Letters from the past

                A bulky package arrived in the mail the weekend my mom and a few of my siblings were visiting. One glance at the return address revealed the package was from my cousin, Margaret.

                Inside were dozens of pictures and letters that once belonged to her mom who passed away last year. Her mom, our Aunt Kathy, was a vivacious, beautiful woman who lit up life. She died much too young and suddenly from idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, a disease of the lungs that's cruel and for which there's currently no cure.

                Margaret's note inside the package said she was sending pictures and letters to cousins she thought would like to get their pictures and letters back.  We immediately poured the contents of the package out onto the middle of the kitchen table and eagerly rummaged through the pile.

                These old letters and pictures were a roadmap through time, beginning with my parents' wedding in 1954. Almost everybody in the photos has passed away, but I had a memory with every one of the people in those black-and-white prints.

                One picture was of me next to my grandmother and her car bearing the logo of the newspaper my grandparents owned, the Bi-City Banner in Bridge City, Texas. My mom said I loved going on newspaper errands with my grandmother, but this was the first time I'd ever seen the newspaper's car from those days.

                One of my favorite pictures was of my dad and Aunt Kathy dancing. When Jimmy and Kathy were young, they'd enter dancing contests to pick up extra change. Both were outstanding dancers, especially the twist and the jitterbug, and they won every contest they entered.

                For all of their lives, whenever there was a celebration, Jimmy and Kathy would invariably end up on the dance floor, dancing without a care in the world.

                My youngest brother inherited my dad's panache for the dance floor; and whenever he's jitterbugging or waltzing, it's like watching my father all over again.

                Although most of the contents were pictures, there were a few letters, and I loved seeing my dad's bold and distinctive handwriting again, especially on a postcard postmarked Atlantic City 1954 when my dad was on his way to the wedding.

                I didn't know he'd come through Atlantic City on his way from Louisiana to New York, and the postcard added another facet to my dad's history.

                One of the oldest letters in the stack was a letter postmarked 1958. The letter, written in faded blue ink, was to my father from one of his long-time friends, Gene.

                I remember my dad talking about Gene, and it was strange to see this letter written in an old-fashioned script, describing the young family my dad and mom were raising.

                There were two letters I'd written to my aunt over the years, one from 1963 and another one from 1964.  I definitely don't remember writing those letters, and I barely recognized my own handwriting.

                I was surprised to know she hung on to letters a young girl had written to her 40 years ago. I knew how important she was to me, but I underestimated how important I was to her.

                That's what this package of old, faded letters and pictures were – a reminder that family ties aren't just sentiments we talk about at funerals or reunions. They're important when they're forged, fade as we weave in and out of each others' lives and finally become priceless when one is no longer around to say the words "I love you."

                Luckily, those letters and photos say it all.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Our Snake Huntin' Dog

                My brother, Joey, loves dogs. Growing up, he was the only one in our family who regularly brought home stray, bedraggled dogs. All my siblings have dogs, and my sister-in-law is an advocate for animal welfare.  

                I never felt the need to have a dog because, quite honestly, I'm a little afraid of them. Maybe I was spooked when I was young, but I'm always a bit skittish when a dog comes around, especially a big dog.

                As my boys grew up and asked for a dog, I talked them into having other pets – guinea pigs, hamsters and goldfish. We managed to avoid dogs until our neighbor's dog had puppies.

                Our youngest boy fell in love with the puppies, and one look at our his tear-streaked face convinced us he had to have a dog of his own.

                We found a "Heinz 57" puppy, and Chris was instantly that puppy's faithful owner. All through grade school, Sparky slept right next to Chris, keeping watch over him.

                In high school, Sparky waited by the back door for Chris to come home and seldom left his side once he arrived.

                When Chris went off to college, Sparky's care fell to my husband, and he grew quite fond of that aging dog. I had to admit Sparky earned my admiration for taking such good care of my boy for so many years.  

                And when Sparky passed away, we cried for days.

                So when another dog came our way, I reluctantly let Channell into the house but I wasn't going to get close to this dog because she was a pet. I wasn't going to let her take advantage of the fact that she was a rescue dog.

                No lounging on the couch.

                No sleeping on the beds.

                No filching food off the kitchen table.

                Sure I patted her on the head and kept her food and water bowl filled, but I looked at Channell as my husband's pet, not mine. She seemed to sense my unease, and she's always kept a respectful distance.

                But all that changed this weekend.

                My granddaughter wanted to go swimming, so she and I changed into our swimsuits, grabbed some towels and headed to the back yard. Channell bounded out in front of us, raced to a spot behind the pool and began barking.

                This wasn't a friendly bark – she was sounding the alarm. She was circling and jumping around something in the grass, barking frantically the entire time. I got a little closer and noticed it was a big, coiled-up snake.

                I quickly picked up my granddaughter, took her inside and called Channell back into the house. She didn't want to leave her post, but when she saw my granddaughter, she came inside and stood next to her.

                When they were both safely indoors, I went back outside with my camera so we could identify what kind of snake was in the yard. But he was gone, scared off by the maniacal barking of our dog.  

                Never again will I gripe about Channell being a pain or a responsibility. That morning, she was our protector, and she saved us from possible harm.

                I went back inside, looked at Channell and she looked back at me with her trusting brown eyes. I scratched behind her ears, leaned down and hugged her neck.

                She wagged her tail, licked my hand and then plopped down by the back door, once again guarding us against any and all enemies.

                Channell has earned her keep for the long haul. And any time she wants it, a spot at the end of the bed.  

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

Happy birthday, Mom

                Being a Catholic from south Louisiana, family get-togethers are anything but small, quiet affairs. So when we asked my mom what she wanted for her 80th birthday and she said for all of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren to sit down together for a family meal, we should've realized the immediate guest list would number over 60.

                Her request didn't surprise us. Dee Hebert, Siti to her grandchildren and Sit-Siti to her great-grandchildren, is a giving, loving person with a quick sense of humor. She's well known for her off-the-cuff comments, including her infamous advice to my single brother.

                "Go to the family reunion," she told him. "There'll be girls there." An unforgettable story about finding a parking spot at the airport is priceless as is the time she made a milkshake with my nephew and they forgot to put the lid on the blender.

                Then there were the afternoons when she encouraged her youngest granddaughter to make soup, and that little girl put everything in the pot but the salt shaker.

                She's also the blueprint for being a fantastic grandmother because she never holds back her love. Every grandchild will tell you she doesn't like one more than the other, but then, they'll lean over and whisper "But I'm really her favorite."

                She never asks for anything for herself, and nothing makes her happier than fixing somebody something to eat.

                The second-best way to make her happy is to have her seven children, 19 grandchildren and 16 great-grandchildren – there's no "step" as far as Mom's concerned – all together under her roof. Add in her nieces and nephews, and my mom is one happy camper.

                This year marks her 80th birthday, and we've been asking for months what she wanted. She always gave us the same answer – to have a nice meal with her children and their families.

                Finally accepting her simple request, we realized having that many people in one place was going to be difficult, but my sister-in-law found The Bennett House, a family-owned business, specializing in wedding receptions and family parties, less than two miles from Mom's house.

                Everybody chipped in to make the day special. Siblings opened their homes and services to out-of-town guests. One granddaughter took care of designing and ordering the cake and another granddaughter picked up party favors for the great-grandchildren.

                Two granddaughters had a brilliant idea to make place cards bearing Mom's zany sayings. One sister printed dozens of family photos to spell out a giant eight and a zero.

                My sister and niece surprised mom with a gift she didn't expect. Weeks before the party, they sent out secret messages to relatives and Mom's friends, asking them for their favorite story about her.

                The response to the secret Facebook site was overwhelming. Some stories we knew, others were surprises, yet the steady undercurrent was that Mom always made her friends and family feel special and loved.

                My sister created 80 envelopes, each one containing a separate memory, and she gave them to Mom at the party. Mom said she spent hours reading and re-reading the letters, and she was still on Cloud 9 days later.

                I've seen my mom happy, but I've never seen her happier than the afternoon we spent celebrating her 80th birthday. It wasn't that she was the center of attention. It was that when she looked out over the room, she was surrounded by happy faces she loved and who loved her back.

                And each person in that room was thinking the same thing – "I'm so glad I'm her favorite."

                I love you, Mom.

                Happy birthday.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A reward better than any paycheck

            Jane stirred her coffee, took a sip, and put the lid on her to-go cup. Strangers, we struck up a conversation in the hotel lobby as I was waiting for my sister.

            As she laced up her sneakers, Jane continued naming all the places she's been in the past couple of years – Guam, Haiti, Louisiana and Oklahoma. Those visits weren't for pleasure, however.

            Jane volunteers with the Red Cross and she was in south Louisiana, helping people whose homes had flooded in Plaquemines Parish due to heavy rains, courtesy of the slow-moving rain-maker, Hurricane Isaac.

            In her mid-50's, Jane said she was a therapist when she wasn't working with the Red Cross, and she specialized in mental health services for people in the suburbs surrounding Washington D.C.

            Jane never thought about working with people affected by disasters, but she heard the agency was in need of volunteers and she thought "why not."

            Working with the Red Cross had taken Jane to places she never dreamed she'd see, even though she was viewing them through the worst possible conditions. Floods, fires, tsunamis – you name it, she's been there.

            "The only disaster I haven't worked is a volcano eruption," she said.

            Over the course of the morning, about a dozen weary Red Cross workers came through the hotel's lobby, each one wearing a plastic workers' vest, name badge and sensible work shoes. One group didn't speak English, but their shirts reflected their affiliation with the Red Cross.

            One gentleman, Ron, was from Arkansas; and as he checked his papers and cell phone, he told me he'd been all over the United States working disasters.

            In fact, he and Jane had been in Louisiana together on two separate occasions, Hurricane Katrina and Hurricane Rita, and he said the stories they heard from people who lost everything they owned in raging flood waters were heartbreaking.

            Reasons for going into such a demanding volunteer position varied. Ron was retired and wanted to stay physically active and help communities.

            Jane said she also wanted to give back in some way. She'd known about the Red Cross, and she researched what volunteers would be asked to do before signing up.

            She couldn't build bridges or haul lumber, but she could listen and help people rebuild their lives. And that's what she did, disaster after disaster.

            I've always believed there's a special place for volunteers who step up when there's an emergency. They give of their time, something most of us guard like the secret to the sauce for a Big Mac, and they carry out the grungiest of duties with a smile.

            They load sand bags and then, in the pouring rain, arrange them in front of stores and homes to keep the flood waters at bay. They sit in make-shift shelters, listening to people as they cry because they've lost their home or, worst of all, a loved one in the disaster.

            These volunteers are drinking warm, weak coffee, eating cold cheese sandwiches and taking quick cat naps on cots so they're refreshed and ready to go when the next wave of displaced people come through the tent.

            No matter what they're asked to do, these volunteers leave their homes with little warning and travel to far ends of the earth because somebody needs their help.

            Most have a smile on their faces and spend their days helping people pick up the pieces of their shattered lives. The reward, Jane said, is seeing that first smile after the storm clears.

            That's a reward better than any paycheck.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.