An Aggie Benedict Arnold

                I felt like a traitor. I was willingly visiting enemy territory – the University of Texas.

                In the summer, I usually attend a journalism workshop at Texas A&M University in College Station. This year, the camp was slated for UT. On the bus ride to Longhorn land, I was wondering how this Aggie Mom and LSU Tiger fan would handle a sea of orange on the “tea sippers” campus.

This aversion to UT comes from growing up in Louisiana where state loyalties were either with LSU, Tulane or Southern and Texas universities were loathed. When my eldest son decided to become an Aggie, I had to learn to swap my fondness for purple and gold for maroon and gray.  

                It wasn’t easy learning to love the Aggies because, at one time, LSU and A&M were fierce rivals on the football field. I remember attending an LSU vs. A&M game one year, and despite pouring rain, the rivalry between the Aggies and the Tigers was fierce.

The game came down to the final minutes; and even though I don’t remember who won, I will never forget the experience of attending a football game in a packed Tiger Stadium on a Saturday night.

The name “deaf stadium” was earned honestly. It’s practically impossible to hear anything when attending a home LSU football game over the chants of “Tiger Bait, Tiger Bait.”

                At A&M’s orientation, though, I gained an appreciation for Aggie traditions, especially after finding out their history. People never walk on the grass around the Memorial Student Center because it was planted in honor of all Aggies killed in the line of duty.

The solemn Silver Taps ceremony is where Aggies who’ve died the past year are remembered by having their name called out by a family member or fellow Aggie.  In Kyle Stadium, every time the Aggies score a touchdown, boyfriends kiss their dates.

                We learned the history behind the term “Twelfth Man” and the significance of the Aggie Muster.  I’m still not sure who can say “whoop” and who can’t, but it’s an honored tradition, one the Aggies hold dear to their hearts just as LSU Tiger fans hold their breath before the Golden Band from Tiger Land plays the first four notes of the LSU fight song and UT students know how to make the “hook ‘em horns” sign with their hand.

                From the outside looking in, college traditions might seem silly; but when you’re at a university, surrounded by people who stand together through winning football seasons and losing ones and tragedies and successes, traditions bond people together for life.  

                I realized campus solidarity isn’t limited to A&M or LSU as I walked around the sprawling Longhorn campus.

                Most students were wearing UT hats or shirts with “Keep Austin Weird” printed across the back. Stickers and posters with the UT logo were everywhere. Students were proud of being Longhorns, just as my sons are proud of being Aggies and my family wears purple and gold every Saturday during football season.

                 The three schools are more alike than they are separate – they share long-standing rituals, their fans are steadfast and loyal, they’re dedicated to excellence, and their campuses are filled with people eager to learn or at least find the next place to party.

                Even though I don’t think I’ll ever be able to wear an orange Longhorn T-shirt and face my Aggie sons or my LSU brothers and sisters, I do have a new-found appreciation for “the other” school up there in Austin.

                Until football season.

                And then it’s Geaux Tigers and “gig ‘em” time. 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A step on the wild side

I'm a predictable person. I follow the same routine day after day, sometimes coasting along on autopilot. But this summer, I wanted to shake things up.

Nothing's better than staying in town and spending my time and money here, but it was time to take a step into the unknown and unfamiliar.

Not a leap. Just a step.

I called a friend who's willing to step out on the ledge with me, and Pat said to count her in.

I headed into Houston and stopped for breakfast at The French Riviera, a place I always drive past, knowing indulging in pastries isn't good for my cholesterol level.

But this day, I pulled into the bakery on Chimney Rock and was greeted by the smell of freshly brewed coffee and hot croissants. I lingered over the display case and ordered two sinfully rich pastries and two small éclairs.

My friend and I split the pastries, licking our fingers, leisurely talking about life, politics and philosophy. After a bit, we headed down Westheimer, deciding we'd stop at a restaurant for lunch before starting our adventure.

When we saw the bright sign for Chuy's, we knew we'd found the right spot. Sure enough, we walked into a bustling, loud restaurant, chuckling about the back part of a car embedded in the front wall of the dining section.

The bright pink walls, linoleum floors and diner-style tables fit our mood; and when we tasted the creamy jalapeno dip, we were in heaven. We had to practically shout to hear each other, but when you're on an adventure, that's simply part of the deal.

Our tummies full, we headed toward Montrose, parked and decided to walk around the central part of one of Houston's most eclectic, and often bizarre, parts of town.

We wandered in and out of musty furniture stores and gift shops. At a antique jewelry shop, I tried on vintage hats, calling back memories of how my aunts and grandmother looked on Sunday mornings as they headed to church.

My friend knew about a resale shop in the area, so we maneuvered our way through the narrow streets of Montrose and parked next to The Guild Shop on Dunlavy. I've visited resale shops before, but this place is a resale shopper's paradise.

Every inch of this giant building is filled with knick-knacks, lamps, furniture and kitchen items. Beautiful jewelry and crystal are available for reasonable prices, and there was no lack of lookers at the guild.

Art work – some original, some from the 1970s – covers almost every inch of wall space, and an outdoor section offers a variety of patio furniture and unusual items for a garden or yard.

The fun really begins when shoppers roll up their sleeves and take their time looking behind and underneath the layers of furniture. We climbed over chairs, looking at dressers and tables, and we had a blast wondering if we wanted to buy a piece that day or wait for the mark down a few days later.

Deciding we were being adventurous – and our trunk space was limited – we decided to come back another day.

Because any adventure involves food, we stopped for a snack at a small bistro. Despite being the middle of the afternoon, the place was hopping. College students were gulping down coffee and working on laptops, and business people were quietly conducting business deals over spinach salad.

Back home, I thought about our day and realized there's nothing better than staying in one's home town where the merchants and owners know us by name and routines allow us to feel safe and secure.

But, every once in a while, venturing into the unknown keeps life exciting. Adventures await those willing to step outside the comfort zone, and when éclairs and cheap furniture are part of the deal, then count me in.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The difference between dads and fathers

Sunday is a day we celebrate fathers, and advertisers have all kinds of ways for us to express our thanks. Walking down the greeting card aisle, there's humorous cards, sentimental cards and some that simply acknowledge the day.

The Internet's filled with sites allowing visitors to order gift baskets filled with all types of goodies, from chocolate tools to the standard shirt and tie.

The handyman big-box stores are filled with everything a man could want for Father's Day – drills, screwdrivers, gas mowers and hedge clippers.

If guys are anything like the girls, though, nothing's worse at saying "I appreciate you" than a gift that requires work or self improvement, so leaving the "how to build a new deck in three weekends" book in the store is probably a good idea.

Advertisements promise guys will love a new barbecue grill, but those babies require someone to put them together, refill the propane tank every few weeks or fill up the bottom with charcoal every time somebody wants to eat outside. Guess who's the one stuck next to a hot barbecue grill on Father's Day?

But no matter what gift is on the kitchen table Sunday morning, the idea of Father's Day is to show fathers our appreciation for the people who take on the biggest responsibility in the world, a parent.

Many of us, however, have a tough time on this holiday because our dads are absent – overseas fighting in a war or away from home due to divorce or death, their memories all we have to remember them.

Then there are the fathers absent from the home by choice. I don't think I'll ever understand how a man could turn his back on his family, and my admiration for the people who fill that slot in a child's life knows no bounds.

Different people accept that parenting role – a grandfather who steps in when his son or son-in-law is unable or unwilling to fulfill his duties to his children.

Stepparents and adoptive parents all take on the mother or father role, and there's a place in heaven for those who willingly accept parenting duties from driving carpool for Little League to getting up in the middle of the night with a sick child.

There are moms who do double duty, and these handle-it-all parents deserve all the credit we can give them. But there's a subtle difference between being a father and being a dad, and although both love their children, fathers and dads show that love in different ways.

Fathers let you drive their truck after you've made the first insurance payment.

Dads let you take the truck to go mudding.

Fathers write the check for your college tuition.

Dads haul all your dresses, shoes and stuffed animals up three flights of stairs to your dorm room.

Fathers buy you a fishing pole.

Dads whoop and holler when you haul in a six-inch trout, proclaiming it the biggest fish they ever saw.

Fathers pay the fee for you to play in a basketball league.

Dads go to every one of your games, even if you always sit the bench.

Fathers aren't quite sure why girls need 20 different bottles of nail polish.

Dads let you paint their fingernails every shade of the rainbow.

Fathers are at a loss for words when you come home with a broken heart.

Dads put their arms around you, tell you everything will be all right, and you know, if your daddy says something is true, it is.

On this holiday that honors fathers, let's remember it takes somebody special to be a father.

It takes a superhero to be a dad.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The old-fashioned way? Maybe not...

A good friend recently posted photos online of the jars of salsa she'd created using fresh vegetables from a friend's bountiful garden.

When I saw her, she said canning fruits and vegetables brought back memories of working alongside her mother in the kitchen, and those were fun times.

Looking at her photos, I found myself back in my grandmother's kitchen, watching her fill Mason jars with tomatoes, sealing them and then putting the jars in a big pot of boiling water on the stove.

It's been years since I thought about the old-fashioned ways of working around the house. Although many chores required a lot of elbow grease, some were actually fun, maybe because I was a kid.

I remember sitting on the back patio making home-made ice cream. Nobody wanted to turn that crank over and over, but the person who stayed with the crank got the first helping out of the bucket.

Electric ice cream makers came along and made the job easier, but most of the fun involved with home-made ice cream was sitting and waiting, just like I used to do in my grandparents' kitchen.

The stove at their house always had a percolator on the back burner. I remember watching the coffee perk up through the small glass top, waiting for the liquid to turn dark enough so I could call out that the coffee was ready.

Listening to my friend talk about the fun she had making salsa for her family and friends, I realized my children and grandchildren will probably scratch their heads when presented with rituals such as canning vegetables.

Likewise with ironing a shirt. My grandmother taught me how to iron a dress shirt, and her way was to follow a system – start with the collar, then the yoke, sleeves and then the rest of the shirt. My boys haven't a clue about ironing – they think shirts come out of the dryer wrinkle-free.

Hanging clothes on a clothesline is a skill few of our young people possess. They don't realize hanging clothes requires an efficient system, including starting with a bag filled with wooden clothes pins, hanging the bag on the line and then sliding it along as you pull the clothes out of the laundry basket and clip them to the line.

Undergarments always went on the inside lines while sheets and towels went on the outside. Protects your family from the "nosy neighbors," my grandmother always said.

Cleaning house is another old-fashioned way of life that's quickly being forgotten. With robot vacuum cleaners and self-cleaning ovens, knowing how to clean a house is knowledge we pick up on the Internet or leave to a cleaning service.

Only those of us over a certain age remember taking scatter rugs outside once a year, hanging them over the clothes line and then beating them with a rug beater or the end of the broom to shake out the dust and dirt.

Some chores and routines I'm thrilled have disappeared – scraping Johnson's wax off the linoleum floor and then reapplying a new coat on your hands and knees ranks right up there with taking down Venetian blinds and polishing silver.

Although it's fun to reminisce about the past, as an adult, there's no way I'd be without air conditioning, cruise control, permanent press shirts, computers, the microwave oven, frost-free freezers and about a thousand other modern conveniences.

The good ole days might've been pretty good, but as long as there's a jar of Paul Newman's salsa on Aisle 14, our Mr. Coffee can perk coffee in less than five minutes and my no-wax floors are shiny, I think I'll happily remain right here in the present.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.