Grads, it's time to start living

Most high school seniors have already walked across that long stage, accepted their diploma with one hand and shaken hands with the school board president or superintendent with the other.

Lofty graduation speeches were presented to distracted fellow graduates, eager to get on with the task of living.

It's a shame most commencement speeches are ignored because those speeches often present some of the best life lessons around.

An Internet search brings up lists of the top commencement speeches given, and it's not a surprise the late Steve Jobs' 2005 "Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish" speech to Stanford grads ranks as one of the best.

Jobs readily admits he didn't go to college. He tells the audience the "only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do."

That's tough advice to accept in a world where graduates are encouraged to find a career that will make them a lot of money. That attitude often breeds apathy, cynicism and greed, three traits television personality Stephen Colbert advised graduates to avoid.

"Cynicism masquerades as wisdom but it is the farthest thing from it," Colbert said, and that's good advice for students who often pretend to be nonchalant about life or think life is all about them.

Graduates, it's time to care about life and to fight inequality, greed and corruption. Those vices are rampant in today's society, but there are quite a few people fighting that battle. Join them and never stop trying to make the world a better place.

Changing the world is a scary prospect for graduates. After high school, they're expected to head off to college, bring home a 4.0 and follow a set career path. College graduates have it worse. They're burdened with a staggering amount of college debt and bleak job prospects.

Talk of loyalty and peace, as President John F. Kennedy talked about with the graduates of American University in 1963, is seldom delivered from the graduation podium.

What kind of advice will graduates remember? In a world of quickly forgotten Twitter posts and frivolous text messages, graduates are often looking for practical advice delivered in less than 10 minutes. So here goes.

Be a responsible member of society. Work tirelessly for peace, justice and equality.

It's okay to fail. As author J.K. Rowling told graduates at Harvard, failing and starting at rock bottom actually made her a better person. Michael Dell also said failure is an opportunity to learn for "there is very little learning in success."

Have some fun. Life is filled with responsibilities and duties – don't forget to laugh along the way.

Quit wasting time. As Jobs told those Stanford graduates: "Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life."

Save for a rainy day but splurge on a banana split every once in a while.

Listen to good music, whether it's jazz, opera, rap, rock or country. Nothing soothes the soul like a piano, guitar or a saxophone.

Be kind. Whether you stop to help a child, listen to an elder talk about the good old days or refrain from sending that nasty text message at 2 a.m., remember to be gentle as you travel through life.

Everybody has something to tell you, Class of 2012, so accept advice that means something to you, leave the flotsam behind and get busy.

Your time is now and it's time to start living.

Don't waste another minute.

We're counting on you.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Taking pride in our cooking

One of the perks of living in a southern state is the pride people take in their food. I grew up in the North where the food was secondary to the pomp and ceremony.

Here in the South, what's on the plate is the star of the show, and it seems people south of the Mason-Dixon line have their own feelings about how to prepare the best Southern meal.

Growing up in Louisiana, knowing the proper way to cook Cajun food was much more important than knowing how to drive. It's probably a requirement for anyone living in Louisiana to own a cast-iron pot as it's the only cookware capable of turning out an acceptable roux, the backbone of almost every Cajun dish.

For those new to Southern cuisine, a roux is a mixture of flour and oil, cooked over a medium heat until it turns a caramel color. Ask any Cajun cook how to make something, and the first thing he or she will say is "make a roux."

Right up there with mastering the art of making a roux is learning how to cook crawfish. In Yankee cooking magazines, they refer to these scrumptious crustaceans as "crayfish." Use that word down South, and you'll be tossed out along with your Schlitz beer.

Every Cajun cook worth his or her Tony Chachere's has a secret recipe for cooking crawfish to perfection and all claim their way is the best way.

Some cooks cover the live crawfish with salt to purge them while others skip that step. Some add extra salt and red pepper to the crawfish seasoning packets right when the water starts to boil while others dump the seasonings in at the end.

There's the debated method of throwing ice water on the crawfish when they're finished boiling or just letting them steep in the seasoned water until they're tender and juicy. Some cooks throw red potatoes and corn on the cob in with the crawfish, and there's always heated arguments about the exact right time to add those ingredients.

But Louisiana doesn't have the market cornered when it comes to heated debates around the pot. When we moved to Texas, we found Southern pride in preparing a barbecue dinner. All Texas chefs worth their own cooking rig guard the secret to their sauce more vigorously than guarding the secret to Coca Cola.

Some Texas chefs cook their brisket all night long while others use pecan wood or beer in the smoker to give the meat a sweet, moist taste.

Some add the barbecue sauce while the meat's cooking while others wait until the last few minutes to completely smother the ribs and chicken while they're on the pit. I've had barbecue cooked every kind of way, and it's all fabulous.

The best part of any Southern meal – no matter if it's cooked in Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi or Arkansas – is sitting down with friends and kinfolk to enjoy the fruits of one's labor. Once the iced tea glasses are filled, many families bow their heads and say a blessing for the bounty on the table.

And right up there with enjoying the food is enjoying the conversation as Southerners love to argue politics, grumble about the high price of college football tickets and then go back for seconds.

Especially if seconds include another platter of barbecue ribs, a fresh mound of hot, spicy crawfish or that last sliver of pecan pie topped off with some homemade whipped cream.

Sweetie, when you're lucky enough to be a Southerner, life doesn't get much better.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Southern Hospitality

With windshield wipers waging a losing battle against the driving rain, I kept wondering why I hadn't left for Louisiana the night before.

My theory was it would be easier to navigate across Houston traffic on a calm Saturday morning instead of a frantic Friday afternoon, but I hadn't counted on a powerful rain system to come roaring along Interstate 10.

Still, I didn't begrudge the trip as I was going to spend Mother's Day with my mom in Baton Rouge. Driving across Houston, I found myself marveling at the city's downtown skyscrapers, so majestic against that gray sky.

Once I left the crowded freeways, the fields between Houston and the state line were calming in spite of the miserable weather. The open rice fields along the interstate were filled with water, and hundreds of birds were swooping and diving, hoping to find breakfast.

Driving over the Atchafalaya Basin is one of my favorite parts of a trip to Baton Rouge because the area is truly unique.

The Basin is home to thousands of varieties of wildlife, from graceful herons to stealthy alligators. I saw dozens of boats out on the waters, and I thought about my dad and uncles and all the afternoons they spent in the Basin.

Those memories kept me company until I arrived at my mom's, happy to be out of the rain. While in Baton Rouge, I was lucky to attend my great nephew's graduation party, and familiar faces and people I'd never met before quickly blended together.

As an added bonus, Brennan's family served up hot crawfish all afternoon. I can't remember the last time I had fresh, boiled crawfish, and those little mudbugs were even more delicious than I'd remembered.

It wasn't long before I had a nice mountain of empty crawfish shells in front of me, and I diligently worked to dig out the tender white meat from the claws.

Everybody has their own method for extracting crawfish meat from the shell, and I relied on my Cajun uncles' brilliant suggestion to crack the shell and then use the sharp end of the claw to dig the meat out.

On the way back to Texas, I stopped at Pat's in Henderson for some fried alligator for my daughter-in-law. Driving down the bayou road to Pat's is a true slice of Louisiana as one passes quaint houses, people riding horses along the levee and boats and trailers in front yards.

Because it was Mother's Day, the front hostess told me I couldn't get a dinner to go, but the reservations clerk leaned over and told me to check in the bar. I went in and explained the order was for my daughter in law who's expecting this winter, and the waitress looked at me for a long minute.

"Cher, don't you worry. I'll fix her right up," she said. Ten minutes later, she returned with a heaping helping of fried alligator bits and wished me a safe trip.

When I stopped at Novrazsky's in Orange, Texas for a late lunch, the server threw in a free drink, wishing me a happy Mother's Day. The sandwich was stuffed with fresh meats and vegetables and I silently thanked the staff for going the extra mile for me.

No matter what state one lives in, there are beautiful sights to see – the majestic mountains in Colorado, the mysterious swamps of Louisiana, the wide open spaces of Texas.

While those are memorable, the people one meets while there and along the way are what makes a state unforgettable. I encountered wonderfully kind people on my journey, and for that, this was a Mother's Day I'll long remember.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A love of the fine arts

I settled down in my seat on the front row, waiting for the high school choir's spring concert to begin. One of the perks of being the designated photographer for events is getting to sit up front and often tip-toeing around behind the scenes.

From that vantage point, one sees the preparation, nervousness and frantic activity that goes on before the curtain goes up, and it's always amazing how poised young people appear when they're on the stage performing.

As a parent in the audience, I think I was probably more nervous than my boys before a performance, starting with pre-school.

Over 20 years ago, I remember sitting in the audience at St. John's School for Little Children, nervously waiting for a pre-school performance where our youngest boy was a ferocious, yet cuddly, lion.

All the parents were snapping away with their cameras as our boys and girls sang – a little off key – and growled and roared as jungle animals for their end-of-the-year performance. It wasn't Shakespeare, but we thought they were absolutely wonderful.

Then we moved on to elementary school, and I'm still in awe of teachers who can take 25 first graders, somehow teach them speeches, songs and dance moves and then coax them onto a stage to perform for an audience.

In junior high, our middle son decided to try out for "Little Orphan Annie," and he earned the role of the swaggering Daddy Warbucks, a little bit of a surprise as our son was a quiet, shy adolescent.

When he confidently marched out on to center stage, bellowing orders to the staff, I jumped back in my seat. I'd never seen this side of him, wondering how in the world his theater teacher, Ms. Wanda Harrell, coaxed that level of confidence out of him.

As he sang a solo to Annie, I quietly cried with pride, joy and appreciation for the wonderful opportunity he'd been given to express himself artistically and to be part of an ensemble that created magic on the stage.

Our youngest son was also interested in performing; and when my rebel landed the part of the conservative father in "Bye, Bye Birdie," I laughed because he was definitely playing someone out of character. But when he sang to his stage children, I cried again, watching him push himself farther than he'd thought possible.

Both boys were active in theater at Austin High School, and although they didn't have leads, they loved being part of the theater family, headed up by teachers Brad Cummons and Tress Kurzym. From there, they learned to love the behind-the-scenes aspect of a concert and live theater, connected to high school through the arts.

I remembered all those concerts and plays as I watched the teens on stage at Terry High. For this one night, they were part of a larger ensemble, expressing their feelings through song.

Choral director Rhonda Klutts coaxed music from the hearts of over 165 students at that concert, and their faces radiated with joy. Some will never sing on a stage again, but many will, either with a church, a community group or professionally.

For some, they'll decide to add acting to singing, and their high school or college theater director will convince them to step into a fictional character's shoes, just as fine arts teachers have been doing since the one-room schoolhouse days.

A love of music and the fine arts stays with youngsters their entire lives. That spark was ignited because a teacher encouraged them to step out in front of the lights and take a chance.

Dim the lights, please.

The magic's about to begin.

This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

Connecting generations

Looking at the newspaper last week, I saw the list of new television shows the networks are planning to cancel. Viewership is down, so shows launched over the past few months that aren't performing as well as trashy reality shows will probably get the axe.

Although there are tons of reasons why a show gets canned, the primary culprit is bad writing. So when a terrific story comes along, it's gold – think Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, Atticus Finch, Sherlock Holmes and Peter Pan.

A great story can make up for bad acting, poor lighting and cheesy sets. Readers and audiences will stay up late, book or Kindle in hand, tune in week after week and hang on every word when the story's an intriguing one.

It's easy, though, for good storytelling to fall by the wayside as we look for ways to trim corners and speed up life. We want the abridged edition, and many are only willing to sit still for highlights at the top of the hour or a few lines that scroll across the top of our computer or television screen.

Good stories take their time, and good storytellers understand the fine line between drawing out a story to have more time in the limelight and letting the story gently unfold.

Great stories lay a foundation and build on it word by word. Great storytellers understand magic happens through those words, and their job is to dispense those words with emotion, great gestures and the enchanting whisper.

They never forget that the story line comes before the way they pronounce their words or the timbre of their voice.

The truth is great stories allow us to see ourselves in the tale, and they inspire us to be a little bit nicer, a little bit braver or a little more aware of what's around us. They capture our imagination from the first few words, hold us in their spell and then leave us hungry for more at the end.

My grandmother was a terrific storyteller. Her voice would rise and fall as she talked about her pampered childhood in Lebanon, her and my grandfather's tumultuous path to America and their lean days during the Depression.

The basic story was fascinating – growing up on a silk farm and how, as young newlyweds, she and my grandfather had to prove my grandfather's innocence when someone accused him of being a bigamist. Turned out a girl who'd liked my grandfather found out he'd married, so she decided to try and ruin his honeymoon.

She embellished the story every time, fine tuning it as writers do today on a computer or a laptop. I'd sit next to her on the couch at night, waiting impatiently for the tale to begin. She never disappointed, and I'd make her tell me those stories again and again.

I thought about her the other night when my granddaughter picked up a spiral notebook and a pencil and began scribbling on a page. After a few minutes, she said she'd written a story and wanted to read it to me.

She began with "once upon a time" and "read" me the story she'd written. Her voice was filled with pauses, whispers and sound effects, and I could tell she was enjoying the telling of the story as much as having a captive audience.

After a few minutes, she paused, smiled and said "the end." I clapped, realizing she has a true gift for both writing and telling a story, just like her ancestors before her.

And, in the end, that's what keeps all of us connected from generation to generation – our story.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Dumb and Dumber

As much as I hate to admit it, there are times when I do something dumb and then have to slap my forehead and say "duh."

Holding my keys in my hand while looking for them constitutes as dumb. Going to the grocery store to get eggs, coming home with $65 worth of groceries and no eggs is another one, as is pouring a cup of coffee and realizing I forgot to put grounds in the basket.

But when the electricity goes off in our garage and I can't find the reset button that's right in front of my face, well that ratchets stupidity up to a whole new level for me.

Not being able to accomplish relatively simple tasks goes back to my childhood. I remember the first time the chain came off my bicycle. An hour later, covered with black grease, I still couldn't fix my bike.

My brother came along and slipped the chain back on in less than two minutes.

As a teenager, I had an Impressionist wall in my bedroom because I stood on a folding chair to paint the moulding around the top of the room. Instead of having a blue border, I had a white wall decorated with a huge splat of cornflower blue paint.

I also backed our car into the house one afternoon. Oh, I can say I was distracted by my baby brother or I was a young driver and couldn't judge distances, but the hard, cold truth is that I backed our Ford sedan into our house – that wasn't moving – and cracked the sheetrock from the ceiling to the floor.

Then there was the evening I put Dawn liquid detergent in the dishwasher after running out of powdered cleaner. I never bothered to read the dishwasher directions, but when mountains of suds came spewing out the sides of the Kenmore, I learned my lesson.

So when I came home from work this week and the garage door didn't open, I thought the power was off in the house. I went inside and realized only the garage was without power.

Growing up in an older house, I knew to check the breakers, but none seemed to be tripped. At this point in time, I did what any intuitive person would do – I called an expert. That expert just happens to be my husband who was taking a needed break out in the country.

He asked me to look around the garage for an outlet similar to the one in our bathroom that trips from time to time. I didn't see one but I told him one of the breakers had to be tripped.

I described the electrical panels to him and checked all of the switches to see if any had tripped. Knowing I must be missing something, I took pictures of the panels and emailed them to him so he could see what I was seeing.

Nothing looked tripped, but my husband decided to come home in case something deeper was wrong.

Frustrated at not being able to figure out the problem, I stomped around the house for a bit and then decided to go back to the garage one more time and look around.

That's when I saw the electrical outlet with the ground fault interrupter.

It was right below the electrical panel.

With one press of the trip button, the power was back on. That move took less than three seconds, the same amount of time it took me to slap my forehead.

Am I feeling like the dumbest person on the planet?

Oh yeah.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Taking a moment

In the morning, my clock radio clicks on at 6 a.m. A half hour later, I'm walking out the door, headed to work.

Along the way, I pass dozens of cars, all heading someplace other than home. Almost 12 hours later, we're all back in our vehicles, dueling on the roadway for a better position in the fast lane.

On the weekend, it's tackle the mountain of laundry, change the sheets on the bed, clean the bathrooms and then fight our way through the grocery store, a list in one hand, coupons in the other.

In between, we're juggling bills, sorting mismatched socks and hoping the squealing washing machine makes it through one more payday.

Driving through the rain on my way home, my mood soured as trucks sprayed water all over my windshield. But then the rain slacked up and a pale rainbow appeared over the horizon.

I almost missed that heavenly sight, too absorbed in thinking about what to cook for dinner and the list of chores waiting for me.

Suddenly I realized I was wasting a great deal of time whining about what I had to do and the lack of time to do anything I wanted to do. So the next morning, when the "I-have-to-do-this" thoughts hit me, I turned off the car radio and rolled the windows down.

The sweet smell of spring was too fragrant to ignore and the sound of the wind outside was a much prettier melody than anything I'd hear from the speakers in my car.

While putting new sheets on the bed a few days later, I made myself stop calling what I was doing a chore.

Instead, I thought about my grandmother's back yard and how we'd run in between the sheets as they dried on the clothes line. We'd wrap the sheets around our shoulders, and the smell of sheets crisp and dry from a laundry line is forever etched in my memory.

With that thought in my head, I sat down in the rocker we have in the corner, a chair we've had for years, but one I seldom sit in any more. I leaned back and looked out the window, remembering I used to sit in that chair and rock the boys when they were babies.

As they were going to sleep, I'd hold them up close to my cheek, their breathing so quick, their scent so sweet. Many evenings, I'd rock them long past when they were asleep, savoring those moments.

But then they were toddlers, too busy for mom's lap and a mom too busy picking up after them. Then they were wild boys who morphed into teens and then they were gone. The chair stayed in the corner year after year, slowly becoming a collection point for blankets and tossed-off clothes.

But today, I sat down and rocked.

And thought leisurely thoughts.

And, bit by bit, relaxed.

Responsibilities were far away and memories came flooding back of unhurried moments in my life – afternoons on the beach watching the boys running in and out of the surf, Sundays in the back yard listening to my dad spin tall tales while he barbecued chicken and relaxing in the kitchen alongside my mom, her peeling an apple in one, long unbroken strand while we seemed to talk about nothing in particular but said everything important.

Those unhurried moments, the ones we rush through, are the ones that last much longer than a clean bathroom or a pile of matched socks.

I just have to remember to roll down the windows and let the wind blow where she will.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.