Good News: It’s Not Too Late.
Bad News: It’s Close.

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who divide the world into two kinds of people—and those who don’t.

Here at the Learning Center, we divide families into three registration groups:

1. Those who are already asking about next fall

2. Those who trickle in during the bulk of registration

3. And finally, the last-minute rush

Which raises the obvious question: How do you know when the end has come?

If you’ll forgive the analogy, I’d say we’re at the stage of itchy ears seeking a preacher’s relief, but uncomfortably close to the appearance of Gog.

(For a far richer, more nuanced—some would say long-winded—answer, scroll down. For a simpler answer, I can only quote Woody: “This is the perfect time to panic!”)

And for those of you who don’t want to wait until the second coming of the semester (February 4th), here’s where things currently stand:

​1 SPOT LEFT
Young Scientists (4–6)  •Tae Kwon Do (5–7)  •Cook N Book (6–9)  •Storybook Art (6–10)  •Land’s Sake Art & Science (6–10)  •Chess (7–13)  •Basketball (8–14)  •Engineering (8–10)  •General Science (11–16)  •Photography (12–19) •Physical Science (12–19)

Swing Dance (13–19) – needs one boy

2–3 SPOTS LEFT
Go Kids Go (4–7) •Greek Myths (6–10) •Archaeology (10–14) •The Club House (10–14)  •History of the 1930’s (10–14) • Power Up (10–14) • Spanish (10–14) •Science Fair (12–19) •Sign Language (12–adult) •Crime Through Time (14–19)

OTHER AVAILABLE CLASSES
Hands-On Math (4–7) • Spanish (6–10) • The Science of Sound (10–14)  • Psychology 101 (14–19) • Art (9–14) • Volleyball Skills (10–14) • Game Club (10–14) • PE (13–19) • American Government (14–19) • Tae Kwon Do (8–adult) • Ballet (7–13) • Hand Sewing (8–15) • Art (6–10) • Waffle Adventures (Books Come Alive) (6–10) • Self-Defense/Aikido (8–adult) • Hands-On Science (10–14) • Ballroom Dance (13–19) • Writing Academic Essays (14–19) • Modern Russia (14–19) • Writing Workshop (14–19) • Line Dancing (12–adult)​

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The Far Richer and More Nuanced Answer to the query, “How does one know when the end has come?”

For all you existentialists out there: it’s the moment before the tree in the forest hits the ground.

For everyone else: from my lengthy and ample experience in this field, the clearest answer can only be seen in retrospect. “Yes,” you say, driving up to a pool that is as empty as its parking lot, “the last minute has come.”

However, I have successfully teetered on the edge of tardiness with alarming frequency; two debacles instantly come to mind.

The first indiscretion came when I arranged an anniversary dinner date back when Wahoo ran a local train. (And, as a complimentary perk, they did not make the passengers participate in a murder mystery.) We’d arrived at the depot and were strolling to the engine. Even though we were a bit late, I was obtusely relieved to see no other passengers milling about. “We must be the first ones here,” I daftly thought. However, standing in the train's door was a distraught-looking man wearing a snappy cap; he called out to us, “Donnelly?” spoken in a pitch that I later dubbed "flustration."  
I've since learned that these instances of uncanny identification by strangers are one of the hallmarks that the last minute is imminent--or past, depending on your point of view. (As they say, "Everything is relative," to which I always reply, "To you it is.")

The second more dramatic mishap took place during a Chicago airport layover as I, aged 18, headed to Belgium. I fell asleep during the five-hour layover; however, I prudently did so with my back resting against the airline counter. Unfortunately, I was in the international terminal, an enormous warehouse with scores of “airlines” rimming the edge of a cavernous hangar-like structure like so many lemonade stands. Thronging in the middle were your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free; these folks were taking all the seats, which is why I sat down with my back leaning against the airline counter.

When I startled awake, I jumped up to question the desk agent. But in my sleep, much like Rip Van Winkle, much had changed: there was not only a different agent, but the desk now represented a completely different airline.

I bolted to the gate, which included flinging myself headlong down two flights of stairs. I literally splayed out onto the floor, not far from an airline agent nonchalantly looking out an open door. Unable to speak or even breathe, I noticed that there were no passengers milling about. In my oxygen-deprived brain, I once again thought, “Hey, I must be early.” Finally, I wheezed out, “Flight 562?” The agent spun round, eyes widened as if she were witnessing an unspeakable crime. Wordlessly, she clinched my arm in an iron grip and frog-marched me onto the runway and up to the plane. (Is this the place where I say that this happened “pre-9/11”? Surely the people who need such information have long stopped reading.)

She strode right up to the man fueling the plane, sensibly wearing ear protection as we were only a few yards away from an enormous roaring jet engine. Two inches away from his face, she bellowed, “Ask the pilot if he can come onboard.” 

If? I thought. If?

It was then that I noticed the door of the plane, shut tight and far above, much like an eagle's cliff nest and equally inaccessible. The fueler mouthed something into his intercom, and then the world stopped turning as when Moses held his staff aloft, waiting, waiting… until he finally turned and gave a thumbs up. Within a minute, the boarding stairs were driving over, and the door was shoved open by a grim-looking stewardess. She sat me down and recited my personal safety instructions (since I had missed the public presentation) and then scurried off. In a daze, I gaped around; every passenger was staring at me. Somehow, I managed to fasten my seatbelt before passing out; I did not emerge from my coma until we were well over the Atlantic.

Upon awakening, I had a disturbing, groggy thought. For months I’d been dreaming about the wonders of Europe, but now I worried that this plane boarding was going to be a tough act to follow, even for the Pieta.