After a hiatus that apparently lasted “87 years,” Becky and Rachelle return for part two of season two with a Labor Day question every educator understands: did summer even happen? Rachelle’s school has already been back for weeks, so teachers are exhausted, voices are shot, immune systems are surrendering, and everyone hopes the three-day weekend kills the germs. Becky’s summer vanished into a move and a full-time ministry job that began June 1. Rachelle got only a short break, although she did score a Wisconsin lake week with University of Kansas friends Amy, Cheryl, and Courtney—groceries stocked, agenda canceled, and two and a half days required before her brain accepted that doing nothing was allowed.
Then there is the heat. South Dakota is sweltering; South Texas is unimpressed. At Rachelle’s historic, Franklin Roosevelt-era school, the moody air conditioning offers two choices: everyone freezes or everyone melts. The women navigating hot flashes vote for freezing and tell younger colleagues to wear sweaters. As one teacher notes, layers can be added, while removing too many eventually involves the campus officer. That leads to memories of overheated classrooms, sleepy students, teenage odors, and Rachelle’s direct announcement that if students can smell their neighbors, their neighbors can smell them too.
Bananarama’s “Cruel Summer” launches a Gen-X nostalgia spiral. Becky remembers a golden evening at Rachelle’s farm, a cassette-playing device near the window, boys outside, parents talking, school about to begin, and the girls singing along. Rachelle recalls how isolating country summers could feel and why the lake meant connection. Their Wisconsin trip also revived KU memories, including a demolished dorm, just as social media now showcases dorm rooms decorated like luxury hotels. The hosts cannot fathom spending a fortune on temporary housing, hiring a housekeeper, or expecting professors to brief parents about adult students. Their rooms relied on a grandma-supplied microwave, a roommate’s fridge, a bedspread cut into two covers, sheets as curtains, discount carpet, old bedding, corkboards, thrift-store furniture, milk crates, and posters. It was enough because it was theirs.
The college stories improve from there. Becky’s room faced a communal bathroom, setting up one unforgettable maternal visit: a goofy couple had commandeered the tub for a bubble bath, and the boyfriend eventually burst out wearing the girlfriend’s robe and a towel on his head, sprinting away while Becky’s mother missed the spectacle. Rachelle remembers apartment neighbor Ned, the shirtless, colorful-shorts-wearing welcoming committee who offered her mother beer. Years later, Ned reappeared in a suit as manager of the country club handling Rachelle’s wedding reception, then returned to form by pouring drinks for guests. The wedding “that shall not be named,” an ER visit, and a next-day blizzard become a catalog of ignored omens, but also open thoughtful talk about divorce and Becky’s hope that her experiences make her a more empathetic pastor.
Family memories arrive fast: Grandma’s bicycle, Trent taking extra turns, Joel attempting bike sabotage, and energetic cousin Trent inspiring the question, “Did you have sugar today?” Sugary cereal recalls Becky’s dad teaching the kids to open individual cereal bags sideways, pour in milk, and skip bowls entirely. Present-day energy management includes vitamin B, Pilates, supplements, and the mouth guard that ended Rachelle’s jaw pain by stopping her from clenching her teeth. Becky proposes glow-in-the-dark Gen-X mouth guards, because even drool-worthy accessories deserve style.
Style becomes a manifesto. Becky is done with bland neutrals and embraces rainbow colors, bold lipstick, jewelry, and a Frida Kahlo duster with a leopard collar. Her future care-home look includes every accessory at once and pinwheels on the chair. She also loves visiting older congregants and hearing stories from decades ago, even while Pilates, chiropractors, pelvic-floor worries, and dropped keys make middle age feel like slapstick. Rachelle’s refusal to bend for her keys until a helpful boy intervenes produces dreams of Grogu, Pedro Pascal, or an under-50 emergency team.
The proud-parent portion brings genuine celebration: Rachelle’s daughter and her significant other carefully saved, planned, and bought a first home with acreage and nearly everything on their wish list; her son made sergeant. Sharing that joy is not bragging—unless Rachelle starts announcing herself like Beowulf. Parenting memories include joking about nature versus nurture, telling an adopted child “I gave birth to you” and watching realization arrive, and an ADHD room-cleaning discovery of lost goggles and a missing $50 bill.
Finally, Rachelle reports that all the freshmen remain alive despite Gen Alpha boys answering discipline questions with “Why not?” Both hosts celebrate the rare luxury of silence, uninterrupted thoughts, word games, and the car’s AC fan. Ted Lasso models positive nonreaction; The West Wing inspires administrator emails. They close still hot, slightly dark and twisty, laughing about Laura Ingalls, Mankato treats, ice packs, and the promise to return sooner next time.
