Get out there and change the world

At this time of the year, hundreds of teenagers will take a walk across a stage, shake the superintendent's hand and wave to relatives up in the nose-bleed section who came to watch them graduate from high school.

These young men and women are finally on their way. They can't wait to leave high school behind, move off to an exciting new place and finally begin to live their lives as adults. They're ready to shake the small-town dust from their shoes and forge a bold new path for themselves.

For some, however, that dream will stay a dream. Many don't have enough money to travel the world or they can't pay astronomically high college tuition prices. Completing that path will take place inch by inch, not yard by yard.

Worse, we didn't hand them a gold-plated world. There's a war across the ocean, a tough recession, unemployment rates in the double digits and lunatics running around proclaiming it's end of the world.

If that's what it means to be an adult, perhaps staying a kid a bit longer isn't such a bad choice.

But many of them don't have that option. They became adults years ago, whether it's because they went to work to help pay the family bills or were forced to punch the clock to pay their own way.

So in this world of gathering storm clouds and bleak skies, what can the Class of 2011 look forward to?

Plenty.

First of all, hope. Throughout the history of the world, hope that things will get better has brought people out of the doldrums and allowed them to believe they can rebuild a better world for themselves and the people around them.

They can also look forward to the benefits of personal hard work. For some young people, their parents made sure they avoided difficulties. These "helicopter parents" tried to do everything for their children except let them stumble and regroup.

These parents unwittingly robbed their children. Undertaking something difficult and not giving up until one finds success is the only true path to long lasting self-confidence and self-achievement. Sugar coating a mediocre job doesn't do a teen any good.

As adults, they'll face difficulties and they'll be on their own. When they take on a hard job, struggle and grit their teeth to finish, that teen has personally discovered the key to true self actualization.

If they wish, the Class of 2011 can become the movers and the shakers instead of the shoved and the stepped on. This class can take up the gauntlet of cleaning up government, making sure schools and charities have enough funds to keep running and refuse to accept "that's the way we've always done it" as the law of the land.

Class of 2011, when you shake the superintendent's hand, don't think of it as a farewell gesture. Think of it as the hand of the older generation infusing you with a mission to go out and right wrongs. Believe you're a positive force in the universe, someone who's actually going to change the world for the better.

Ladies and gentlemen, that journey begins in earnest the moment you flip that tassel on your graduation cap from the right side to the left, over your heart where belief, hope and optimism reside.

The challenge is yours. Now go on out there and change the world.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

What? My dog a bit chunky?

"Mom, I hate to tell you this, but your dog's looking a little chunky," my youngest son said on his last visit to the house.

"She's not at all chunky," I said in defense of our "Heinz 57" dog. "That's muscle and baby fat."

Channell is only three years old, a young adult in dog years. She's barely had time to get out of her teens, so naturally she's carrying a bit more padding around the middle.

Besides, Channell is a busy pup. When she's out on her evening walk, she pulls at the leash like she's at a monster truck rally.

If she sees a squirrel, it's as if the officials sounded the bell to start the Kentucky Derby. She goes from sniffing the ground to barking and straining at the leash in less than 15 seconds.

On the flip side, she does spend a great part of the day sleeping on her pillow in the dining room.

And sleeping on the floor in our bedroom.

And sleeping under the shade tree in the back yard.

As my son pointed at Channell's rounded tummy, she looked at me with her sad brown eyes, so I pulled a dog snack out of the treat jar.

She gobbled it up and, still feeling guilty because someone was calling her chunky and hurting her feelings, I gave her another snack.

Gee, maybe there is a reason why Channell's got that spare tire around her middle.

And maybe that reason is me.

Using food as a reward goes back to my childhood. Whenever my grandmother wanted to know what was happening in our family, she'd bake a huge pan of chicken and rice and simmer stuffed squash on the stove.

She'd subtly wave a plate filled with food under my nose, and then interrogate me for information about our family, the neighbors and my friends. If I spilled the beans, she refilled the plate.

No news -- that yummy Lebanese food remained in the pot for a more willing informant.

My family also used food as an excuse to take a vacation. We'd hear about a great pizza place somewhere, and we'd pack up and head out. If we did any sort of walking or sight-seeing, we figured we also earned a trip to the ice cream parlor.

In fact, my family involves food in every aspect of life, and my mom's the expert at weaving food into every activity, including stopping by for a visit. The minute we walk into her house, she starts hauling groceries out of the refrigerator.

If we look tired or down, this petite woman can whip up a three-course meal in under 10 minutes, complete with garnishes and freshly ironed cloth napkins.

She taught me well as I find myself pushing food the minute someone walks into our house.

"You look thin," I'll tell my sons' friends. "Have something to eat."

"I'm not hungry, Mrs. Adams," they'll say.

"Nonsense," I reply as I whip out the griddle. " I'll make you a sandwich while you tell me all the news about your family."

So, as I refill Channell's food bowl because she worked up an appetite chasing birds and I know her feelings are still a bit sore from being called "chunky," I figure since she's part of the family, I might as well treat her like part of the family.

Now if only she could talk and tell me what the neighbors are up to...

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Yes, I've known important people

When people find out I write for a newspaper, the first question they ask is if I've ever interviewed someone famous -- a movie star or a well-known politician, they'll say.

The answer is I've never interviewed someone famous, but I've interviewed quite a few important people.

My definition of important is someone who gives of themselves to make the world a better place. They instinctively know to give of one's heart and soul leaves a longer lasting impact on society than simply showing up on a movie screen or making lots of money.

Over the past few weeks, this community lost two respected citizens, Mason Briscoe and Arthur Mahlmann.

I first met Mr. Briscoe when I stopped into the Fort Bend Feed and Farm Supply many years ago. I'd heard they had rawhide bones for our dog, but I found out the-visited store on Highway 90A had much more than pet supplies and tomato plants.

They had Mr. Briscoe.

With his slow Texas drawl and ready smile, I immediately felt at home with him, and so did everyone who came into the store.

He hid his accomplishments, preferring to talk about current events, the weather or what was happening with someone else. Over the years, I visited the store under the pretext of picking up dog food, but I really came to visit with Mr. Briscoe.

One year, the newspaper decided to profile World War II veterans, and Mr. Briscoe's name came up. We sat down in his cozy office in the back of the store, the desks filled with papers accumulated over years of working in the same place.

In his unhurried way, Mr. Briscoe described being a carefree young boy and shipping off to war in Europe. He was debonair, dashing and full of mischief, but the war forced him to grow up.

While in Europe, he earned medals and commendations for bravery. He came home a man, settled down and quietly made this part of the world a better place.

Many young people at St. John's United Methodist Church credit Mr. Briscoe with setting them on the right path to becoming a man, and he did so with gentle guidance, sound advice and a twinkle in his eye.

Mr. Briscoe was life-long friends with Arthur Mahlmann. Like Briscoe, Mr. Mahlmann shipped out to Europe as an idealistic young man, prepared to fight for freedom. He came under gunfire, earned medals and commendations, yet never hesitated to step forward when duty required his bravery.

When he returned to Rosenberg, he married a lovely home-town girl, Lydia, and worked his entire life in Rosenberg to create homes and neighborhoods.

A devout Catholic, Mr. Mahlmann made sure his church received updates and renovations, and his commitment to his faith was unshakable. I was fortunate to spend time with Mr. Mahlmann because he wanted to dictate his biography so his children and grandchildren would know their heritage.

Once a week for four months, we sat together, and, in his deep, baritone voice, Mr. Mahlmann described his beliefs, his commitment to Rosenberg and his unwavering love for his family, especially his still-beautiful bride, Lydia.

Not only did he leave a wonderful history for his family, Mr. Mahlmann unknowingly taught me to stay true to my convictions, especially when times were difficult, believe I could make the world a better place and to always cherish my family.

I could never bring myself to call these two gentlemen by their first names, even though they would've been comfortable with being greeted that way. They deserved respect because they lived what they believed every single day of their lives.

So whenever I'm asked if I've ever interviewed someone important, I think about Mr. Mahlmann and Mr. Briscoe.

And the answer is "yes."

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Finding my wings

I stood in the card aisle, looking at all the different Mother's Day cards. I'm fortunate my mother is in good health. She spends her retirement days volunteering at her church, bowling on Wednesdays with a league and keeping up with her seven children, 26 grandchildren and almost as many great-grandchildren.

Most of the cards were sentimental, and those words do reflect how I think about my mom. But they weren't personal enough. I kept looking, the flowery cards getting increasingly sappy.

Not that I don't like corny, but those cards just didn't seem right for my mom who, in her late 70's, is sassy and still runs circles around me.

So I headed to the humorous card section. There were cards for children to present to their mothers, complete with pictures of youngsters covered in mud and dirt. Sending my mom a humorous card didn't seem right either, even though she's the first one to laugh at a joke.

I thought about making her a card on our home computer, but it's a long standing joke in our family that when someone receives a "store-bought" card, complete with an envelope, that person rules.

I could send her a bouquet of flowers, and she'd love that, but that gesture didn't seem like the right move for my mom this year.

When trying to think of how to honor my mom, I thought about the ways our society pays homage to mothers. Songwriters have composed hundreds of songs for mothers, both saintly mothers and rotten mothers and writers have penned thousands of poems and stories about motherhood.

It's difficult to put into four rhyming stanzas or five epic chapters exactly what mothers do that makes them worthy of praise.

They go through childbirth, a terrifying journey they and only they can travel. While they're still catching their breath, an infant is placed into their arms.

In that one heart-stopping moment, a new mother realizes she is connected to another human in an unbreakable bond for the rest of her life.

Mothers walk miles in an infant's lifetime, soothing a colicky cry or heading off to the playground. They have room on their laps for as many children as will fit, and nothing cures a bruised knee or busted knuckle quite like a kiss from mommy.

They celebrate the first tooth, first step and first words out of their baby's mouth. They hover over a toddler as they make their way into the world and then, in a gesture that is quite remarkable, they let go of their child's hand when the time is right.

Moms endure the torturous teen-age years, understanding tantrums and pouting are all part of separation because that's a child's destiny - - to go out in the world and make a life for themselves.

When those teenagers turn into young adults, mothers smile as they give away their daughters and sons to another to love, her heart breaking a little because her baby is truly grown up.

Although we honor moms on Sunday, they deserve respect every day for they have a difficult role to play in life.

They make sure their children have their feet solidly on the ground and then help them find their wings so they can fly away.

Happy Mother's Day to all mothers and, to my mom, thank you for helping me finally find my wings.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.