volunteers and runners who worked so hard so that people like me have good stuff to read while we sit still.

One of the highlights of the morning was getting to visit with the Putthoff family: Kerry, Treasa, Connie and Harold. You've probably heard me read some of the pithy e-mails I get from Kerry. He is a very tall person...almost structurally unsound. I get the feeling that everyone in Tonganoxie knows they can call on him for a helping hand. He keeps me well-informed about all the news coming out of the "little valley between the hills," as he likes to call his hometown. His wife, Treasa, brought along their furry, four-footed family member, Buddy. He's small in stature but big in spirit. Since Treasa was carrying this pup all over, I asked if she was Tongie's answer to Paris Hilton. She said, maybe, but with no prison record. And with, I must add, brains, compassion, a thriving career etc etc etc. The patriarch of the Putthoff family, Harold, is one of those Lincolnesque figures who do the things that need to be done and Kerry's mom, Connie, is a force to be reckoned with all by herself. If it happens in Tonganoxie, Connie is probably in on it somehow. I hear from Connie, via e-mail, as well, whenever the weather doesn't allow her to hang out her laundry. They are a marvelous family and it was great to spend some time with them.

There was a Pink VW Bug sitting there waiting to be raffled off to support breast cancer research. That is just the kind of car in which our daughter, Samantha, pictures herself. I see more of Sherman Tank thing going on. But, whatever the case, it does lead me into tomorrow's little blogianna. Yes. There's another driver in our house. Buckle up.

Thursday morning was the annual kick-off breakfast for the United Way's Day of Caring. Saturday June 23 will be the 13th annual Day of Caring in the Kansas City area, a day when companies and organizations head out into the community to make a compassionate difference. For example, employees at the Social Security Administration head over to the Sherwood Center, a wonderful resource for those living with autism, to do whatever needs to be done whether it involves a paint brush or an open ear. Nearly 500 folks were there at the breakfast, getting fired up for another successful outreach in just a couple weeks.

Over the years, my family and I have taken part by going to the Johnson County Nursing Care Center and helping out with BINGO! The staff and residents, always great to be with, do take their BINGO seriously. So, it was a heavy responsibility to be the official caller! Okay, it may not be as strenuous as rebuilding someone's front porch or unloading a truck of goodies at a local food pantry, but the mental stress is pretty high. Of course, in my case, that may also apply to finding my shoes first thing in the morning. Speaking of shoes...

Uh-oh. I feel a blogression coming on. That's cyber-spiel for a "digression from the main topic of a blog to something totally unrelated and, mostly, trivial." Here goes:

As I was saying, speaking of shoes, how does your family organize the shoes? When I was a kid, my brothers and I were expected to keep our pair of Sunday shoes, polished and in our own closets. Meanwhile, the tennies we wore most of the time were in a neat row in the entry way. (Frankly, much of the summer, I didn't wear shoes. I know, it is dangerous but what did I know? I thought "Tetanus" was the newest model from Chevy.) Conversely, (Get it? CONVERSE-ly. Wow. I'm something, aren't I? Don't answer that.) when I first visited my not-yet-wife's house, many years ago, I was shocked. Shocked! Jessica's mother is outstanding when it comes to keeping a home clean and pristine. Model homes in her neighborhood can be heard whimpering because they don't come up to her standards. Well, there were two rebel areas in the house where I first called on Jessica. One was Jessica's room. It looked like a pack of rabid wolverines had held a convention. She needed UN inspectors just to find her alarm clock. Meanwhile, the counter in her bathroom would have made Alexander Fleming proud. There were enough moldy cups, saucers and plate, that, just by walking in the room, you could get rid of a sinus infection. The other area of ill-repute was the shoe pile. Everyone's shoes...fancy or plain...shined or mud-covered...ended up being kicked into one giant conglomeration of footwear. It would have made Buster Brown break out in hives. Well, the lasting legacy of that disturbing, "tongue"-wagging, "sole"-searching scene of pumps, loafers, sneakers, boots, sandals, heels and the rest tossed carelessly together is now in our garage. Since four out of six people in our family have rather large pedal extremities, it actually can be dangerous to walk from the car to the door. I have been moderately successful in setting my shoes to one side although that didn't prevent me from wearing one black shoe and one brown shoe to work one morning. I remember my parents and grandparents having shoe trees that kept everything in perfect order. I'd recommend six shoe trees for us except I know it would just end up looking like a clear-cut forest and then I'd have Al Gore on my back or feet.

End of blogression.

Meanwhile, back at the BINGO hall....My pathetic attempts at BINGO humor did nothing to lessen the tension of the game. "B-6. What will happen if you eat too much ice cream and then go on a roller coaster? You will Be Sick. I mean B-6!" "I'm a very tame person. Yes, I am B-9!" "I not a baby. I-10!" Oh, it was pretty sad on my part. As the players would yell out "BINGO" and then mutter "you moron," our little kids would scurry around with the prize cart. The big boys helped out keeping track of multiple cards. (My wife would go from room to room and throw all the shoes in one big pile. Old habits.) Clearly, as is the case with so many Day of Caring situations, what we, as a family, took away from the experience was far more than any little bit of time we gave to the staff and residents.

So, here's wishing all the volunteers...the thousands...who will be reaching out to those who need a helping hand in our own backyard, the very best of everything on June 23, The Day of Caring!

This will have to be short...no pun intended. I have a meeting with Mini Munchkins. No, not in the Emerald City, but in Lawrence, Kansas. This time of the year, school visits shift to summer camp visits. So, today, I will be spending time with kids ages four to six who meet for "Mini Munchkin Camp" daily through the summer. This week their theme is Summer Extravaganza! Why was I invited for something with that exciting title? Maybe they want to teach the little ones about hyperbole or how to deal with disappointment.

Sometimes folks will wonder how I can do a weather presentation for such a young group. "How can you hold their attention?" these people ask. Well, first of all, as the father of four, I know a lot about not having anyone listen to me. Secondly, when it comes to short attention spans, I do work around news reporters who jump from story to story in the blink of an eye. Seriously, if you rolled a ball of yarn into the middle of the newsroom or jingled your car keys, several of those present would immediately drop what they were doing and pounce.

For the ages represented by the Mini Munchkins, I usually talk briefly about weather maps, show a little video of stormy stuff and then read a book called Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs. By the time I do that, they are sick and tired of me. And, that's just the teachers and staff.

Well, I'd better get ready to go. I wanted to make an appropriately Munchkinesque, yet Extravaganza-like, entrance so I asked News Chopper 9 fly boy Johnny Rowlands to drop me, in a small farm house, right outside the summer camp facility. He declined. Darn him and his blasted common sense! I guess I could dip our 90 pound Golden Retriever in shoe polish and tell the kids the years haven't been kind to Toto. Oh, well, maybe wearing my little blue-checked jumper and putting my hair in pony-tails will be good enough. Now, I just have to Mapquest "Yellow-Brick Road" and I'll be on my way.

It was a soggy triple play for Samantha. Sunday, our daughter actually spent time in three different pools. First, she and little brother Harrison, went to our neighborhood pool for awhile. Then, they went with mom to her fitness joint and played in that pool. Finally, she rounded out the day by going to a friend's neighborhood pool. About 50% of her poolside interest has to do with being in the water. Another 50% is purely social. The last 50% is because she bought a new swimming suit with her babysitting money and likes to show it off. (Yes, that adds up to 150% but, if you've ever watched my weathercasts, you know that I'm not good with percentages.) Monday, Samantha and Harrison went back to the neighborhood pool. She stayed all afternoon with her friends while Harrison left that pool and went to another one with one of his friends. By Tuesday morning, they both looked like cute, tan, little prunes.

Our two older boys don't go much anymore. It's not that they're too cool for the pool. But, they are very busy with work and summer projects. Our oldest, Alex, did walk down with the little kids once this season. He didn't jump in. He took along his laptop and watched on-line videos of people swimming. Taylor has a little Howard Hughes thing going on. Not in terms of his bank account...because if that were the case I'd be getting the car insurance money he owes me. Sorry. Off topic. No. Taylor is concerned about germs. He refers to the swimming pool as a giant Petri dish. "Why would I want to swim in someone's bath water?" is his usual response to an invitation. It's no big deal now, but if he starts letting his finger and toe nails grow and starts picking things up only while wearing latex gloves, we'll intervene. If his bodyguards allow us into the penthouse and he's done watching Ice Station Zebra.

They used to go. Once, when Alex was about three, I was walking with him through the shallow end when we both noticed a woman, holding a little girl, circling us like a grinning shark. The circle got tighter and tighter until they were right up to us. "I watch you every morning on TV," said the mom. Before I could say thanks, three-year-old Alex piped up with "Well, he's not on TV now, is he?!" The woman looked horrified. I laughed that nervous little twitter we all get when we know things have gone south in a hurry. "Sorry...he's just a little...uh...shy," I stammered. After we made it back to the side of the pool, I tried to explain to Alex that daddy needed every viewer he could get! I whipped out the latest ratings that I always carry just to prove it. Of all the kids, Alex was always the most uneasy with the whole "strangers talking to you" part of TV. He was around the same age, three, when I was up in Dekalb, Missouri taking part in a school fund-raising variety show. My wife was seated in the audience with Alex and little Taylor. While I was being stupid on stage, a kindly woman turned to Alex and said "That's your daddy up there on that stage!" Alex responded "No. That's Joel Nichols up there on that stage." For him, daddy was reserved for different places and times...like the pool on a June day.

I have accompanied the little kids a couple of times this year but I don't get in the water very much. In fact, as I get older and pudgier, I am starting to appreciate those old-fashioned, full body bathing suits you see in the beach photos from the early 1900's. Note they were called "bathing suits" not "swimming suits." Swimming suggests strenuous or, at least, playful otter-like activity. Bathing brings to mind just lounging in the H2O like a lazy hippo. I used to do that but now I tend to sit in the upright chair on the side of the pool like a school marm. Actually getting in the water exposes my widening bald spot and widening bod spot.

It wasn't always that way. In fact, I spent most of my summer afternoons, as a kid, at the outdoor pool which was about a half a block from my house. In my teen years, I worked there as a lifeguard. Now, I never had a typical lifeguard physique. I was never Baywatch...more like Baywhat? But, I still felt semi-cool sitting in the high chair, whistle around my neck, bellowing "Slow down...no pushing...one on the board at a time...okay, that's it, you're out of the pool for five minutes...." To the small children, I was a force to be reckoned with but for kids my own age or a little older, I was not exactly a Poolside Patton. I was impressed with how talented the older ones were in expressing their complete contempt for my Barney-Fife-esque authority, through gesture and word, in just the short time it took them to leap from the diving board into the water. They were concise yet passionate as they plunged.

Lifeguards also had to make sure all the female swimmers were wearing swim caps. Now, this was during a hair era..or haira...when men and boys had some pretty long locks of their own so we always had questions about that cap policy. Finally, in a giant step for feminism, the female hair cap rule was sunk. Yes, it was only fair. Still, I can't help but think that, somewhere out there, Esther Williams was a little melancholy.

In addition to keeping an eye on things, we also had to clean the showers (if there had been a black market for used nose-plugs, I'd have been a rich teenager) and make sure the chlorine levels were okay in the pool. We didn't really have any official, scientific device for that last part. If there were sightings of the Loch Ness Monster in the murky green we didn't have enough chlorine. If every kids' eyes looked like a bad flash photo and every swimming suit came out of the pool bleached white, we knew we had too much chlorine. Every hour, we would whistle everyone out of the pool. It was during those times that the guards could go in for a cooling dip. However, it was also during those periods that we tested little swimmers to see if they could be allowed in the deep end. The deep end was, obviously, where the diving boards were and where the truly serious games of Marco Polo took place. The challenge was swimming the entire length of the pool...with everyone else watching. Some kids sped across like a speed boat at The Tommy Bartlett Ski, Sky and Stage Show. Others dog-paddled their way to glory. A few really struggled. But, if they made it, they were officially "Deep-enders." Almost always, after the "everybody back in the pool" whistle blew, one of the new deep-enders...usually one of those who really had to fight to make the crossing...would immediately head for the high dive. Climb bravely up the ladder. Inch their way out to the end of the board and, then, start to cry. We rescued far more people from the high dive than from the water.

Well, those days are long gone and my willingness to expose others to my expanding waist and hair lines is at zero. I remember not long after our second son was born and I had gained several pounds of sympathy baby-weight, a local DJ told me, on the air, I was looking more and more like a stuffed sausage. Being from Wisconsin, at first, I took that as a compliment. Looking back I know it wasn't meant in that vein, but the guy had a point and, today, I'm afraid if I did go to a pool wearing only my bathing suit, the folks from Johnsonville would be after me, hoping to snare the world's largest bratwurst. I maybe a brat from time to time but I'm not a brat.

In fact, my most memorable Kansas City pool moment didn't involve a swimming suit at all. No, I'm not talking about some midnight skinny-dip in the J.C. Nichols Fountain. I keep telling people that wasn't me. No, I mean the time, in the summer of 1988, when I was doing a feature story about hot jobs in KC and decided to end the whole shebang by jumping into the Quality Hill Apartments pool while wearing my gray three-piece suit. At first the photographer wanted no part of such a stunt. He was a serious journalist and it was painful enough having to work with me, let alone be dragged into something so silly. Finally, I talked him into it. It was, clearly, a one-take proposition. Staring into the camera, I said something profound like "Well, if this hot weather is getting to you, there is one sure way to cool off" and leaped into the water, surfacing to say "Joel Nichols KMBC Nine News." It has been almost 20 years now and folks still come up to me and say "Aren't you the jerk who jumped in the pool with all your clothes on?" How's that for lasting water-related fame? Take that, Mark Spitz!

It was a big Saturday for me! The Game Show Network was doing a daylong tribute to Charles Nelson Reilly, who died last week, by showing a bunch of Match Game episodes. Naturally, while others were out, in the picture perfect weather, walking, running, golfing, boating, gardening, etc etc etc, I was hunkered down with a bowl of Cheetos and a handful of M&Ms to watch the orange glow of the 1970s burst through my TV set. I've mentioned here before that I always liked Match Game when I was growing up because it seemed kind of naughty. Of course, by today's standards, the show should be called Match Tame. Anyway, there I sat..transfixed by the outrageously colorful, wildly patterned clothes, the piles of hair, the chunky jewelery. And, that was just on the men. It really took me back to adolescence. Unfortunately, I watched so many episodes in a row, my skin broke out, my voice started to change and I called my mom to ask if I could borrow the car.

After the slate of games, they showed a documentary on the show which featured the iconic star Jayne Mansfield as a celebrity guest. She walked onto the stage carrying her little dog. Take that, Paris Hilton. You're only about 45 years late with that bit of kitsch. There really is nothing new under the sun. Anyway, I loved rewatching the show and enjoyed the late, great Charles Nelson Reilly. I think, as an homage, I will start doing my weathercasts in the Match Game style: "Today's temperature will be so hot, you'll have to carry ice cubes in your (BLANK)." "Dumb Dora said 'It rained so hard last night that, this morning, my (BLANK) floated away'." "We could have so much snow by tomorrow morning that even Frosty the Snowman might need a (BLANK.)"

While I was tele-vegetating on Saturday, my wonderful wife was running in the Hospital Hill Half Marathon. That's 13.1 miles, as I heard several times for the rest of the weekend. She was not particularly impressed that the dog and I had walked our normal morning route. Speaking of that walk, I am going to vent a little here about cell phones. One of the joys of walking early in the morning around the ponds and marshes in our neighborhood is listening to the birds sing, the breeze rustle through the trees, the water lapping on the shoreline or nothing at all. Early Saturday morning, there was a woman walking her dog on the other side of the pond...talking at the top of her lungs on her cell phone. I learned that she had taken the weekend following the 4th of July off from work...that her new drapes looked great...that the "others" were planning a lunch. I'm sure she's a very nice person and it's great that she was out for an early stroll, but I wonder if all that chatter could've waited. I suspect that if John James Audubon had been present that morning, he'd have tossed her in the lake.

The trouble with cell phones is that they are always being used where they shouldn't be and, conversely, not turned on when they should be. I get very frustrated when I try to call one of the kids or my lovely, racing wife and get the "please leave a message" message. Not Alec Baldwin-frustrated, but a bit miffed just the same.

*One last item from the weekend, my brother Mark had a birthday. My wife is convinced that Mark has a birthday every six months or so but it really is just once a year. Here is a little bit about him...some of which I've mentioned before:

He served our country in the Air Force and Air National Guard for nearly 30 years. Thank you.

He is now just beginning his second career as a postal worker who prefers comparisons to Cliff from Cheers rather than Newman from Seinfeld. Naturally, my kids insist on calling him Newman.

He had an unusually large head as a small child...looking a little bit like a diapered Pez dispenser. If there were Super 8 movies of him as a lad, you could have seen things like lawn chairs, trash can lids and small animals being drawn toward him due to the gravitational pull emitted by his noggin.

He has an appropriately large brain inside his inappropriately large skull.

He must be a more handsome man than I ever suspected because, as I get older, my kids tell me I look increasingly like Uncle Mark.

Happy Birthday! I said: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Well, it is a soggy, gloomy day in Kansas City which seems just the perfect setting to share a few of the e-mails and voice mails that came my way this week:

*One lady sent an e-mail taking me to task for ending two sentences with the word "at." Oops. I did it again, right there! She said I made her "wince" not once but twice by saying something like "Let's see where the rain's at." Frankly, making a viewer wince only twice is better than I usually do regardless of what I may actually say. I'm not sure that ending a sentence with "at" is what they call a dangling participle but, if it is, maybe I should see a chiropractor. I question this viewer's judgment, however, because she also referred to me as "an intelligent person who ought to know better." Still, the viewer is right about my lack of good grammar. Well grammar? Great grammar? As a matter of fact, I did have a great gramma. She loved me no matter where I was at.

*I got a voice-mail the same morning I received the above e-mail, angry with me for not mentioning Harrisonville during my weathercasts. The fellow said "You only talk about us down here when something bad happens and you want to embarrass us." Actually, I really like Harrisonville. Our youngest son thinks it was named for him. His name is Ville...I mean, Harrison. Honestly, I think I mention Harrisonville whenever the weather there is relevant and, as for the "embarrassment" factor...well, if you've watched me long enough, you know the only truly embarrassed person, place or thing would be me and my family-- who have often applied for the witness protection program, hoping to be relocated to Harrisonville.

*Wednesday morning, after saying the area would be "mostly dry," one Lenexa resident e-mailed to say he was soaking wet. He had been outside doing his exercises and a shower rolled through. He suggested we install a window in the weather center to go with all the computers and radars. Unfortunately, that particular morning, a window downtown would not have shown me any of the drips falling out south. Still a window is a great idea. It would make my forecasts "pane-ful" in addition to painful.

*Finally, this murky morning, I got the following e-mail, exactly as you see it here:

"This message is for Joel. Please, please make you weather messages more positive. I spend a year and a half doing the weather while I was flying with the Air Force and in grad school and on thing that really frustrated me while listening to other weather reporters was their negative presentations. You do the same. Joel why not say on a partly sunny day..."today will be partly sunny"...instead of mostly cloudy. On a partly cloudy day say "today will be mostly sunny." I think the news media over stresses the negative and sensationalizes the weather, sports and news. I know you are only a weather reporter but for gosh sakes be positive."

Well, I always thought I did put a fairly optimistic spin on things...like calling a morning "mostly dry." (See above!) There have been times when we've had an extended stretch of cloudy weather and I've said "another dreary day" only to be called on the carpet by folks who like the clouds. Now, I don't think I could get away with saying "Partly sunny" if it is really mostly cloudy. I know what you're thinking "Since when is being accurate a priority for you?" To be honest, I was feeling pretty upbeat about things this morning...until I got the e-mail. Now, I simply don't know where I'm at. At? Darn it!

When I first started in broadcasting, it was rare to hear from viewers and listeners. For someone to take the time to actually write a letter, meant it must be pretty important. Now, the click of a mouse or the push of a telephone extension and you can make a connection. I'm not convinced it is always a good thing to reach out and touch someone that easily. Lincoln used to write angry letters to his adversaries then stick the missives in a desk drawer. He rarely regretted that time to cool off.

*Oh, there was one positive communication this week. I got a voice mail from a long-time viewer saying I had gone from "Geek to sleek." I think that is a good thing.